Mademoiselle Brun admitted that she was fond of Denise because she was her second cousin, and that was all.
When worldly mammas, essentially of the second empire, who perhaps had doubts respecting a purely conventional education, made inquiries on this subject, the mother-superior, feeling very wicked and worldly, usually made mention of the mathematical mistress, Denise Lange, daughter of the great and good general who was killed at Solferino. And no other word of identification was needed. For some keen-witted artist had painted a great salon picture of, not a young paladin, but a fat old soldier, eighteen stone, on his huge charger, with shaking red cheeks and blazing eyes, standing in his stirrups, bursting out of his tight tunic, and roaring to his _enfants_ to follow him to their death.
It was after the battle of Solferino that Mademoiselle Brun had come into Denise Lange"s life, taking her from her convent school to live in a dull little apartment in the Rue des Saints Peres, educating her, dressing her, caring for her with a grim affection which never wasted itself in words. How she pinched and saved, and taught herself that she might teach others; how she triumphantly made both ends meet,--are secrets which, like Mademoiselle Brun"s romance, she would not tell. For French women are not only cleverer and more capable than French men, but they are cleverer and more capable than any other women in the world. History, moreover, will prove this; for nearly all the great women that the world has seen have been produced by France.
Denise and Mademoiselle Brun still lived in the dull little apartment in the Rue des Saints Peres--that narrow street which runs southward from the Quai Voltaire to the Boulevard St. Germain, where the cheap frame-makers, the artists" colourmen, and the dealers in old prints have their shops. To the convent school, the old woman and the young girl, walking daily through the streets to their work, brought with them that breath of worldliness which the advance of civilization seemed to render desirable to the curriculum of a girls" school.
"It must be heavenly, mademoiselle, to walk in the streets quite alone,"
said one of Mademoiselle Brun"s pupils to her one day.
"It is," was the reply; "especially near the gutter."
But this afternoon there was no conversation, for the literature cla.s.s knew that Mademoiselle Brun was in a contrary humour.
"She is looking at that dear Denise with discontented eyes. She is in a shocking temper," had been the whispered warning from mouth to mouth.
And in truth Mademoiselle Brun constantly glanced down the length of the schoolroom to where Denise was sitting. But a seeing eye could well perceive that it was not with Denise, but with the schoolroom, that the little old woman was discontented. Perhaps she had at times a cruel thought that the Rue des Saints Peres, emphasized as it were by the Rue du Cherche-Midi, was hardly gay for a young life. Perhaps the soft touch of spring that was in the March air stirred up restless longings in the soul of this little grey town-mouse.
And while she was watching Denise, the cross-grained old nun who acted as concierge to this quiet house came into the room, and handed Denise a long blue envelope.
"It is addressed in a man"s handwriting," she said warningly.
"Then let us by all means send for the tongs," answered Denise, taking the letter with a mock air of alarm.
But she looked at it curiously, and glanced towards Mademoiselle Brun before she opened it. It was, perhaps, characteristic of the little old schoolmistress to show no interest whatever. And yet to her it probably seemed an age before Denise came towards her, carrying the letter in her outstretched hand.
"At first," said the girl, "I thought it was a joke--a trick of one of the girls. But it is serious enough. It is a romance inside a blue envelope--that is all."
She gave a joyous laugh, and threw the letter down on Mademoiselle Brun"s knees.
"It is my father"s cousin, Mattei Perucca, who has died suddenly, and has left me an estate in Corsica," she continued, impatiently opening the letter, which Mademoiselle Brun fingered with pessimistic distrust. "See here! that is the address of my estate in Corsica, where I shall invite you to stay with me--I, who stand before you in my old black alpaca, and would borrow a hairpin if you can spare it."
Her hands were busy with her hair as she spoke; and she seemed to touch life and its entanglements as lightly. Mademoiselle Brun, however, read the letter very gravely. For she was a wise old Frenchwoman, who knew that it is only bad news which may safely be accepted as true.
The letter, which was accompanied by an enclosure, was from a Ma.r.s.eilles solicitor, and began by inquiring as to the ident.i.ty of Mademoiselle Denise Lange, instructress at the convent school in the Rue du Cherche-Midi, with the daughter of the late General Lange, who met his death on the field of Solferino. It then proceeded to explain that Denise Lange had inherited the property known as the Perucca property, in the commune of Calvi, in the Island of Corsica. Followed a schedule of the said property, which included the historic chateau, known as the Casa Perucca. The solicitor concluded with a word for himself, after the manner of his kind, and clearly demonstrated that no other lawyer was so capable as he to arrange the affairs of Mademoiselle Denise Lange.
"Jean Jacques Moreau," read Mademoiselle Brun, with some scorn, the signature of the Ma.r.s.eilles notary. "An imbecile, your Jean Jacques--an imbecile, like his great and mischievous namesake. He does not say of what malady your second cousin died, or what income the property will yield--if any."
"But we can ask him those particulars."
"And pay for each answer," retorted Mademoiselle Brun, folding the letter reflectively.
She was remembering that a few minutes earlier she had been thinking that their present existence was too narrow for Denise; and now, in the twinkling of an eye, life seemed to be opening out and spreading with a rapidity which only the thoughts of youth could follow and the energy of spring keep pace with.
"Then we will go to Ma.r.s.eilles and ask the questions ourselves, and then he cannot charge for each answer, for I know he could never keep count."
But Mademoiselle Brun only looked grave, and would not rise to Denise"s lighter humour. It almost seemed, indeed, as if she were afraid--she who had never known fear through all the years of pinch and struggle, who had faced a world that had no use for her, that would not buy the poor services she had to sell. For to know the worst is always a relief, and to exchange it for something better is like exchanging an old coat for a new one.
"And in the mean time--" said Mademoiselle Brun, turning sharply upon her pupils, who had taken the opportunity of abandoning French literature.
"In the mean time," said Denise, turning reluctantly away--"in the mean time, I am filling a vat of so many cubic metres, from a well so many metres deep, with a pail containing four litres, and of course the pail has a leak in it, and the well becomes deeper as one draws from it, and the Casa Perucca is, I suppose, a dream."
She went back to her work, and in a few moments was quite absorbed in it.
And it was Mademoiselle Brun who could not settle to her French literature, nor compose her thoughts at all. For change is the natural desire of youth, and the belief that it must be for the better, part and parcel of the astounding optimism of that state of life.
A few minutes later Denise remembered the enclosure--a letter in a thick white envelope, which was still lying on her desk. She opened it.
"MADEMOISELLE" (the letter ran),
"I think I have the pleasure of addressing the daughter of an old comrade-in-arms, and this must be my excuse for at once approaching my object. I hear by accident that you have inherited from the late Mattei Perucca his small property near Olmeta in Corsica. I knew Mattei Perucca, and the property you inherit is not unknown to one who has had official dealings with landowners in Corsica. I tell you frankly that it would be impossible, in the present disturbed state of the island, for you to live at Olmeta, and I ask you as frankly whether you are disposed to sell me your small estate. I have long cherished the scheme of buying a small parcel of land in Corsica for the purpose of showing the natives that agriculture may be made profitable in so fertile an island, by dint of industry and a firm and unswerving honesty. The Perucca property would suit my purpose. You may be doing a good action in handing over your tenants to one who understands the Corsican nature. I, in addition to relieving the monotony of my present exile at Bastia, may perhaps be inaugurating a happier state of affairs in this most unfortunate country.
"Awaiting your answer, I am, mademoiselle,
"Your obedient servant,
"LOUIS GILBERT (Colonel)."
The school bell rang as Denise finished reading the letter. The cla.s.s was over.
"We shall descend into the well again to-morrow," she said, closing her books.
The girls trooped out into the forlorn courtyard, leaving Mademoiselle Brun and Denise alone in the schoolroom. Mademoiselle Brun read the second letter with a silent concentration. She glanced up when she had finished it.
"Of course you will sell," she said.
Denise was looking out of the tall closed windows at the few yards of sky that were visible above the roofs. Some fleecy clouds were speeding across the clear ether.
"No," she answered slowly; "I think I shall go to Corsica. Tell me," she added, after a pause--"I suppose I have Corsican blood in my veins?"
"I suppose so," admitted Mademoiselle Brun, reluctantly.
CHAPTER VI.
NEIGHBOURS.
"Chaque homme a trois caracteres: celui qu"il a, celui qu"il montre, et celui qu"il croit avoir."
By one of the strokes of good fortune which come but once to the most ardent student of fashion, the Baroness de Melide had taken up horsiness at the very beginning of that estimable craze. It was, therefore, in mere sequence to this pursuit that she fixed her abode on the south side of the Champs Elysees, and within a stone"s throw of the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne, before the world found out that it was quite impossible to live elsewhere. It is so difficult, in truth, to foretell the course of fashion, that one cannot help wondering why the modern soothsayers, who eke out what appears to be a miserable existence in the smaller streets of the Faubourg St. Honore and in the neighbourhood of Bond Street, do not turn their second-sight to the contemplation of the future of streets and districts, instead of telling the curious a number of vague facts respecting their past and vaguer prophecies as to the future.
If, for instance, Cagliostro had foretold that to-day the Chausee d"Antin would be deserted; that the faubourg would have completely ousted the Rue St. Honore; that the Avenue de la Grande Armee should be, fashionably speaking, dead after a short and brilliant life; and that the little streets of the Faubourg St. Germain should be all that is most _chic_--what fortunes might have been made! Indeed, no one in a trance or in his right mind can tell to-day why it is right to walk on the right-hand side of the Boulevard des Italiens and the Boulevard des Capucines, and heinously wrong to walk on the left; while, on the contrary, no self-respecting Parisian would allow himself to be seen on the right-hand pavement of the Boulevard de la Madeleine. Indeed, these things are a mystery, and the wise seek only to obey, and not to ask the reason why.
It would be difficult to lay before the English reader the precise social position of the Baroness de Melide. For there are wheels within wheels, or, more properly perhaps, shades within shades, in the social world of Paris, which are quite unsuspected on this side of the Channel. Indeed, our ignorance of social France is only surpa.s.sed by the French ignorance of social England. The Baroness de Melide was rich, however, and the rich, as we all know, have nothing to fear in this world. As a matter of fact, Monsieur de Melide dated his n.o.bility from Napoleon"s creation, and madame"s grandfather was of the Emigration. By conviction, they belonged to the Anglophile school, and theirs was one of the prettiest little houses between the Avenue Victor Hugo and the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne, which is more important than ancestors.
It was to this miniature palace that Mademoiselle Brun and Denise were bidden, to the new function of afternoon tea, the day after the receipt of the lawyer"s letter. Madame de Melide would take no denial.