You know Harold came here six weeks ago to get up his French for those dreadful exams that he has to pass so soon. He came to live with some French people that take in young men (and others) for this purpose; it’s a kind of coaching-place, only kept by women. Mamma had heard it was very nice, so she wrote to me that I was to come and stop here with Harold. The Desmonds brought me and made the arrangement or the bargain or whatever you call it. Poor Harold was naturally not at all pleased, but he has been very kind and has treated me like an angel. He’s getting on beautifully with his French, for though I don’t think the place is so good as papa supposed, yet Harold is so immensely clever that he can scarcely help learning. I’m afraid I learn much less, but fortunately I haven’t to go up for anything—unless perhaps to mamma if she takes it into her head to examine me. But she’ll have so much to think of with Georgina that I hope this won’t occur to her. If it does I shall be, as Harold says, in a dreadful funk.
This isn’t such a nice place for a girl as for a gentleman, and the Desmonds thought it exceedingly odd that mamma should wish me to come here. As Mrs. Desmond said, it’s because she’s so very unconventional. But you know Paris is so very amusing, and if only Harold remains good-natured about it I shall be content to wait for the caravan—which is what he calls mamma and the children. The person who keeps the establishment, or whatever they call it, is rather odd and exceedingly foreign; but she’s wonderfully civil and is perpetually sending to my door to see if I want anything. She’s tremendously pretentious and of course isn’t a lady. The servants are not at all like English ones and come bursting in, the footman—they’ve only one—and the maids alike, at all sorts of hours, in the most sudden way. Then when one rings it takes ages. Some of the food too is rather nasty. All of which is very uncomfortable, and I daresay will be worse at Hyères. There, however, fortunately, we shall have our own people.
There are some very odd Americans here who keep throwing Harold into fits of laughter. One’s a dreadful little man whom indeed he also wants to kick and who’s always sitting over the fire and talking about the colour of the sky. I don’t believe he ever saw the sky except through the window-pane. The other day he took hold of my frock—that green one you thought so nice at Homburg—and told me that it reminded him of the texture of the Devonshire turf. And then he talked for half an hour about the Devonshire turf, which I thought such a very extraordinary subject. Harold firmly believes him mad. It’s rather horrid to be living in this way with people one doesn’t know—I mean doesn’t know as one knows them in England.
The other Americans, beside the madman, are two girls about my own age, one of whom is rather nice. She has a mother; but the mother always sits in her bedroom, which seems so very odd. I should like mamma to ask them to Kingscote, but I’m afraid mamma wouldn’t like the mother, who’s awfully vulgar. The other girl is awfully vulgar herself—she’s travelling about quite alone. I think she’s a middle-class schoolmistress—sacked perhaps for some irregularity; but the other girl (I mean the nicer one, with the objectionable mother) tells me she’s more respectable than she seems. She has, however, the most extraordinary opinions—wishes to do away with the aristocracy, thinks it wrong that Arthur should have Kingscote when papa dies, etc. I don’t see what it signifies to her that poor Arthur should come into the property, which will be so delightful—except for papa dying. But Harold says she’s mad too. He chaffs her tremendously about her radicalism, and he’s so immensely clever that she can’t answer him, though she has a supply of the most extraordinary big words.
There’s also a Frenchman, a nephew or cousin or something of the person of the house, who’s a horrid low cad; and a German professor or doctor who eats with his knife and is a great bore. I’m so very sorry about giving up my visit. I’m afraid you’ll never ask me again.
VII
FROM LÉON VERDIER IN PARIS TO PROSPER GOBAIN AT LILLE
September 28.
Mon Gros Vieux,
It’s a long time since I’ve given you of my news, and I don’t know what puts it into my head to-night to recall myself to your affectionate memory. I suppose it is that when we’re happy the mind reverts instinctively to those with whom formerly we shared our vicissitudes, and je t’en ai trop dit dans le bon temps, cher vieux, and you always listened to me too imperturbably, with your pipe in your mouth and your waistcoat unbuttoned, for me not to feel that I can count on your sympathy to-day. Nous en sommes-nous flanqués, des confidences?—in those happy days when my first thought in seeing an adventure poindre à l’horizon was of the pleasure I should have in relating it to the great Prosper. As I tell thee, I’m happy; decidedly j’ai de la chance, and from that avowal I trust thee to construct the rest. Shall I help thee a little? Take three adorable girls—three, my good Prosper, the mystic number, neither more nor less. Take them and place in the midst of them thy insatiable little Léon. Is the situation sufficiently indicated, or does the scene take more doing?
You expected perhaps I was going to tell thee I had made my fortune, or that the Uncle Blondeau had at last decided to recommit himself to the breast of nature after having constituted me his universal legatee. But I needn’t remind you for how much women have always been in any happiness of him who thus overflows to you—for how much in any happiness and for how much more in any misery. But don’t let me talk of misery now; time enough when it comes, when ces demoiselles shall have joined the serried ranks of their amiable predecessors. Ah, I comprehend your impatience. I must tell you of whom ces demoiselles consist.