“Madame Mairieux would be charmed to receive you,” he said.
I excused myself to the best of my ability, pleading the early hour, my bicycle costume. He would not let me off, and I perceived from his kindly pertinacity that a scolding would be his lot should he permit his wife to be defrauded of a visit—a rare event in these parts, no doubt. I was therefore admitted to the presence of Mme. Mairieux, who, I assumed, had been watching me, not without some ill-humour, from the window, since we found her at that early hour all tricked out in silk and lace; unless, indeed it might be her Sunday garb she had on. She was certainly endowed with charm and Conversational ability, though the charm was a bit affected and the conversation that of the fashion papers and the women’s magazines. I at once made a distinction in favour of her husband, though he kept silence and appeared to be dominated by her. She talked intimately of “Raymond,” and, not without a certain satisfaction, of the chateau in which they might live whenever it pleased them so to do.
“But M. Mairieux detests luxury and even comfort. And M. Mairieux must be heard too, for he will hear no one.”
I turned toward M. Mairieux, who made no protest. Possibly he was endowed with that gentleness possessed by obstinate folk, who quietly escape from everything that does not accord with their pleasure. The want of harmony between the pair was patent, but, contrary to first appearances, the reins of government were in the husband’s hands.
Mme. Mairieux confirmed the report of M. Cernay’s approaching arrival. “He always comes for All Saints’ Day,” she said.
And when for the second time I spoke of my visit to the graveyard she asked me if I did not deem her daughter’s tombstone very mean. She would have desired a larger monument, a colonade, a broken vase, a weeping angel; at least something that might be seen from a distance and would speak of grief.
“No, no,” interposed M. Mairieux, “a stone is enough.”
My leave-taking was quite a ceremony. I was about to occupy quarters in the neighbourhood, at the hunting lodge of Sylve-Benite, where I was to find my baggage. I promised to return and renew my acquaintance with M. Cernay, who was to be duly informed of my proximity. Just as I was bestriding my machine, little Dilette again crossed the court on the run, her long hair floating upon the breeze like wings. With this vision before me I turned my back upon the chateau of the Maiden of the Wood.
Was this in Savoy? In Dauphine? I have forgotten to say. But what does it matter? I recall to mind a ballad with the recurring refrain:
Was it in Brittany? Was it in Ireland?