Barbara in Brittany Part 4

"Let me see," continued her aunt, "can you ride?"

Barbara laughed.

"I used to ride Topsy--the Shetland, you know--long ago, but father sold him."

Her eyes followed her aunt's across the garden and the end of the street, to the distant glimpse of the Bois de Boulogne, where riders pa.s.sed at frequent intervals, and her eyes glowed. "Doesn't it look jolly?" she said. "I used to love it."

Aunt Anne nodded.

"I used to ride in my youth, and your father rode beautifully before he was married, and when he could afford to keep a horse. He would like you to have done so too, I think. If there is any place where you can learn in St. Servan, you may. It will be a good change from your studies."

"Oh, aunt!" and this time reserve was thrown to the winds, and Barbara most heartily embraced her. "Oh, how perfectly splendid of you! It has always been my dream to ride properly, but I never, never thought it would come true."

"Dreams do not often," Miss Britton returned, with a scarcely audible sigh; then she gathered up her soft white wool. "There is the first bell, child, and we have not changed for dinner. Come, be quick."

The next morning a heavily-laden cab pa.s.sed from the Rue St. Sulpice through the gates into the city. Miss Britton, finding that a friend of the Belvoirs was going almost the whole way to St. Servan, had arranged for Barbara to go under her care. But it was with very regretful eyes that the girl watched the train, bearing her aunt away, leave the station, and she was rather a silent traveller when, later in the morning, she was herself _en route_ for St. Servan.

Not so her companion, however, a most talkative personage, who was hardly quiet five minutes consecutively. She poured forth all sorts of confidences about her family and friends, and seemed quite satisfied if Barbara merely nodded and murmured, "_Comme c'est interessant!_" though she did not understand nearly all her companion said. The latter pointed out places of interest in pa.s.sing, and finally, with an effusive good-bye, got out at the station before St. Servan.

As the train neared its destination, Barbara looked anxiously to see what the town was like, and her disappointment was great at the first glimpse of the place. When the family had looked up the Encyclopaedia for a description of St. Servan, it seemed to be that of a small, old-fas.h.i.+oned place, and Barbara had pictured it little more than a village with a picturesque beach. Instead of that, she saw many houses, some tall chimneys, and quays with s.h.i.+ps lying alongside. It would have cheered her had she known that the station was really a considerable distance from the town, and in the ugliest part of it; but that she did not find out till later.

Outside the station were many vociferous cab-drivers offering to take her anywhere she liked, and, choosing the one whose horse seemed best cared for, she inquired if he knew where the house of Mademoiselle Loire, Rue Calvados, was. Grinning broadly he bade her step in, and presently they were rolling and b.u.mping along rough cobble-stoned streets. Barbara had further imagined, from the description of the house that Mademoiselle Loire had sent them, that it was a villa standing by itself, and was rather surprised when the _fiacre_, after climbing a very steep street, stopped at a door and deposited herself and her trunks before it. Almost before she rang the bell she heard hurried steps, and the door was opened by some one whom she imagined might be the housekeeper.

"Is Mademoiselle Loire in?" she inquired of the thin and severe-looking woman with hair parted tightly in the middle.

"I am Mademoiselle Loire," she replied stiffly in French, "and you, I suppose, are Miss Britton! I am sorry there was no one at the station to meet you, but we did not expect you so soon."

"Did you not get my post-card?" Barbara asked.

"I could not possibly do that," Mademoiselle Loire returned reprovingly; "it was posted in Paris far too late for _that_. However, perhaps you will now come into the _salon_," and Barbara followed meekly into a room looking out upon the garden, and very full of all kinds of things. She had hardly got in before she heard a bustle on the stairs, which was followed by the entrance of Mademoiselle Therese Loire. Her face was not so long nor her hair so tightly drawn back as her sister's, and she came forward with a rush, smiling broadly, but, somehow, Barbara felt she would like the prim sister better.

After asking many questions about the journey they took her to her room, and Barbara's heart sank a little. The house seemed dark and cold after that in Neuilly, and her bedroom was paved with red brick, as was the custom in those parts in old houses.

The dining-room--smelling somewhat of damp--was a long, low room leading straight into the garden, and the whole effect was rather depressing. At supper-time, Barbara was made acquainted with the rest of the household, which consisted of an adopted niece--a plump girl of about seventeen, with very red cheeks and a very small waist--and two boys about twelve, who were boarding with the Loires so that they might go to the Lycee[1] in the town. After supper, Mademoiselle Therese explained that they usually went for a walk with the widower and his children who lived next door.

"Poor things!" she said, "they knew n.o.body when they came to the town, and a widower in France is so shut off from companions.h.i.+p that we thought we must be kind to them. They have not a woman in the house except a charer, who comes in the first thing in the morning."

Barbara, with a chuckle over the "charer," went to put on her hat, and on coming into the dining-room again, found the widower and his sons already there. Something in the shape of the back of the elder man seemed familiar to her, and on his turning round to greet her, she recognised her little friend of the train on their first arrival in France. The recognition was mutual, and before she had time to speak he rushed forward and poured forth a torrent of French, while Mademoiselle Therese clamoured for an explanation, which he finally gave her.

At last he had to stop for want of breath, and Barbara had time to look at his sons--boys of twelve and sixteen--who seemed a great care to him. All the three, father and sons, wore cloaks with hoods to them, which they called _capucines_, and as there was very little difference in their heights, they made rather a quaint trio. Barbara was glad to see him again, however, for it seemed to bring her aunt nearer.

It amused her considerably to notice how Mademoiselle Therese flew from one party to another, during the whole of the walk, evidently feeling that she was the chaperon of each individual. She started out beside the widower, but soon interrupted his conversation by das.h.i.+ng off to give a word of warning to the boys, and what was supposed to be a word of encouragement to Barbara, who was walking with Marie, the niece, and the widower's eldest son.

It did not make much difference to them, for Jean and Marie seemed to have plenty to say; and after addressing a few careless remarks to Barbara, to which, perhaps, she did not pay much attention, the latter heard her say to her companion, "Bah! there is nothing to be made of her; let us continue;" and she was glad they left her alone that first evening, for she was not in the mood for talking.

[1] Public school.

CHAPTER VI.

THE REVOLT OF TWO.

The days that followed were not as pleasant to Barbara as those she had spent in Paris, for though St. Malo, just across the river, fascinated her, she did not care much for St. Servant, and the people did not prove congenial to her--especially Mademoiselle Therese. Though she seemed to be a clever teacher, Barbara could never be sure that she was speaking the truth, and in writing home she described her as "rather a humbug."

"Most English people," she told Barbara shortly after her arrival, "p.r.o.nounce French badly because their mouths are shaped differently from ours, but _yours_, Miss Britton, is just right, therefore your accent is already wonderfully good."

The girl laughed; the family had never been in the habit of flattering one another, and she did not appreciate it as much as Mademoiselle Therese had meant she should. Indeed, Barbara wished that the lady would be less suave to her and more uniform in temper towards the rest of the household, who sometimes, she shrewdly surmised, suffered considerably from the younger sister's irascibility.

She had just been in St. Servan ten days, when she had an example of what she described in a letter home as a "stage quarrel" between the Mademoiselles Loire. It began at second _dejeuner_ over some trivial point in the education of Marie, about whom they were very apt to be jealous. Their voices gradually rose higher and higher, the remarks made being anything but complimentary, till finally Mademoiselle Loire leaped from her seat, saying she would not stay there to be insulted, and darted upstairs. Her sister promptly followed, continuing her argument as she went, but arriving too late at the study door, which was bolted on the inside by the fugitive.

After various fruitless attempts to make herself heard, Mademoiselle Therese returned to the dining-room, and after a few words of politeness to Barbara, began once more on the subject of dispute, this time with Marie, her niece. Apparently the latter took a leaf out of her aunt's book, for after speaking noisily for a few minutes, she said _she_ would not be insulted either, and followed her upstairs.

Thereupon Mademoiselle Therese's anger knew no bounds, and finding that Marie had taken refuge beside her aunt in the study, she began to beat a lively tattoo upon the door.

The two boys, full of curiosity, followed to see what was going on, so Barbara was left in solitary grandeur, with the ruins of an omelette before her, and she, "having hunger," went on stolidly with her meal.

She was, in truth, a little disgusted with the whole affair, and was not sorry to escape to her room before Mademoiselle Therese returned.

They were making such a noise below that it was useless to attempt to do any work, and she was just thinking of going out for a walk, when her door burst open and in rushed Mademoiselle Loire, dragging Marie with her.

"Keep her with you," she panted; "she says she will kill my sister.

Keep her with you while I go down and argue with Therese."

Barbara looked sharply at the girl, and it seemed to her that though she kept murmuring, "I'll kill her I--I'll kill her!" half her anger was merely a.s.sumed, and that there was no necessity for alarm.

"How can they be so silly and theatrical?" she muttered. Then, glancing round the room to see if there were anything she could give her, she noticed a bottle of Eno's Fruit Salts, and her eyes twinkled.

It was not exactly the same thing as sal volatile, of course, but at any rate it would keep the girl quiet, so, pouring out a large gla.s.sful, she bade Marie drink it. The latter obeyed meekly, and for some time was reduced to silence by want of breath.

"I shall certainly throw myself into the sea," she gasped at last.

"Well, you will certainly be more foolish than I thought you were, if you do," Barbara returned calmly. "Indeed, I can't think what all this fuss is about."

Marie stared. "Why, it's to show Aunt Therese that she must not tyrannise over us like that," she said. "I told her I was going to throw myself into the sea, and as she believes it, it is almost the same thing."

Barbara shrugged her shoulders.

"A very comfortable way of doing things in cold weather," she remarked; "but I want a little quiet now, and I think you had better have some too."

The French girl, somewhat overawed by the other's coolness, relapsed into silence, and when the sounds downstairs seemed quieter Barbara got up, and said she was going out for a walk. She found on descending, however, that the "argument" had only been transferred to mademoiselle's workroom, where a very funny sight met her eyes when she looked in.

The poor little widower, whom apparently the two sisters had fetched to arbitrate between them, stood looking fearfully embarra.s.sed in the middle of the room, turning apologetically from one to the other. He never got any further than the first few words, however, as they brought a torrent of explanation from both his hearers, each giving him dozens of reasons why the other was wrong.

Marie, who watched for a moment or two, could not help joining in; and Barbara, very tired of it all, left them to fight it out by themselves, and went away by the winding streets to the look-out station, where she sat down and watched the sun s.h.i.+ning on the beautiful old walls of St.

Malo. She had only been once in that town with Mademoiselle Therese, but the ramparts and the old houses had fascinated her, and if she had been allowed, she would have crossed the little moving bridge daily.

When she returned, the house seemed quiet again, for which she was very thankful, and, mounting to her room, she prepared the French lesson which was usually given her at that time.

But when Mademoiselle Therese came up, she spent most of the time in bewailing the ingrat.i.tude of one's fellow mortals, especially near relations, and wondering if Marie were really going to drown herself, and when her sister would unlock her door and come out of the room.