Part 15 (2/2)

”Yes,” mademoiselle went on, ”it was a time full of new experiences for me, by which I hope I profited. I got on extremely well with your countrywomen, too, and the girls all loved me, and, indeed, so did your countrymen, for I received a great many offers of marriage while there.

I grew weary of refusing them, and was _so_ afraid of hurting their feelings--but one cannot marry every one, can one?”

”Certainly not, mademoiselle,” Barbara returned gravely. ”It would be most unwise.”

”That is just what I felt. Now, the German fraulein----”

Barbara sighed, wondering if it were the tenth or eleventh time she had heard the tale of the ”German fraulein”; but before she had decided the point, there was a knock at the door, and the maid-servant brought up the message that mademoiselle was wanted below by a visitor.

She rose at once, shook out her skirt, and patted her hair.

”That is just the way,” she said. ”I am never allowed much time for rest. You would not believe how many people seek me to obtain my advice.

I will return in a few minutes and finish my story.”

When she had gone, Barbara looked longingly at the couch. It was _such_ a hot day, and the lesson had been a long one; but she was afraid it was not much good to settle down with the promise of the story hanging over her head. The result proved she was right, for very soon Mademoiselle Therese came hurrying back again, full of smiles and importance. The landlady of the inn, _Au Jacques Cartier_, wished her to go there, she said, to act as interpreter between herself and an Englishman, who could speak hardly any French. Would Barbara like to come too?

Thinking it might be entertaining, Barbara got ready hastily and ran down to join Mademoiselle Therese and the landlady, who had come in person ”to better make clear matters.”

”This Englishman and his son,” she explained, as they went along, ”have only been with us a day or two, but already we wish them to go, yet cannot make them understand. Of course, I do not wish to hurt his feelings, but now, in August, I could let the room twice over to people who would be much less trouble, and whom the other guests would like better.”

”But what is wrong with these?” asked Mademoiselle Therese critically.

”I must know all the affair or I cannot act in it.”

She drew herself up very straight, and Barbara wondered if she were thinking of Portia in the _Merchant of Venice_.

”Well, this gentleman asked for a 'bath every morning,'” the landlady replied in an injured tone, ”and after we procured for him a nice little was.h.i.+ng-tub, with much trouble, he said it was too small.”

”That is not sufficient reason to send him away;” and Mademoiselle Therese shook her head.

”No. But then he cannot understand what goes on at _table d'hote_, and he and his son are such silent companions that it casts a gloom over the rest. Of course,” with an apologetic glance at Barbara, ”some Englishmen are very nice to have; but this one”--she shook her head as if the matter were quite beyond her--”this one I do not like, and perhaps without hurting his feelings, you, mademoiselle, could make quite clear to him that he must go.”

By this time they had arrived at the hotel, which was close to the Rosalba Bathing Place, and overlooked that little bay. Barbara, thinking the interview would be a delicate one, and that she would but add to the unpleasantness of the situation, said she would wait in the orchard till she was called.

From it one could get a beautiful view across the River Rance, to the wooded slopes beside Dinard, and, finding a seat beneath a lime-tree, Barbara sat down. She had been there about a quarter of an hour, and was almost asleep, when she heard stealthy footsteps coming through the gra.s.s beside her, and the next moment her startled eyes fell upon the solicitor's son of Neuilly remembrance!

She got rather a fright at first, but he certainly got a much worse one; and before he had recovered it had flashed across her mind quite clearly that the man who was at that moment talking to Mademoiselle Therese, was the solicitor himself. Before she could move from her place, the son had cast himself down on his knees, and was begging her incoherently to spare him and his father--not to inform against them. The thought of going to prison, he said, would kill him, as it had his mother, as it nearly had his sister; and if she would spare them, he would take his father away at once.

To see the boy crying there like a child almost made Barbara give way and let things go as they liked; but then she remembered how meanly his father had cheated the people in Neuilly--a widow's family too--and what a life he seemed to have led his own wife and children; then, calling to mind his horrid manner and cruel, sensuous face, she steeled herself against him.

”I shall certainly inform against your father,” she said gravely. ”And I think the best thing that you and your sister can do, is to get away at once, before it is too late.”

The boy wrung his hands. ”My sister has gone already,” he moaned, ”to some Scotch relations--simple people--who said they would take her in if she would have nothing more to do with our father. But I could not go--there was money only for one.”

Barbara looked at the pathetic figure before her, and suddenly forgot all her promises not to get entangled in any more plots or other dangerous enterprises, and almost before she realised what she was doing, she was scribbling a message in French on the back of an envelope.

From where they stood they could see the little house of Mademoiselle Vire, and the entrance to the lane in which it stood. Pointing out the roof of the house to her companion, she told him to run there with the note, and, if the people let him in, to wait until she came.

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