Bess had steadily refrained from addressing Madame de Beaumanoir, and looked straight into Michelle’s eyes. The two women felt not the smallest warming of the heart one to the other, but an instant and perfect respect. Madame de Beaumanoir, however, was not a person to be ignored, and at this stage of the proceedings, she put in her word.
“Now I remember, my nephew François, who collects all the news for me,—that is, such news as a poor rag of a man like him can collect,—told me that it was all pure invention about you and Roger Egremont, and that you were perfectly well behaved and not above your station. I am sorry I called you a hussy.”
Bess bowed haughtily.
Madame de Beaumanoir continued with animation:
“But I should like to know how any girl of your condition, and with your good looks—for you are a handsome baggage if ever I saw one—there, there, don’t fly out—I should like to know, I say, how you dare to remain virtuous? ’Twas not so in the days of my ever dear and blessed King Charles, who is now an angel in heaven. Why, the greatest ladies in the land didn’t care a button about virtue! Well, I say, the world is continually growing more topsy-turvy and outlandish, and when a girl like you—a London tradesman’s daughter, no doubt—prates about her virtue and respectability, and flames up because a woman of quality calls her a hussy, I don’t know what we shall come to!”
“All I have to say, madam,” said Bess in reply, “is, that I hold my name as dear as my betters; and as for your ever dear and blessed King Charles, I have always heard he was a great rascal where women were concerned.”
“Drive on, coachman!” screamed Madame de Beaumanoir, in much horror and indignation; and her coach rolled off, leaving Bess Lukens victor on the field of battle.
The postilions, as well as Madame de Beaumanoir’s footmen, had very much enjoyed this bout, and were sorry when it came to an end by Madame de Beaumanoir’s departure, and Monsieur Mazet’s arrival with the smith. In half an hour, the wheel was repaired,—Bess steadily refusing, from superstitious and other motives, to leave the coach; and sunset saw her arrived at the Porte Saint Martin, then unfinished. The size and height of the houses of Paris delighted her, and especially, the novelty of seeing the streets lighted at night by lanterns strung across on ropes. And she saw more coaches in her drive to Monsieur Mazet’s house than she had ever seen in all her life before.
Arrived at her new home, she found it a tall old house, surrounded by other tall old houses in the Rue Mazarin, and dismounting and entering, she found Mademoiselle Mazet, a tall old lady, who received her kindly. There were innumerable spinets and harpsichords about, and stringed instruments of all sorts, and piles of manuscript music. Bess had a famous appetite for supper, but was ready to weep with disappointment when she was set down to eggs, a bit of fish, and a very small ragoût, mostly vegetables. Her hosts were somewhat appalled by her appetite; nevertheless, Bess went hungry to bed. She determined, however, if necessary, to starve, in order to learn to sing. She slept well, as people do whose digestions and consciences are in perfect condition, and next morning she made the glorious discovery that in her voice, as trained by Papa Mazet, she had an everlasting source of joy and comfort.
Papa Mazet was delighted with his pupil, from the very first lesson he gave her. Her strong young body was a fit abode for her powerful and delicious voice.