Текст книги "It Began in Vauxhall Gardens"

Автор книги: Jean Plaidy

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Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2011

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PART ONE

THE CONVENT

T.

he Convent Notre Dame Marie stood on an incline above the town—of it and yet apart from it. Like a guardian fortress, it commanded views of the winding river. Its hard granite walls seemed to stand in defiance of intruders and in contemptuous scorn of the ruined chateau which occupied a similar position on the opposite side of the river.

It was said that both Convent and chateau had been built long before the days of gay King Francois, and that when that King had passed along the river, he had lingered. Beautiful buildings attracted him as did beautiful women, and he had taken a fancy to the chateau and the town's girls. He had extended the chateau and dallied with the women of the town until, tiring of them both, he passed on.

As the Mother Superior was fond of pointing out, the residents of the chateau had been Revelry and Sin; and now it was nothing but a ruin—a pile of stones here, the remains of a wall there, a spot to which people might climb in order to enjoy a picnic. Last year an Englishman had broken his leg scrambling over the ruins and had had to spend many weeks at the Auberge Lefevre, to his great discomfort but to the considerable profit of the Lefevres. Yes, the chateau represented Sin and the Convent Virtue. This, said the Mother Superior to the little ones in her charge, was a significant lesson to all who looked from the ruins to the solid walls of the Convent Notre Dame Marie. One was the house which had been built on a rock; the other the house which had been built on sand.

The peasants lived by the Convent bells. There were bells to arouse them from their sleep, and bells by which to go to bed. The black-clad figures of those nuns who had not taken the veil were continually seen in the market square, where they offered for sale the products of their gardens and the sewing room. Sister The>ese was as well known as any of the old men who sat outside the auberge talking of days gone by when there had been revolution in France and the streets of Paris had run with blood.

"Bonjour, Soeur The'rese/" even the children who could scarcely toddle would call after her; and she would turn and peer at them with her gentle, myopic eyes. She was not very beautiful; her back was bent from long work in the gardens, and her skin dry wrinkled and an unhappy shade of brown from the same labours. In the town the people said that she peered at them so searchingly because, in

the years which saw the end of her youth and the beginning of her middle age, she had hoped to discover her lover, come to the town in search of her. She would not take her vows, they said, in case he came. And though it was hardly likely that her Jean-Pierre would come looking for her now, the peering had become a habit; but still she would not take her final vows.

She led the novices—the fresh-faced ones, so serious, so conscious of vocation—about the town like a benign shepherd. Leading her sheep to the slaughter which should never be for herself! So said Armand Lefevre; but he was a profane man, a lazy good-for-little, who sat outside the auberge, day in, day out, drinking with any who could spare the time for him, and leaving to Madame the business of keeping a roof over their heads.

.Just before midday the children would walk in a little crocodile down the steep incline to the town, along by the river, and back again led by Sister Eugenie or Marie or old Therese, never loitering, never taking off their sabots to dip their toes in the river, for such was forbidden. The town mothers sorrowed for them and referred to them as les pauvres petites.

The Englishman who was staying at the auberge, and who was invariably sitting outside it with Armand beside him drinking a glass of wine, would follow them with his eyes.

He was tall and distinguished, this Englishman–a real lord, it was said, although he called himself plain Charles Adam. Madame and Monsieur Lefevre shook their heads over that plain name. It was a masquerade, a little secret, they were sure. They had found a kerchief of his with a different pair of initials. C.T. instead of G.A. He was a lord, they were sure; he was an aristocrat of the sort whom they had known before the days of the Terror and had rarely seen since, even though France had once more a King in Louis-Philippe. Madame declared that she knew an aristocrat when she saw one. And, she said to Marie her cook, if Monsieur Milord had a secret, then he was more charming than ever, for it was a romantic secret—Marie could depend on that.

Madame looked down from an upper window on her husband and the Englishman. Armand does not love work, she thought; but he is good for business. It was true; few could resist his talk; he was an inquisitive old man who knew, almost before their conception, when new babies were to be expected; he would watch over town matters with such knowledgeable delight that it was impossible not to enjoy sharing his knowledge and with it his delight.

The Convent bell was ringing and here came les pauvres petites. Therese was leading them, and with her walked Sister Eugenie, their black garments swinging away from them like broken wings—two black crows, and the fledglings behind them.

Madame looked wistfully at the children who might have been so pretty but for their black clothes. The nuns might be industrious and clever with their needles, but alas! the dear saints were oblivious of the fashion for young children.

Madame sighed, thinking of her own two sons and daughter– all married and far away.

At the end of the crocodile was the naughty little one—the charming little one, whose small oval face with the flashing green eyes always warmed Madame's heart. How old was the little Melisande ? Thirteen, it was said; though in some ways she seemed older, in some ways younger; sometimes almost a young woman, at others a charming child.

Melisande loitered at the end of the crocodile. Once she had stopped to talk to a young boy in a boat, and Sister Marie had been angry with her. Had the child suffered ? Madame hoped the children were not beaten for wanting to stay in the sunshine, for wanting to play like other children. Nuns were inclined to suspect sin in what a less holy woman would call childish naughtiness.

Now they were passing close to the inn and as they came level with the table at which Armand sat with the Englishman, something clattered to the ground. Madame stared. She saw that the little Melisande had been carrying her sabots and one had fallen from her hands and alighted right at the feet of the Englishman.

He picked it up. Melisande had broken from the ranks and turned back to retrieve her sabot. The Englishman rose, picked up the sabot and handed it to the child.

Madame could not resist the temptation to lean out of the window and listen.

Melisande had lifted her charming face and was looking at the Englishman with bold pleasure. "It was hot," she said. "I took off my sabots"

Madame thought that Melisande's eyes were like cool clear water with summer leaves reflected in it.

"Thank you, Monsieur," said Melisande. "I am sorry to have given you the trouble of picking it up."

He said stiffly in his English-French: "It is no trouble, Mademoiselle."

"You are English!" cried Melisande. "I speak English. The nuns teach me." Then she continued in his own tongue: "How do you do? It is hot to-day. Have you seen my book? Here is a picture of my grandmother." Then she laughed in that clear, joyous way which Madame was sure would be frowned on in the Convent.

The Englishman was smiling. It was the first time Madame had se^n him smile.

Melisande stood, her bare feet apart, delighting in what must, to

her, be an adventure. But she looked over her shoulder suddenly, for the inevitable had happened; it would have been whispered through the crocodile, from tail to head; and at the head were the Sisters Eugenie and Therese. Now they had stopped; they had seen. At least Eugenie had; Therese was peering about her in anxious concern.

Melisande gave up English and let out a flow of French. "I have seen you before, Monsieur. You always sit at this table. I smiled at you as I passed yesterday, but you did not smile at me. I live at the Convent. I wish I lived at the auberge. At the Convent it is lessons all the time." She wrinkled her short nose. "And prayers . . . prayers . . . prayers. . . . They hurt my knees."

Eugenie called: "Melisande!"

"Yes, ma sceur." She was demure now; she had lowered her lids fringed with the blackest of lashes which helped to make the eyes such a startling green. Now she had composed her features and the eyes showed themselves. They were limpid with innocence. They seemed to ask, "But what have I done, ma sceur?"

"Put on your shoes at once."

"Yes, ma sceur"

"And join the others."

"It was so hot. I had a blister on my foot. See. I could no longer keep up, so . . ."

"Pray join the others," said Sister Eugenie. "At once."

Melisande lingered long enough to throw a charming glance at the Englishman in which she included Armand. Armand, Madame knew well, had always been susceptible to feminine charm in old or young.

"Monsieur," said Eugenie, "I hope you will forgive this display of bad manners."

The Englishman began to explain in his laborious French. He did not think it was bad manners. The little girl had dropped her shoe and he had picked it up. She had thanked him quite charmingly. No, it was certainly not bad manners; it was the best of manners.

"We regret that Monsieur was disturbed," said Eugenie. She kept her eyes lowered; although she had not taken her final vows and did not live the sheltered life of some of her sisters, although she came out into the world, she would not look into the faces of men.

She led Melisande away, and watching, Madame saw the child marched to the head of the crocodile. Now she must walk between Eugenie and old Therese.

Madame offered a prayer to the saints for the children of the Convent, as she drew in her head. Such good people could mistake high spirits for sin so easily.

Armand, taking in every detail of the little incident, felt wise. He knew that the Englishman had been startled out of his calm. It had happened so suddenly. The child had deliberately dropped her sabot that he might pick it up and she have a close look at him and enchant him with her merry tongue. Well, why should she not ? This stately Englishman had a set of initials on some of his garments which did not tally with the name he gave; he had a habit of staring at Melisande every time she passed. Melisande was made to charm and she knew it; though she had few to try her charm on at the Convent! It was clear that Therese and Eugenie were immune; and it was certain that the Mother Superior was also. Yet such charm as that possessed by the child should not be hidden. It should flourish; it was, in Armand's opinion, worth a fortune.

Now here was the Englishman, so interested in her. That was why he was always at hand when the children passed; that was why his eyes lingered on the small figure of Melisande. Melisande was English, Armand had heard. She had been brought over to France when she was a baby and money had been paid to the nuns for her food and education. She was taught to speak English.

How did Armand know such things ? He garnered information as a jackdaw does bright stones and bits of glass; he picked a thread here, a thread there; and threads were made to be woven together, and in the weaving a pattern was formed. What should he do as he sat outside the auberge if it were not weaving the exciting patterns which made up other people's lives?

He and his wife discussed the Englishman's interest in Melisande as they lay in the big bed together, being careful to keep their voices low, for the Englishman was sleeping with only a thin wall between him and them.

"An indiscretion!" Armand had declared. "Depend upon that."

"That Englishman was never indiscreet."

"All men are indiscreet, Marie."

"That may be so. But he is so . . . English."

"There are indiscretions even in the lives of Englishmen. Every country has to be populated, my little cabbage. Even the English, I believe, have found no other means of performing this necessary duty."

Then the bed would creak with Armand's laughter. Much as he loved all wit, he found his own especially amusing.

"How otherwise would you explain his interest in the little Melisande?" he had demanded.

"He might be interested in all children."

"You suggest that they are all his children!" Armand would be off again. He was so fat that one day, Madame had often warned him, his laughter would do him an injury.

"I must not die of laughing," he had whispered; "not until I have uncovered the mystery of the Englishman and little Melisande."

He was determined to do this, so the encounter between Melisande and the Englishman seemed heaven-sent. Armand had been beside himself with excitement, trying to turn his eyes from the lovely young face, trying not to be overcome by the charm of the child, that he might give all his attention to the Englishman; for through him the secret would be discovered. Young Melisande would have no notion of it.

"Ah!" he said now as he sat opposite the Englishman. "Monsieur amuses himself with our little town. Monsieur likes our everyday happenings. Is it not so ? Our bells . . . our wine . . . our nuns . . . our poor little orphans. . . . And that little one! Very pretty, eh, Monsieur?"

"I find the place restful," said the Englishman. His speech delighted Armand almost as much as the mystery which surrounded him; correct as it was, it remained stubbornly English; and he spoke it almost as though it were rather a foolish joke in which he was forced to indulge.

"It is sad . . . sad . . . the little unwanted ones," said Armand, slyly.

The Englishman's expression betrayed nothing; but it seemed to Armand that he sat too still, that his fingers had tightened about his glass.

"Yet," went on Armand, in the slow careful speech he kept for the Englishman, "perhaps they are lucky, those little ones. A worse fate might have been theirs. The nuns are good."

The Englishman nodded. "Yes, the nuns are good."

"And," went on Armand, "it may be good for such little ones to live under a strict rule."

"For such?" asked the Englishman.

Armand leaned forward and let his mischievous eyes rest on the Englishman's face. "These children, Monsieur . . . some have lost their parents; and some . . . they should never have been in this world at all. The result of an indiscretion, you understand ? The love between two who could not marry."

The Englishman returned Armand's gaze without a trace of concern.

"That would be so," he said. "Yes, I daresay that would be so."

"And for such, a little strictness might be necessary."

There was silence while Armand refilled their glasses.

"Monsieur," he said artfully, "I wonder sometimes ... do the parents of these little ones ever think of them? I wonder—for I am a fanciful man—whether the parents come to our little town. We

have visitors . . . many visitors. Our town has its beauties. The river . . . the old ruins . . . and many love ruins. It is not without beauty, they tell me. But I wonder, do those parents of the little ones ever come here to see their children? How would you feel Monsieur, if you had a little son—or a little daughter—whom it had been necessary—and the good God knows how easily that can come about—whom it was necessary, Monsieur, to give to the worthy nuns to bring up ? I think, of course, of myself. Ah, I should come here. I should come here often to look at the little ones . . . and my own among them."

"That might be so," said the Englishman, flicking a fly from his beautiful blue coat. He was fastidious in the extreme. A perfect aristocrat! thought Armand. And have I gone too far ?

The Englishman gave no sign that he resented Armand's not-very-clever insinuations. He went on nodding, drinking his wine, now and then adding a word in his schoolroom French.

Melisande now walked at the head of the procession with the sisters; the other children were watching her, so she must pretend not to be afraid. She was not afraid of anything, she insisted to herself; she was only afraid of being afraid.

She would not think now of the punishment which would surely be hers; she would continue to enjoy the adventure a little longer. There was at least five minutes of sunshine left to her before they went through the gates. She remembered the story of the girl who, it was said, had been walled in when the Convent was built. That was in the chapel and, at dusk, Melisande believed that her ghost haunted the place. She had never seen the ghost; but she fancied she had sensed its presence. She believed that the ghost said to her: "Be happy. Enjoy everything as I did before they walled me in." But that may have been because Melisande was inclined to believe what she wanted to believe. She wanted to be happy; she intended to enjoy as much of life as she could; it was pleasant therefore to believe that the supernatural presence advised her to do exactly what she wanted to do.

She thought of the nun who had had a lover. One of the elder children had told her the story long ago. The nun and her lover had been discovered. The lover was killed; but she, her judges said, had been more wicked because she was a nun and the bride of

Christ. She had been unfaithful to Christ. That was a terrible sin, and to punish her, a wall had been built round her and above her, shutting out the light and air; and there she had been left to die.

Melisande had been thinking of the nun when she had dropped her sabot. She had known it was wrong to take off her sabots, just as the nun had known it was wrong to have a lover. But sometimes sins were irresistible. She had wanted so much to speak to the Englishman. She was fully aware that he watched her. People did look at her. When she passed the bakery the baker used to come out and give her a cake until Sister Emilie had seen and forbidden it. "I am so sorry if I have offended," the baker had said. "Such a pretty child . . . such a charming girl." Others smiled at her, so she was not surprised by the Englishman's attention. She herself was very interested in him, because he was tall and handsome and wore such beautiful clothes. Such a contrast had been that blue coat, that embroidered waistcoat, that wonderful frothy cravat compared with the clothes of Monsieur Lefevre—slovenly, torn and spotted with food and wine.

Melisande smoothed down her own black garments with distaste. They were too big for her. "Leave room for growing," said old Therese. "It is better to have your gown too big than too small. It is better to have too much than too little of the good things of life." Melisande had answered: "But it is better to have a little of the bad things of life than too much, and perhaps this black gown is not one of the good things but one of the bad." Sister Therese had clicked her tongue at that. "Ungrateful child!" she had cried. "Why?" Melisande had asked, for she could never, as Sister Emilie had pointed out, leave well alone. "The stuff of my gown is rough. It scratches me. Should I be grateful for a hair-shirt. . . which is what my gown resembles?"

Her clothes were ugly and she longed to wear clothes made of beautiful cloth such as those worn by the Englishman. He had smiled and seemed pleased because she had dropped her sabot. His eyes were of a grey-brown shade as the river was after a great deal of rain when parts of the banks had been washed away; he looked as though he rarely smiled; yet he had smiled for her. She would remember that when she was being punished.

They had turned in through the gates and were crossing the path between the well-kept lawns. How cold it was inside the Convent! The bell was ringing. It was time for dejeuner. Melisande's heart beat very fast, for it had occurred to her that the punishment might result in her missing dejeuner, and she was very hungry. She was often hungry, but hungrier at this time of day than at any other. Petit dejeuner —bitter coffee and a twist of bread—was scarcely adequate, and it seemed hours since she had had it. But whatever the

punishment is, she told herself, I shall think of the way he smiled at me and that he does not smile for everyone. She wondered what the young nun had thought when she was in the darkness with wall all about her—her cold dark tomb.

Sister Eugenie was beside her. "After dejeuner you will go to the sewing room and there Sister Emilie will tell you what your punishment will be."

After dejeuner I Melisande was almost rapturously happy. There was plenty of time before she need think of punishment; now she could remember the smile of the Englishman while she drank her cabbage soup and ate her piece of bread. She stood at the table, palms pressed together while Sister Therese said grace, and her eyes and thoughts were now on the steaming bowl before her. As they all took their seats she glanced quickly at Sister Therese at the top of the table and Sister Eugenie at the foot, and quickly looked away for fear they should see the triumph in her flashing green eyes.

The meal was over all too soon. Dumplings, which she loved, followed the cabbage soup; and it was only when she was eating her last mouthful that her fears returned.

Sister Therese was watching her. "Do not forget. To the sewing room."

She hated the sewing room and, as she went, she thought of the tedious hours, of fingers sore through sewing rough garments for children like herself, and shirts to be sold in the market square. On a dais was a large table where was laid out that altar cloth on which only the best needlewomen were allowed to work. It was an honour to sit at the table and work in gold and scarlet thread, instead of at the benches stitching ugly garments.

Sister Emilie said that to work on the dais was to work for God and the saints, but to work at the table was to work for mankind.

Melisande had shocked her once by saying that she would rather work for neither; although she loved the bright colours on the altar cloth she would like to wear dresses embroidered with them rather than have to sew for God and the saints.

"Sometimes," Sister Emilie had said, "I think you must be a very foolish or a very wicked girl."

"Perhaps I am both," was Melisande's ready answer, "for la Mere says that we are all wicked and all foolish ... all miserable sinners . . . even the sisters and la Mere herself. ..."

Sister Emilie had been at a loss for words, as her fellow sisters often were with Melisande. "Don't you want to sit on the dais and work on the beautiful altar cloth?" she had asked.

"The needles prick my fingers just the same," Melisande had replied.

But now there would be no question of working on the altar cloth.

There would be some hideous task; and she would have to sit at the table and work and work until her back ached and her fingers were sore, to make up for breaking away from the crocodile and speaking to the Englishman.

"Come here," said Sister Emilie.

Melisande obeyed. Her eyes were lowered. It was no use smiling at Sister Emilie.

"You have misbehaved once more, I am sad to hear," she said. "Now you will sit at that table. Take the top shirt from the pile. You will remain there till you have finished it."

Melisande took the shirt. It was of the stiff stuff that she hated. She sat sewing; her stitches were big and uneven. There was blood on the shirt, for she had, of course, pricked her fingers. She carried out her plan and went over the delicious episode again and again.

Soon she was speaking her thoughts aloud. "At least it is not as bad as being walled up in the chapel."

"What was that?" asked Sister Emilie.

"I am sorry, ma soeur. I was thinking of the nun who had a lover and was walled up in the chapel."

Emilie was disturbed.

She said: "That is not the way to show your penitence. You must not speak of such things here ... in a holy convent."

"No, ma sceur"

There was silence. Melisande went on stitching, still thinking of the nun and her lover. It was worth while to stitch this hateful shirt for the sake of the day's adventure. Perhaps having a lover—since it must not be spoken of, and it was the exciting things of life which were forbidden—was so much more wonderful that it was even worth while being walled up in a chapel afterwards in the cold and dark, there to stay through the centuries.

In the cold bare room The>ese and Eugenie stood before the table at which sat the Mother.

The Mother's hands were folded on her breast. It was a characteristic attitude when disturbed. She was sixty-three but she looked older; her face was wrinkled and almost colourless; her serenity was not easily disturbed over any matter other than that which concerned those whom she called her children ... the little ones who had been given into her care.

Eugenie spoke. She said: "Afa Mere, it is most alarming. The child purposefully did this thing. To take off her sabots —that was wickedness to start with, but to let one fall at the feet of this man . . . deliberately! We do not know how to deal with such a matter."

"He is staying at the inn," said the Mother, shaking her head. "It is unwise."

"Mother, you think it is he?"

"I think, Sister Therese, it must be."

"But it was the child who made the encounter possible."

"Yes, yes, but he must have shown his interest in her in some way."

"There is something about the child," said Therese. "Yes, there is something."

"A wantonness," put in Eugenie.

"She is essentially of the world," said the Mother, and although she was silent for a while, her lips moved. She was talking to saints, the sisters knew; she would be seen gliding about the Convent, while her lips moved thus. All knew that she was praying to the saints. To whom did she pray now? wondered Therese. To Saint Christopher? Like the Christ-bearer, the Mother was seeking to carry a child across the bridgeless river, and like the saint she was finding the burden too much for her.

She looked up suddenly and said: "Be seated."

The Sisters sat and there was again silence, while all three continued to think of Melisande. She was thirteen. An impressionable age, thought Sister Therese, looking back over her life, an age when it was possible for the feet to be led along those paths which opened out to voluptuousness, to revelry and sin, winding on and on away from virtue and piety. Sister Eugenie, who had lived all her life in the Convent, was thinking that the simple solution was to whip the child and put her into solitary confinement until the Englishman left the town.

Thirteen! thought the Mother. I was thirteen fifty years ago. Then there had seemed to be security and peace. She saw herself in her parents' mansion near St. Germain; she saw the schoolroom and the governess; she saw the servants when they had begun to show fear in their eyes. They had locked up the house with great care at night. They had whispered together. "Did you hear shouting last night? What if they should come. . . . Hush, the little one listens." She recalled the gardens—the trees in bloom, the fountains playing; she remembered the day when her father and mother had come riding there in great haste. "Jeanne . . . upstairs . . . get your cloak. . . . There is no time to lose." The whispering of the servants, the anxious looks, the haste of her parents . . . they were all like the ominous beating of drums that warned of death and danger. She had not understood then; she had run upstairs knowing only that

that which they feared was about to come to pass. We are going to run away from it, she thought. We shall be safe now. But she was wrong. They did not run away. Before she was able to return to them there were shouts in the hall and those whom she thought of for years afterwards as the 'ugly people' were in the hall. She had peered through the banisters and had seen them take her father and mother; they were all over the house; nowhere was safe; nowhere was sacred. She heard the smashing of glass, the shouts, the screams, the drunken voices singing the song which she would never forget.

"Allons, en/ants de la patrie, Lejour de gloire est arrive. Contre nous, de la tyrannie Le couteau sanglant est leve. . . ."

And they had taken her beloved parents away to the Place de Greve where many heads were falling to that couteau. She had escaped with her governess who had taken her across the gardens to the copse; and the ugly shrieking people had not come that way. Little Jeanne and her governess had ridden through the darkness to the Convent Notre Dame Marie; and there she had stayed and lived ever since, shut away from horror, shut away from fear. That had happened nearly fifty years ago; and at the time she had been the same age as the little Melisande.

At such an age a child must be carefully protected. The Mother knew what it was even now to wake in the night and see the ugly faces, the blood on a beloved face, the tearing of a woman's silk dress, to hear the screams for mercy. Through her dreams—like drum beats—she heard the notes of the Marseillaise. She hated the world because she was afraid of the world; she wanted to take all little children and bring them into the security of the Convent; she wished their lives—as hers was—to be given to prayer and the service of others. She would like to gather them to her like a mother-angel protecting them from the dangers of the world outside.

But she was wise enough to know that there were some who did not wish to be protected. Melisande was one of these, and she believed they needed special care.

Therese was thinking of labouring in the fields, of the ripple of Jean-Pierre's muscles. He had shown her his arms and said: "See how strong I am, little Therese! I could lift you up. I could carry you off. . . and you'd not be able to stop me." She had been thirteen then. Life could be dangerous at thirteen.