Chapter VIII: Madame Fromard

Tessie had prophesied that Mrs. Carolus and Miss Markham would not call in each other’s company, and so it happened. The married lady did not pay her visit till some days after her friend, and then it was performed with much greater ceremony. The two girls had gone out for a walk together towards Artois, and I had promised to follow them as soon as I had finished a long epistle which I was writing to dear Mrs. Sandilands, descriptive of my new life and the thoughts it had brought to me. I had sealed my letter and put on my black hat and cloak, when Madame Marmoret shouted at me from the kitchen staircase that Mrs. Carolus had arrived, and was waiting to see me in the _salon_. I would willingly have avoided her, but found, on inquiry, that she had asked for me by name, and Madame had confessed I was at home. So there was no alternative but to receive her, and I descended to the sitting-room with my letter in my hand. I found Mrs. Carolus robed in state, with a Parisian bonnet on and a Parisian mantle, and new lavender-coloured gloves. Her grandeur quite overcame me, and I felt very meek in my straw hat bound with crape, and my untrimmed, every-day costume.

‘Miss Marsh, I believe,’ she said, as she shook hands with me, and I was fain to acknowledge that she believed aright.

‘I have delayed my visit to you for a few days, Miss Marsh,’ Mrs. Carolus continued, ‘not from any want of desire to make your acquaintance, I can assure you; but because I consider it the height of ill-breeding to rush upon a stranger the very minute of her arrival, without giving her time to turn round, as if a lady had nothing else to do, at the end of a fatiguing journey, than to make the acquaintance of a pack of people she has never seen before.’

‘It is very considerate of you,’ I said.

‘I think it is only polite, and I have hinted the same to others; but my advice is not often taken, I find, especially by those who are most indebted to me. My husband, Mr. Carolus,’ said the bride, with an attempt at a blush, ‘would have had the pleasure of accompanying me to-day; but he is suffering from a little indigestion, and I forbid him to move.’

‘I am sorry Mr. Carolus is ill.’

‘It is not serious; but gentlemen are difficult creatures to keep in order, as perhaps you will discover for yourself some day. You know my friend Miss Markham, I think?’

‘Yes; she called here the day after my arrival.’

‘I guessed as much! Mr. Lovett is the great attraction here, I believe; but I cannot say I have ever seen much good result from single ladies running after gentlemen in that way—widowers or not. But this is a terrible place for flirtation, Miss Marsh! and you will have as many opportunities of pursuing it as anybody.’

‘Indeed! I do not quite understand you.’

‘Why, all the young men in St. Pucelle collect about Mr. Lovett. He is a general favourite with them. Have you not seen the Baron de Nesselrode here?’

‘Yes; he comes almost every evening.’

‘Just so. Some people think it is a pity that Mr. Lovett should encourage his young friends so much. It is not as if they came to speak of the things that a clergyman is usually supposed to talk about, you know.’

‘But surely young men could never derive anything but benefit from association with such a good man as Mr. Lovett,’ I replied. ‘You should hear his daughters speak of him, Mrs. Carolus. They cannot find terms high enough in which to sing their father’s praises.’

‘Oh yes, my dear; I have heard them speak of him. And, of course, no one could dare to say that he would do his friends any harm. But still, there’s the Baron, you see. Poor fellow! he’s gambled away more than two-thirds of his fortune already, and has to live on a pittance until his debts are discharged. It is a pity, is it not, that he should not have given up cards even yet? I wish dear good Mr. Lovett would remonstrate with him on the subject, and advise him better. But he is too easy with young men. I understand he was very wild himself in his early days—at least, so my Willy tells me—and that makes him disposed to be lenient, perhaps, with others.’

I felt that to this speech I had no answer to make, so I evaded it with a remark:

‘With two such pretty girls in the house,’ I said, ‘I should have thought people would have had no difficulty in deciding the motive which made young men congregate about their father.’

‘Oh no, my dear, it’s not that,’ replied Mrs. Carolus, hastily. ‘He has not got either of them off his hands yet, you see, though the eldest must be seven-and-twenty.’

‘Three-and-twenty,’ I murmured in correction.

‘Only three-and-twenty! Dear me! She looks very old for her age. There was a talk, some few months ago, of the little one being very much admired by a young fellow of the name of—let me see, what was his name? I declare I have quite forgotten it. But Sophia can tell you—Sophia can always remember a gentleman’s name, whatever she forgets. However, the Lovetts met him at Rille, where their father takes them every now and then; and I suppose he paid Miss Angela some attention (for that little one really, is very nice-looking), but it came to nothing after all; and it’s my opinion they’ll neither of them ever be married.’

‘What a terrible fate!’ I said, laughing.

‘Ah, well, my dear Miss Marsh, you may be able to afford to laugh at the idea; but a single life _is_ a terrible fate for a woman after all! And how it sours them! Just look at Sophia Markham! That girl—I call her a girl, you know, but in reality she is many years older than myself; and I might have been married fifty times over before I made up my mind to take Willy—well, to hear her speak of her own sex is shocking! She has never a good word to say for any one of them. Now, I am sure I may trust you, Miss Marsh, and you won’t mention my name again, if I tell you that the way Sophia Markham has gone on under my roof has distressed me to that degree, that I can never invite her to stay with me again—never! No gentleman is safe from her attacks—young or old, rich or poor, it is all the same. She would carry my Willy off from under my very eyes if I would let her! But I drew the line there. Of course I cannot interfere with her goings-on in other directions; still, it annoys me greatly. For I am quite convinced she will never be married. Not on account of her age; though I think few people would credit she is only ten years my senior,’ added Mrs. Carolus with a smirk, ‘but because of her manners, which are bold and forward to a degree. But you were going out, Miss Marsh! I am afraid I am detaining you.’

‘I was going to post this letter, and then to join the Miss Lovetts, who have gone for a walk on the Artois road.’

‘Do not let me keep you any longer, then; indeed, I will walk a little way with you if you will permit me,’ said Mrs. Carolus.

I did not particularly wish for the company of this lady, who appeared to me only a degree less objectionable than her friend, but as it was drawing near the post-time, and I was anxious that Mrs. Sandilands should get my letter without delay, I consented to the proposal made me.

‘Do you consider that Mr. Lovett is likely to marry again, Miss Marsh?’ inquired Mrs. Carolus, as we left the house together.

The question took me so completely by surprise, that I did not know what to answer.

‘Indeed,’ I said, ‘I have been here far too short a time to be able to form any opinion on the matter.’

‘I should think it very improbable myself, with those girls dependent on him, and in the state of his affairs too; but doubtless you know quite as much about _them_ as I do. Everybody in St. Pucelle is admiring you so much for coming to live with them, Miss Marsh, and says that it is an act of pure benevolence on your part.’

‘I am afraid you are giving me more credit than I deserve, Mrs. Carolus. I came here on the invitation of Mr. Lovett, simply because I needed change of scene, and I considered myself more than any one else in making the decision.’

‘Ah! and so did he, my dear—so did he. There is little doubt of that. But what is to become of those poor girls when he is gone? He can’t last for ever, you know. He must be past seventy now!’

‘I have never thought of it. It does not come within my province to do so.’

‘To be sure not, and I trust it never may. Death is a sad thing! I suppose you know pretty nearly every one in St. Pucelle by this time, Miss Marsh.’

‘I think I have made acquaintance with all the ladies. A very pretty girl, a Mrs. Arthur Johnstone called upon me yesterday. She does not look much older than Ange.’

‘Poor child! yes, she has very tolerable features. For my part, I like her, but one cannot quite shut one’s ears to all one hears. Did the husband come with her?’

‘No!’

‘I thought as much! He never goes anywhere. Only too glad to keep out of sight, I should think. The Ormerods tell me he has been cashiered from the army!’

‘How dreadful for his poor little wife! And she seems so cheerful too. She laughed the whole time she was with us yesterday.’

‘Perhaps she doesn’t know it, or doesn’t care. You will meet strange characters abroad, my dear. The Continent is the general refuge for all those who are unable to live in England.’

‘So I have heard,’ I answered listlessly.

I was thinking of Frederick Stephenson’s stories on the same subject, and it vexed me. It was not pleasant to believe one’s self surrounded by a set of dishonourable vagabonds. And if it were so, I would rather have been left to find it out for myself than have been told of it by Mrs. Carolus. We had reached the high ground by this time which led to the Artois road, and I was looking about me with the admiration with which I never ceased to view the country that surrounded St. Pucelle. The grass we trod upon sent up a grateful fragrance of crushed herbs, and little tufts of flowers grew between each cleft of the rocky hill as if they had been planted there on purpose for effect.

As we strolled along, we gazed down upon the town which we had quitted, lying in the steep hollow beneath us, with its long narrow street of wooden houses and grey granite walls, peopled by women in short petticoats, bare feet, and snowy caps, with men in blue blouses and leathern aprons, with rough carts drawn by oxen, and a heterogeneous mass of children tumbling about in the stream of dirty water which the gutter conveyed rapidly to its level in the valley. On the summit of the green hill which we had to gain before descending, like the dirty water, to Artois, there stood a large wooden Calvary, which might be seen for many miles round. Rough as this representation of the most important event that ever occurred in the world’s history was upon a closer inspection, its size and colouring, with the green mound on which it was erected, gave it a very solemn appearance when viewed from a distance, particularly when, as was the case on this occasion, a group of worshippers knelt at the foot of the Cross.

We instinctively dropped our voices and walked slower as we approached the Calvary, but before we had passed it, a woman and a little girl rose hastily and confronted us. They were peasants, and carried covered baskets, filled probably with butter and eggs. The woman was wiping her eyes on the corner of her rough apron, when she perceived Mrs. Carolus, and gave her a ‘_Bon jour, madame._’

My companion returned the greeting, and we were continuing our walk when the woman suddenly ran after us and touched Mrs. Carolus on the sleeve.

‘Is that the demoiselle that has come to live with Monsieur le Curé Anglais?’ she demanded in her own language, as she intimated me with her forefinger.

‘_Je ne comprenez pas_,’ replied Mrs. Carolus.

Notwithstanding my inexperience of speaking French, I thought I could do a little better in the way of verbs than this, and ventured to answer the woman myself.

‘Yes! I am the demoiselle. What do you want?’

But on hearing these few faltering words, the poor woman gave vent to such a mingled torrent of tears and explanations, that I was out of my depth again directly. She was _désolée_; she was _distraite_; she would pray that the good Lord would take her life, only that Monsieur l’Abbé would refuse her absolution if she did so.

‘But would mademoiselle conceive of her position. Monsieur le Curé Anglais was so beloved and so respected, ‘_c’est un homme si bon, si amiable, si dévoué_.’ How could one go to him again for the fourteenth time in a month, and ask for his pity, his benevolence, his compassion? But then mademoiselle must consider her family. She had five children to provide for, and here was the eldest, not old enough to do more than carry the baskets to and from the Artois market. It was but little they wanted; they had been very patient, and she had been praying the _bon Dieu_ for more patience, but mademoiselle must know that people cannot live without eating, though ’twas but little enough they had had inside them for the last month.’

‘But what has all this got to do with me?’ I said in despair.

I had tried to translate the question three times into French, but failing to do so, was obliged to have recourse to Mrs. Carolus and the English language.

‘Oh! I think I can guess fast enough,’ she replied, with a sarcastic laugh.

The woman, with the quickness of her race, had caught the meaning of my words and answered them.

‘If mademoiselle would only speak for me,’ she pleaded, ‘we are so poor, and _mon mari_ has been in his bed for the last twelvemonth. A few francs, mademoiselle. We do not ask for a large sum, but if we could have half, or even a quarter of it.’

‘Does she want me to give her money?’ I inquired in my bewilderment of Mrs. Carolus.

‘I should hardly think so. There are no beggars here. What does she say?’

‘She says she is so poor—they have not enough to eat, and her husband is ill.’

‘Give her half a franc, then; but I should hardly think it is true. The Catholics are too well looked after to want.’

I tendered the coin to the woman, but she pushed it away impatiently.

‘No! no! mademoiselle,’ she said, shaking her head, ‘I am not a beggar. I do not want your charity.’

‘Then what _do_ you want?’ I asked, defying grammar and accent in my desire to make her understand.

‘_Mon droit_,’ she answered proudly.

‘What is your name?’ I said.

‘I am Madame Fromard.’

‘_Fromard!_’ echoed Mrs. Carolus suddenly; ‘you sell eggs, don’t you? _vous vendez urfs—urfs et boor?_’ she repeated for Madame Fromard’s benefit.

‘_Oui, madame! oui! des œufs et du beurre._’

‘Oh! I know her well. You’d better come on, Miss Marsh. It is of no use stopping to talk to this woman. She will keep you till midnight if you let her.’

‘What is her cause of complaint?’ I said, as, having bidden Madame Fromard farewell, and left her snivelling and wiping her eyes upon her apron, we strolled on together.

Mrs. Carolus regarded me with a very curious expression.

‘Haven’t you found out?’ she said; ‘I thought you understood French.’

‘So I do, after the English fashion, but when these natives begin to chatter, they run on so fast, there is no keeping pace with them. I could make out that she was very poor and wanted francs, but I suppose they would all say that, if they found any one to listen to them.’

‘You’ll understand them a great deal better after you have been here a little while,’ replied Mrs. Carolus, mysteriously, so mysteriously and unpleasantly, indeed, that I did not like her manner at all, and was quite glad when I perceived the figures of Tessie and Ange advancing to meet us.

‘What a time you have been!’ exclaimed the little maid. ‘We have walked half way to Artois and back. Monsieur Condé met us, and wanted us to go into the park and see him shoot a young bear he keeps there that has become dangerous—horrid man! as if we would; and he is coming to see you very soon, Hilda. He is anxious to take you over the grottoes. He thinks they are the only things worth seeing in the world.’

‘What grottoes?’

‘Why, the grottoes of St. Jean! Have you never heard of them? They are very wonderful, full of beautiful crystals and stalactites. We must make a party and go over them some day. It is no fun going alone. Have you seen them, Mrs. Carolus?’

‘Oh yes! We visited them on our first arrival here, and thought them very interesting.’

It was more, however, than Mrs. Carolus appeared to think our conversation, for she declined to turn back with us again.

‘Tell them all about Mère Fromard,’ she called out to me before she finally disappeared.

‘What about Mère Fromard?’ asked Tessie.

So I told them of the peasants we had encountered kneeling at the Calvary, and the broken conversation that had subsequently ensued between us. I saw Tessie and Ange exchange glances as I proceeded with my story, and I fancied they were not pleased with it.

‘I could barely catch her meaning,’ I concluded, ‘but I fancy she mentioned your names. I suppose you know her.’

‘Oh yes! we know her well,’ said Tessie.

‘Is she amongst the poor that you visit?’

‘There are no families here whom we visit in the way you mean. Monsieur l’Abbé looks after them too well for that. But we go if they are sick or in trouble, as we should offer our sympathy to any other friends.’

‘This poor woman seemed in trouble.’

‘Ange will go and see her as soon as she has time,’ said Tessie. ‘For the present, we cannot do her any good, so let us take this little path into the town, or we may meet her again. She is very troublesome to shake off if she once gets a hearing.’

I thought both the girls seemed graver and less sympathetic than they usually were when talking of their poorer neighbours, and I concluded that the Fromards were not amongst the most deserving in St. Pucelle.

Mr. Lovett appeared at dinner-time looking as handsome and benignant as usual, and quite full of the pleasant stroll he had had with Miss Markham, and the successful manner in which she had beguiled the time.

‘She is a most amusing companion,’ he said. ‘Her fund of anecdotes seems inexhaustible, and she tells her stories in an irresistibly funny manner. I do not know when I have laughed so much as I did this afternoon.’

‘I am glad you enjoyed yourself, papa,’ remarked Tessie, quietly.

‘I did indeed! Miss Markham reminds me in a powerful degree of the late Duchess of Rochester, who was one of the wittiest women in society in Lord Amor’s time. And she is well-looking for her age too—very well-looking!’

‘She is better than well-looking, is Mademoiselle Markham,’ said the shrill voice of Marmoret, as she placed a roast hare before her master; ‘she has got money, and that’s worth all the beauty in the world, in my opinion.’

‘It’s not a bad thing, Madame, is it,’ replied Mr. Lovett; ‘but how do you know the lady in question possesses any?’

‘Why, by using my eyes, to be sure! Do you think I’m blind, or a fool, like some I could mention? Look at that demoiselle’s dresses. Why! she wears a fresh muslin every morning, and the silk she went to church in last Sunday would have stood of itself. Of course she’s got money. How do you suppose she could pay for such things else?’

‘Perhaps she doesn’t pay for them,’ remarked my guardian facetiously, but he had to answer for doubting the truth of Madame Marmoret’s expressed opinion.

‘_Doesn’t pay for them!_’ she echoed in a tone steeped in vinegar. ‘Why should you imagine such a scandal? It is not everybody, remember, who would stoop to defraud honest people of their money, when they’ve worked hard to earn it.’

The woman was in such an evident rage that the two girls looked quite frightened.

‘Dear Madame, do be reasonable,’ pleaded Tessie.

But Mr. Lovett put it down with a higher hand.

‘Come—come! let us have no nonsense of this kind,’ he said. ‘I like to have my dinner in peace, or I shall digest nothing that I eat; and as for you, Madame, the kitchen is your arena for display, and not the _salle à manger_.’

‘And much you would get to eat or to digest either, if I stayed there,’ she exclaimed, as she flounced off to her own domains.

The girls looked annoyed, as they always did when Madame Marmoret displayed any temper, but their father laughed as if it were a very good joke.

‘She will go out in the court and cool herself upon the flagstones,’ he said, ‘meanwhile we will discuss our dinner. Hilda, my dear, may I help you to a little of this hare?’

I had found, since the first day of my dining with them, that his daughters never partook of the same dish as he did, and I had learnt to follow their example. It is true that, considering the amount that was to be deducted from my income for my keep, I might reasonably have considered myself entitled to the best that was put upon the table; but there was a strong feeling in me against sharing in the luxuries which they were forbidden. I liked them both too well. The meals greatly varied too, both in quality and quantity. I had found that out already. Sometimes there was barely sufficient to go round the family, and that of food of the commonest or most distasteful quality; at others, we rejoiced in an influx of fish, flesh, and fowl—a regular _embarras des richesses_, and accompanied by bottles of champagne and burgundy. On such occasions the old father would be in the very best of spirits, laughing and jesting with us all, and brilliant with repartee and anecdote. At others, he would seem low and despondent, remaining silent during the dinner hour, or alluding only to his poverty and altered circumstances.

Then his girls would vie with each other to pet and caress him, reminding him of his past successes, and of what a favourite he was at the Belgian Court, until he would leave them with the determination to write to some of his friends in office and seek redress for the hardness of his position.

Yet the very next day, perhaps, we would have trout for breakfast and beef for dinner, and all would go merry as a marriage bell.

To-day the secret springs that moved the machinery of the kitchen and larder had evidently gone right, for the roast hare was crowned with red currant jelly and flanked by sauterne; but I refused all the dainties Mr. Lovett pressed upon me, and preferred to eat stewed veal, the commonest dish of the country, with Tessie and Ange instead.

‘I heard an unpleasant thing to-day about some acquaintances of ours,’ remarked Mr. Lovett, as he finished his second plate of hare—‘a very unpleasant thing, indeed.’

‘From Miss Markham, papa?’ inquired Tessie, timidly.

‘Yes; but not repeated with the slightest ill-nature, I can assure you. In fact, I was quite charmed with the candid and liberal manner in which the story was told me. The truth is, Miss Markham, who is quite a woman of the world and shows a wonderful interest in you two girls, considered it quite her duty to inform me of it, and I assured her she was right.’

‘Oh, papa! what is it?’ cried Ange, anxiously.

‘Nothing to alarm you, my little maid. It is only about the Johnstones. Miss Markham does not think Mrs. Johnstone a very desirable acquaintance for you, and neither do I.’

‘What has she done, sir?’ I inquired.

‘Nothing herself, my dear Hilda, at least that I have heard of, but the husband appears to be a very loose character. It seems that he was cashiered from the army for gambling, and left England only to prevent himself from being arrested for debt.’

‘Oh, how dishonourable that is!’ I exclaimed. ‘I think there is no meanness equal to that of defrauding tradesmen of their due.’

‘And neither do I,’ said Angela, stoutly. Tessie sat by and heard us, but she said nothing.

‘Yet it is hard that her husband’s dishonesty should inculpate poor Mrs. Johnstone,’ I observed; ‘perhaps she knows nothing of it all.’

‘Perhaps not,’ replied Mr. Lovett, ‘but she shares his disgrace. It is the penalty of having married a man without principle. And I would not have my children’s names associated with hers, after what I have heard to-day. So mind, girls, what I say. Be civil to her when you meet, but don’t go to her house any more, nor invite her to come here.’

‘I am _so_ sorry for the Johnstones,’ remarked Tessie, softly, as we sat in our own room together afterwards.

‘_I_ am not,’ said Ange; ‘I think there is nothing so horrible in this world as swindling tradesmen. Fancy, going to a lot of poor people who trust your honour, and getting clothes and provisions out of them, and then running away and leaving them to pay for you. It is so pitifully mean and ungenerous.’

‘I quite agree with you, Ange,’ I said; ‘still, people do sometimes get into debt before they are aware of it.’

‘I can’t believe that,’ returned the little maid; ‘no one but a child or an idiot could do that. Why, if papa were to swindle or cheat people, I don’t think I could ever speak to him again. It would break my heart with shame and agony. I should never be able to look anybody in the face. Would you, Tessie?’

‘What did you say, dear? I was not listening.’

‘Wouldn’t you rather that papa were dead than a cheat and a swindler like Mr. Johnstone?’

‘Oh, Ange! don’t say such hard things of people.’

‘Are they too hard? I didn’t think they could be. Well! there’s one comfort in hearing of such villany. It makes one feel so thankful that papa is not as other men are! The dear, dear, good old pappy! If he had ever done such things, I should die at once.’