Part 5 (1/2)
Supper was rather a doleful meal, and immediately after it mademoiselle went to look for her niece, who had not returned. Barbara laughed a little scornfully at her fears, and even when she came back with the news that Marie was not concealed next door, as she had thought, refused to believe that the girl was not hiding somewhere else.
”But where could she be except next door?” mademoiselle questioned; ”and when I went to ask, Monsieur Dubois was seated with his sons having supper, and no signs of the truant. He had seen or heard nothing of her, he said.”
Barbara wondered which had been deceived, and whether the widower himself was deceived or deceiver, but, giving up the attempt to decide the question, retired to bed, advising mademoiselle to do the same, feeling some curiosity, but no anxiety, as to Marie's fate. She had not been in bed very long when she heard some one move stealthily downstairs and enter the dining-room. Mademoiselle Therese, she knew, had locked all the doors and gone to her bedroom, which was in the front of the house, and she immediately guessed that it must be something to do with Marie.
”The plot thickens,” she said to herself, stealing to the window, which looked out upon the garden. There, to her amazement, she saw Mademoiselle Loire emerging laboriously from the dining-room window.
She saw her in the moonlight creep down the garden towards the wall at the end, but what happened after that she could only guess at, as the trees cast a shadow which hid the lady from view.
”The lady or the tiger?” she said, laughing, as she peered into the shades of the trees, and about five minutes later was rewarded by seeing two figures hurry back and enter the house by the same way that Mademoiselle Loire had got out.
”Marie!” she thought triumphantly, wondering in what part of the garden she had been hidden, as there was no gate in the direction from which she had come. She lay awake for a little while, meditating on the vagaries of the family she had fallen into, and then fell so soundly asleep that she was surprised to find it broad daylight when she awoke, and to see Marie sitting on the end of her bed, smiling beamingly upon her.
”So you're back?” Barbara inquired with a yawn. ”I hope you didn't find it too cold in the garden last night.”
”You saw us, then?” giggled Marie. ”But you don't know where I came from, do you? Nor does Aunt Therese. I'll tell you now; such an exciting time I've had--just like a story-book heroine.”
”Penny novelette heroine,” murmured Barbara, but her visitor was too full of her adventure to notice the remark.
”As you know, I told Aunt Therese I should drown myself,” she began complacently; ”but, of course, such was not my intention.”
”Of course not,” interpolated Barbara drily.
”Instead, I confided my plan to Aunt Marie, then slipped out into the street, and thence to our friends next door.”
”The widower's?” exclaimed the English girl in surprise.
”The very same. I explained to him my project for giving my aunt a wholesome lesson; and he, with true chivalry, invited me to sup with them--he saw I was spent with hunger.”
Barbara, looking at the plump, rosy face of her companion, which had a.s.sumed a tragic air, stifled a laugh, and the girl continued.
”I spent a pleasant time, and was just finis.h.i.+ng my repast when the bell rang. 'My aunt!' I cried. 'Hide me from her wrath, Monsieur.'
'The coal-cellar,' he replied, after a moment's stern thought. In one second I had disappeared--I was no more--and when my aunt entered she found him at supper with his sons. When she had gone I returned, and we spent the evening cheerfully in mutual congratulation. At nightfall, when we considered all was secure, Aunt Marie came into the garden, placed a ladder against the wall, and I pa.s.sed from one garden into the other and regained our room securely. I think Aunt Therese suspected nothing--Monsieur Dubois is such a beautiful deceiver.”
”Well, I think you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” Barbara said hotly. ”Apart from the meanness and deceitfulness of it all, you have behaved most childishly, and I shall always think less of Monsieur Dubois for his untruthfulness.”
”Untruthfulness!” Marie returned in an offended tone. ”He acted most chivalrously; but you English have such barbarous ideas about chivalry.”
For a moment Barbara felt tempted to get up and shake the girl, then came to the conclusion that it would be waste of time and energy to argue with an individual whose ideas were so hopelessly dissimilar to her own.
”I'm going to get up now,” she said shortly. ”I'll be glad if you would go.”
”But don't you want to know what we are going to do now?” queried Marie, a little astonished that her companion should not show more interest in such an exciting adventure. ”Our campaign has only begun.
We will make Aunt Therese capitulate before we have done. After all, she is the younger. We intend to stay in our rooms without descending until she promises to ask pardon for her insults, and say no more of the matter; and we will go out nightly to get air--carefully avoiding meeting her--and will buy ourselves sausages and chocolate, and so live until she sees how wrong she has been.”
She ended with great pride, feeling that at length she must have made an impression on this prosaic English girl, and was much disconcerted when Barbara broke into laughter, crying, ”Oh, you goose; how can you be so silly!”
Marie rose with hurt dignity. ”You have no feeling for romance,” she said. ”Your horizon is most commonplace.” Then, struck by a sudden fear, she added, ”But you surely will not be unpleasant enough to tell Aunt Therese what I have confided to you? I trusted you.”