The Blessing (18 page)

It was one of those Paris afternoons when, by some trick of the light, the buildings look as if they are made of opaque, blue glass. Grace wondered how much Carolyn really did love the stones of Paris. She seemed not to notice, as they went by, the blue glass façade of the Invalides surmounted by its dome powdered with gold, but only the bad driving in the Esplanade.

Now when they arrived at their destination Grace saw that it was none other than the Ferté house. She had never known that its old name was Hôtel de Hauteserre, to her it had always been 83 rue de Varenne or the house of Tante Edmonde. She laughed, and said to Carolyn, ‘But I know this house by heart – it belongs to Charles-Edouard’s old great-uncle; we lunch or dine here every week of our lives. I don’t think there’s much point in me going in.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Carolyn, ‘you’d better come along as you’re here. M. de la Tour will tell you all about it, and very likely show you lots of things you hadn’t ever suspected.’

Grace thought again that it would be something funny to tell Charles-Edouard, and that the idea of her sight-seeing in that house would be sure to amuse him. So she paid 100 francs at the door and went in with Carolyn. There was quite a crowd of people, and the guide was just beginning his lecture.

‘This house,’ he said, ‘was built in 1713 by Boffrand for the famous – I should perhaps say notorious – Marquise de Hauteserre, who created a record by keeping the Régent as her lover for eighteen weeks. He was by no means her only lover, and they were, in fact, numberless. I am glad to be able to announce that when we have seen the state rooms, which are of an extraordinary beauty, we are to be allowed the great privilege, hardly ever accorded to tourists, of seeing Madame de Hauteserre’s own bedroom. Madame la Duchesse has given me the key; she knows that we are all serious students of French art and not mere gaping sightseers.’

‘Have you seen it?’ whispered Carolyn to Grace.

‘No.’

‘There – what did I tell you?’

‘This bedroom,’ the guide continued, ‘has an erotic ceiling, a thing rare in France though not uncommon in Italy, by Le Moine; a Régence bed of wonderful quality, and
boiseries
by Robert de Cotte. When I tell you that all this is quite unrestored, you will easily realize that what you are about to see is unique, of its sort, in Paris.’

They went upstairs into the reception rooms of the first floor which Grace knew so well, gold and white, blue and white, gold and blue with painted ceilings. The lecturer went at length into the history of every detail; they were nearly an hour examining these three rooms, and Grace began to feel tired. At last, in the Salon de Jupiter, where the Fertés usually sat after dinner, the lecturer went to a little door in the wall, which Grace had never noticed there. Taking a large key from his pocket he unlocked this door, saying, ‘And now for the famous bedroom of Madame de Hauteserre.’

Grace happened to be standing beside him, and together they looked in. It was a tiny room decorated with a gold and white trellis; an alcove contained a bed, and on the bed, in a considerable state of disarray, were Juliette and Charles-Edouard.

The guide quickly slammed and relocked the door. He turned to the crowd, saying, ‘Excuse me, I had quite forgotten, but of course the
boiseries
and the ceiling have gone to the Beaux Arts for repair.’

Nobody but Grace and the guide had seen into the room; greatly to her relief the tourists accepted his statement without dispute, if rather crossly. They had certainly had their money’s worth in this beautiful house, although they had been looking forward to the erotic ceiling as a final titbit. Carolyn, still gazing at a panel in the Jupiter room, said, ‘Oh never mind, we’ve really seen enough for one day. Shall I give you a lift home, Grace?’

Grace got into the motor, talked away quite naturally, thanked Carolyn for the afternoon, and went into her house as if nothing had happened. She lay on the day bed in her library, saying to herself, ‘This is the end.’ But, as with some physical blow, she had not yet begun to feel any pain.

Presently Charles-Edouard came in.

‘I looked for you in the nursery,’ he said.

‘Aren’t you having tea with Madame Marel?’

‘Not today. I never do on Wednesday, it’s her day for receiving. Where do we dine? Oh yes, of course, I remember, Tante Régine. That’s sure to be great fun. So, what are the news? Don’t tell me, I can guess. You lunched, in an impenetrable silence, with la Dexter. Such a curious friendship, I find.’

‘And after luncheon we went sight-seeing.’

‘Indeed? Where?’

‘The Hôtel de Hauteserre.’

Charles-Edouard looked at her, startled, and then said, quite angrily for him, ‘Really, Grace, you are too extravagant. What could have induced you to pay 100 francs to see the house of your uncle, which you know perfectly well already? No – this is not sensible, and I’m very cross with you. Why, 100 francs was a dowry when my grandmother was young.’

‘You pay for the lecturer. He shows all sorts of unexpected things.’

‘I will take you over it one day. I know much more about it than any lecturer.’

‘You would never show me what he did, this afternoon.’

‘Ha!’ said Charles-Edouard. He went to the window and looked out of it.

‘This is very annoying,’ he said presently.

‘I thought so too. I’ve seen the whites of their eyes, Charles-Edouard.’

‘Imbecile of a lecturer. He should know better than to come bursting into bedrooms like that.’

‘Yes. Being French you’d think he would.’

‘Perhaps I’ll give up Juliette.’

‘You needn’t bother. I’m going back to England.’

‘Do stay,’ said Charles-Edouard.

‘For the week-end?’

‘No. For ever.’

‘It’s no good, Charles-Edouard. I’m too English; your behaviour makes me too miserable, and I can’t bear it any more.’

‘But my dear, that’s nothing to do with being English. All women are the same; indeed if you were Spanish I daresay you would have killed me by now, or Juliette, or both. No, we’ve been particularly unlucky. This unspeakable lecturer, paid 100 francs to open bedroom doors in the middle of the afternoon! What could have induced Tante Edmonde to let him, she is out of her mind. I know what it is of course, she hopes to get off taxes by allowing the public into her house, but what a shortsighted action! Half that crowd must have been Treasury spies, nosing about to see how many signed pieces she owns, and the rest of course were burglars making out lists of all the objects in the glass cases. I blame her terribly. Then I’m bound to say it was a little bit your own fault, wasting 100 francs and a whole afternoon in a house where you dine at least once a week. Bad luck, and bad management.’

‘In fact everybody’s fault but yours.’

‘No, no, I blame myself most, for being so careless.’

‘Oh dear! How cynical you are.’

‘Not at all. I see things in the light of reality.’

‘Yes. Well I also must try to be a realist. After this I could never again be happy with you because I should never again have an easy moment when you were out of my sight, never. You are wonderful at explaining things away until one happens to have seen with one’s own eyes, but from now on the explanations won’t be any good. So I shall go back to Papa.’

‘And when do you leave?’

‘Tomorrow. I shall take Sigi.’

‘Yes, you must. And Nanny, too, perhaps?’

‘And Nanny, too. And please excuse me to Tante Régine. I’ve got a headache, and there’s a great deal of packing to be done.’

‘Nanny, we’re going home to England tomorrow.’

‘What, all of us?’

‘You and me and Sigismond.’

‘Mm.’ The tone was one of disapproval. ‘Tomorrow, dear? And what about the packing?’

‘The train isn’t till 12.30 and there’s Marie to help you. You must manage somehow, darling, please.’

‘But how long are we going for?’

‘For good. Now don’t look sad, it will be London, not Bunbury. So think – Hyde Park every day, Daniel Neal, steam puddings, Irish stew –’

‘Irish stew indeed. My sister says you never see a nice neck, these days. And Sigi’s Papa?’

‘He’s not coming.’

‘Mm.’

‘Do be pleased, darling. I thought at least somebody would be.’

‘Well dear, I’ve always said little boys ought to have a mummy and a daddy.’

‘That can’t be helped. And think of the hundreds who don’t.’

‘I’m wondering how I’m ever to get all his toys packed up in the time. Funny thing, one never gets any notice of these journeys.’

‘Send Marie out to buy an extra hamper if there’s no room.’

Next day there had to be a special motor to take Sigi’s luggage; he had exactly twice as many items as his mother.

‘Anybody would suppose that he was a famous cocotte,’ said Charles-Edouard, who went to the station exactly as if he were seeing them off for a little change. Sigi skipped about on the platform, getting in everybody’s way and saying, ‘Can I ride on the engine, please, Papa?’

‘Certainly not. And I hope you’ll have learnt to read before I see you again.’

‘Will you give me a prize if I can?’

‘Perhaps. If you can read everything, and not only the little bit out of the
Journal des Voyages
you already know by heart.’

‘What sort of prize?’

‘A good sort.’

‘Can I ride on the
chevaux de Marly
for my prize?’

‘You can only ride on the
chevaux de Marly
when you know
A la voix du vainqueur d’Austerlitz
by heart.’

‘How can I learn it, in England?’

‘I can’t imagine. Anyhow you can learn to read. Shall I tell you what will become of you if you can’t read when you are grown up?’

‘All grown-up people can read,’ said the child, conclusively.

‘Good-bye, Grace,’ said Charles-Edouard. ‘Do come back soon.’

‘For a week-end?’

‘No. For good.’

He kissed her hand and left them. He was quite surprised at how much he minded their departure.

15

‘What’s all this about?’ said Sir Conrad when Sigi, Nanny, and their baggage had been deposited in the nursery and he had Grace to himself. ‘I’m delighted to see you, it goes without saying, but why such short notice? Is it not rather hysterical?’

‘Yes, well, you may call it so. I’ve left Charles-Edouard.’

‘You’ve left your husband?’

‘Yes.’

Sir Conrad was not surprised, since this sudden run for home could hardly, he knew, mean anything else.

‘And are you going to tell me why?’

He did not doubt what the reason would be, broadly speaking, but was curious as to the details.

Grace told him at some length about her life in Paris.

‘I could bear it when he went to tea every day with Madame Marel, though I didn’t like it; I could even bear his terribly open flirtation at every party we went to, with Juliette Novembre, but what happened yesterday afternoon at the Hôtel de Hauteserre is more than I can endure or forgive.’

‘What did happen?’

But when she told him Sir Conrad annoyed her very much indeed by bursting into a hearty laugh.

‘I say, what bad luck! Now don’t look so cross and prim, darling, I quite see it was horrible for you, and I’m very sorry, but I can’t help thinking of Charles-Edouard too. You must admit it was bad luck on him, poor chap.’

‘Perhaps it was. But lives can’t be built entirely on luck.’

‘No good saying that, as they always are. Luck, my darling, makes the world we live in. After all, it was by luck you met Charles-Edouard in the first place (bad luck for Hughie); by luck that he came back from the war safe and sound; by luck that you had that clever little Sigi – by luck, indeed, that you got your mother’s large blue eyes and lovely legs and not my small green eyes and bow legs. Luck is a thing you can never discount. It may be unfair, it generally is, but you can’t discount it. And if Charles-Edouard is having, as he seems to be, a run of bad luck you ought to be there, sympathizing with the poor chap. It doesn’t seem right to go off and leave him all alone. I hoped I’d brought you up better than that.’

‘You’re talking as if he had lost all his money at the races.’

‘Oh well, not quite so bad, thank goodness.’

‘And as if you’re on his side.’

‘We must try and see his side of the question, I suppose.’

‘I don’t think you need, you’re my father.’

‘Now listen, my darling child. I love you, as you know, and only desire your happiness. This is your home, available for you whenever you need it. You can always come here, and even bring Nanny if you must, so please don’t think I want to send you away. Quite the contrary, I like to have you here, it’s a great pleasure. But it’s my plain duty, as your father, to try to make you see things as they are, and, above all, to try and make you see Charles-Edouard as he is. I’m very fond of Charles-Edouard, and I presume that you are too, as you married him.

‘Now he is a man who likes women in the French way of liking them, that is he likes everything about them, including hours of their company and going to bed with them. I suppose you would admit that this is part of his charm for you. But you hardly ever find a man, or anyhow a young man, with his liking for women who can be faithful to one woman. It’s most exceedingly rare.’

‘Yes, Papa, all this may be true about Charles-Edouard. But with me it’s a question of how much I can stand, and I can’t stand a life of constant suspicion and jealousy. Juliette, Albertine, the women he looks at in the street, the way he flirts with everybody, everybody, even Tante Régine, the way he kisses their hands, the way he answers the telephone when they ring up – oh no, it’s too much for me, I can’t.’

‘My dear child, I always thought you had a healthy outlook on life, but this is positively morbid. You really must pull yourself together or I foresee great unhappiness for you in the future.’

‘I shan’t be unhappy a bit if I can marry an ordinary, faithful, English husband.’

Grace had been sustained during her journey by the mental picture of an idealized anglicized Charles-Edouard, whom she was to meet and marry in an incredibly short space of time. This vision had come to her when the light airiness of Northern France, with its young wheat, pink roads and large, white, rolling clouds, had been exchanged for the little, dark, enclosed Kentish landscape, safe and reassuring – home, in fact. She had looked out of the window at the iron grey sky pressing upon wasteful agriculture, coppices untouched by hand of woodman, tangles of blackberry and gorse, all so familiar to her eyes, and she was comforted by the thought that she could be an English countrywoman once more, gardening, going for walks, playing bridge with neighbours, a faithful English Charles-Edouard, tweeded and hearty, by her side. She would be quite happy, she thought, living in an oast-house, or a cottage with a twist of smoke on the edge of Mousehold Heath, or a little red villa with glass veranda in the Isle of Wight – anything, anywhere, so long as it was safe in England and she safely married to this tower of strength and reliability, this English Charles-Edouard.