Valerie

“Annette Gironac.”

We went to town earlier than usual, Madame Bathurst feeling lonely in the country after the departure of Caroline, from whom she had not received a line since her quitting her. This of course was to be ascribed to her parents, who thus returned all Madame Bathurst’s kindness, as soon as they no longer required her assistance. I know not how it was, but gradually a sort of coolness had arisen between Madame Bathurst and me. Whether it was that she was displeased at my refusing her offer to remain with her, or thought proper to wean herself from one who was so soon to quit her, I know not. I did nothing to give offence: I was more quiet and subdued, perhaps, than before, because I had become more reflective; but I could not accuse myself of any fault or error, that I was aware of.

We had been about a week in London, when an old acquaintance of Madame Bathurst’s, who had just returned from Italy, where she had resided for two years, called upon her. Her name was Lady R—: she was the widow of a baronet, not in very opulent circumstances, although with a sufficiency to hire, if not keep, a carriage. She was, moreover, an authoress, having written two or three novels, not very good I was told, but still, emanating from the pen of a lady, they were well paid. She was very eccentric, and rather amusing. When a woman says everything that comes into her head, out of a great deal of chaff there will drop some few grains of wheat; and so sometimes, more by accident than otherwise, she said what is called a good thing. Now, a good thing is repeated, while all the nonsense is forgotten; and Lady R— was considered a wit as well as an authoress. She was a tall woman; I should think very near, if not past, fifty years of age, with the remains of beauty in her countenance: apparently, she was strong and healthy, as she walked with a spring, and was lively and quick in all her motions.

“Cara mia,” exclaimed she, as she was announced, running up to Madame Bathurst, “and how have you been all this while—my biennial absence in the land of poetry—in which I have laid up such stores of beauteous images and ideas in my mind, that I shall make them last me during my life. Have you read my last? It’s surprising, every one says, and proves the effect of climate on composition—quite new—an Italian story of thrilling interest. And you have something new here, I perceive,” continued she, turning to me; “not only new, but beautiful—introduce me: I am an enthusiast in the sublime and beautiful. Is she any relation? No relation!—Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf!—what a pretty name for a novel. I should like to borrow it, and paint the original from nature. Will you sit for your likeness?”

That Lady R— allowed no one to talk but herself was evident. Madame Bathurst, who knew her well, allowed her to run on; and I, not much valuing the dose of flattery so unceremoniously bestowed upon me, took an opportunity, when Lady R— turned round to whisper something to Madame Bathurst, to make my escape from the room. The following morning, Madame Bathurst said to me, “Valerie, Lady R— was very much pleased with your appearance when she made her visit yesterday; and as she told me, after you had left the room, that she wanted just such a person as yourself as a companion and amanuensis, I thought it right to say that you were looking out for something of the kind, and that you were remaining under my protection until you could procure it. We had more conversation on the subject, and she said before she left, that she would write to me on the subject. Her note has just been put into my hands; you can read it. She offers you a salary of one hundred pounds per annum, all your expenses paid, except your dress. As far as salary goes, I think her terms liberal. And now, as to Lady R—. My opinion of her is in few words. You saw her yesterday, and I never knew her otherwise; never more or less rational. She is an oddity; but she is good-natured; and, I am told, more liberal and charitable than many others who can afford it better. Now you know all I can tell you about her, and you must decide for yourself. Here is her note; you need not give me an answer till to-morrow morning.”

I made one or two observations, and then left the room. The note was very kind, certainly, but it was as flighty as her manners. I hastened to my own bedchamber, and sat down to reflect. I felt that I was not exactly comfortable with Madame Bathurst, and certainly was anxious to be independent; but still, I could not exactly make up my mind to accept the offer of Lady R—. She was so different from those I had been accustomed to live with. I was still deliberating, when Mrs Bathurst’s maid came into my room, telling me it was time to change my dress for dinner. As she was assisting me, she said, “And so, Miss Chatenoeuf, you are about to quit us, I find. I am so sorry—first, Miss Caroline—now you. I hoped you would stay with us, and I should soon have become an expert milliner under your directions.”

“Who told you, Mason, that I was going to leave you?”

“Mrs Bathurst told me so, and not a quarter of an hour ago,” replied the woman.

“Well,” replied I, “she told you truly, Mason; such is the case;” for this information of Mason’s decided me upon accepting the offer of Lady R—; for Madame Bathurst, it appeared to me, had certainly decided it for me, by making such a premature communication to her servant.

The reader may suppose, that when I made this discovery, I felt little pain at the idea of parting with Madame Bathurst; and the following morning I coolly announced my intention of accepting the offer of Lady R—. Madame Bathurst looked at me very hard, as if surprised at not hearing from me any regrets at leaving her, and expressions of gratitude for all favours; but I could not express what I really did not feel at the time. Afterwards I thought that I had been wrong, as, to a certain degree, I was under obligations to her; not that I think, had she been ever so inclined to get rid of me, she could have well turned me out of the house, although I had been foisted upon her in such a way by Madame d’Albret. Still I was under obligations to her, and should have expressed myself so, if it had not been for the communication made to me by the maid, which proved that her expressions to me were not sincere.

“Well, then,” replied Madame Bathurst, at last, “I will write to Lady R— immediately. I presume I may say that you are at her commands as soon as she can receive you.”

“Yes, madame, at an hour’s notice,” replied I.

“You really appear as if you were anxious to quit me, mademoiselle,” said Madame Bathurst, biting her lip.

“I certainly am,” replied I. “You informed Mason that I was to go, previous to having my decision; and therefore I gladly withdraw myself from the company of those who have made up their minds to get rid of me.”

“I certainly did tell Mason that there was a prospect of your quitting me,” replied Madame Bathurst, colouring up; “but—however, it’s no use entering into an investigation of what I really said, or catechising my maid: one thing is clear, we have been mutually disappointed with each other, and therefore it perhaps is better that we should part. I believe that I am in your debt, Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf. Have you reckoned how long you have been with me?”

“I have reckoned the time that I instructed Caroline.”

“Miss Caroline, if you please, Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf.”

“Well, then, madame, Miss Caroline, since you wish it; it is five months and two weeks,” replied I, rising from my chair.

“You may sit down, mademoiselle, while I make the calculation,” said Madame Bathurst.

“It is too great an honour for a Chatenoeuf to sit in your presence,” replied I, quietly, remaining on my feet.

Madame Bathurst made no reply, but calculating the sum of money due to me on a sheet of note paper, handed it to me and begged me to see if it was correct.

“I have no doubt of it, madame,” replied I, looking at it and then laying it down on the desk before her.

Madame Bathurst put the sum in bank-notes and sovereigns down before me, and said, “Do me the favour to count it, and see if it is correct;” and then rising, said, “your wishes will be complied with by my servants as usual, mademoiselle, as long as you remain under my roof. I wish you farewell.”

The last words were accompanied with a low courtesy, and she then quitted the room.

I replied with a salute as formal as her own, and mortified at the treatment I had received, I sat down, and a few tears escaped, but my pride came to my assistance, and I soon recovered myself.

This scene was, however, another proof to me of what I must in future expect; and it had the effect of hardening me and blunting my feelings. “Miss Caroline!” said I to myself, “when the protégée of Madame d’Albret, and the visitor of Madame Bathurst, it was Caroline and dear Valerie. She might have allowed me to quit her without pointing out to me in so marked a manner how our relative positions have been changed. However, I thank you, Madame Bathurst; what obligations I may have been under to you are now cancelled, and I need not regret the weight of them as I might have done. Ah! Madame d’Albret, you took me from my home that I might not be buffeted by my mother, and now you have abandoned me to be buffeted by the whole world; well, be it so, I will fight my way, nevertheless;” and as I left the room to pack up my trunks, I felt my courage rise from this very attempt on the part of Madame Bathurst to humiliate me.

The letter of Madame Bathurst to Lady R—, brought the latter to the house that afternoon. I was up in my room when I was informed by the servants that she waited below to see me. When I entered she was alone, Madame Bathurst having gone out in her carriage, and as soon as she saw me, she rushed into my arms almost, taking me by both hands, and saying how happy she was that she had acquired such a treasure as a friend and companion; wished to know whether I could not come with her immediately, as her carriage was at the door, and went on for nearly ten minutes without a check, asking fifty questions, and not permitting me to answer one. At last I was able to reply to the most important, which was, that I would be happy to come to her on the following morning, if she would send for me. She insisted that I should come to breakfast, and I acceded to her request, as Madame Bathurst, who was not an early riser, would not be down at the hour mentioned, and I wished to leave the house without seeing her again, after our formal adieux. Having arranged this, she appeared to be in a great hurry to be off, and skipped out of the room before I could ring the bell to order her carriage.

I completed my preparations for departure, and had some dinner brought into my own room, sending down an excuse for not joining Madame Bathurst, stating that I had a bad headache, which was true enough. The next morning, long before Madame Bathurst was up, I was driven to Baker Street, Portman Square, where Lady R— resided. I found her ladyship in her robe de chambre.

“Well,” said she, “this is delightful. My wishes are crowned at last. I have passed a night of uncertainty, rolling about between hopes and fears, as people always do when they have so much at stake. Let me show you your room.”

I found a very well-furnished apartment prepared for me, looking out upon the street.

“See, you have a front view,” she said, “not extensive, but still you can rise early and moralise. You can see London wake up. First, the drowsy policeman; the tired cabman and more tired horse after a night of motion, seeking the stable and repose; the housemaid, half awake, dragging on her clothes; the kitchen-wench washing from the steps the dirt of yesterday; the milkmaid’s falsetto and the dustman’s bass; the baker’s boys, the early post delivery, and thus from units to tens, and from tens to tens of thousands, and London stirs again. There is poetry in that, and now let us down to breakfast. I always breakfast in my robe de chambre; you must do the same, that is if you like the fashion. Where’s the page?”

Lady R— rang the bell of the sitting-room, which she called a boudoir, and a lad of fourteen, in a blue blouse and leather belt made his appearance.

“Lionel, breakfast in a moment. Vanish, before the leviathan can swim a league—bring up hot rolls and butter.”

“Yes, my lady,” replied the lad, pertly, “I’ll be up again before the chap can swim a hundred yards,” and he shot out of the room in a second.

“There’s virtue in that boy, he has wit enough for a prime minister or a clown at Astley’s. I picked him up by a mere chance; he is one of my models.”

What her ladyship meant by models I could not imagine, but I soon found out; the return of the lad with breakfast put an end to her talking for the time being. When we had finished, the page was again summoned.

“Now then, Lionel, do your spiriting gently.”

“I know,” said the boy, “I’m not to smash the cups and saucers as I did yesterday.”

The lad collected the breakfast things on a tray with great rapidity, and disappeared with such a sudden turn round, that I fully anticipated he would add to yesterday’s damage before he was down the stairs.

As soon as he was gone, Lady R— coming up to me, said, “And now let me have a good look at you, and then I shall be content for some time. Yes, I was not mistaken, you are a perfect model, and must be my future heroine. Yours is just the beauty that I required. There, that will do, now sit down and let us converse. I often have wanted a companion. As for an amanuensis that is only a nominal task, I write as fast as most people, and I cannot follow my ideas, let me scribble for life, as I may say; and as for my writing being illegible, that’s the compositor’s concern not mine. It’s his business to make it out, and therefore I never have mine copied. But I wanted a beautiful companion and friend—I wouldn’t have an ugly one for the world, she would do me as much harm as you will do me service.”

“I am sure I hardly know how I am to do you service, Lady R—, if I do not write for you.”

“I daresay not, but when I tell you that I am more than repaid by looking at you when I feel inclined, you will acknowledge that you do me service; but we will not enter into metaphysics or psychological questions just now, it shall all be explained by-and-bye. And now the first service I ask of you is at once to leap over the dull fortnight of gradual approaching, which at last ends in intimacy. I have ever held it to be a proof of the suspiciousness of our natures and unworthy. You must allow me to call you Valerie at once, and I must entreat of you to call me Sempronia. Your name is delightful, fit for a first-class heroine. My real baptismal name is one that I have abjured, and if my godfathers and godmothers did give it to me, I throw it back to them with contempt. What do you think it was?—Barbara. Barbara, indeed. ‘My mother had a maid called Barbara,’ Shakespeare says, and such a name should be associated with brooms and yellow soap. Call me Sempronia from this time forward, and you confer a favour on me. And now I must write a little, so take a book and a seat on the sofa, for, at the opening of this chapter my heroine is exactly in that position, ‘in maiden meditation, fancy free.’”

Chapter Seven

Lady R— sat down before her writing materials, and I took my seat on the sofa, as she had requested, and was soon occupied with my reading. I perceived that, as she wrote, her ladyship continually took her eyes off her paper, and fixed them upon me. I presumed that she was describing me, and I was correct in my idea, for, in about half-an-hour, she threw down her pen, and cried:

“There, I am indebted to you for the best picture of a heroine that I ever drew! Listen.”

And her ladyship read to me a most flattering description of my sweet person, couched in very high-flown language.

“I think, Lady R—,” said I, when she had finished, “that you are more indebted to your own imagination than to reality in drawing my portrait.”

“Not so, not so, my dear Valerie. I may have done you justice, but certainly not more. There is nothing like having the living subject to write from. It is the same as painting or drawing, it only can be true when drawn from nature; in fact, what is writing but painting with the pen?”

As she concluded her sentence, the page, Lionel, came in with a letter on a waiter, and hearing her observation, as he handed the letter, he impudently observed:

“Here’s somebody been painting your name on the outside of this paper; and as there’s 7 pence to pay, I think it’s rather dear for such a smudge.”

“You must not judge from outside appearance, Lionel,” replied Lady R—: “the contents may be worth pounds. It is not prepossessing, I grant, in its superscription, but may, like the toad, ugly and venomous, wear a precious jewel in its head. That was a vulgar error of former days, Lionel, which Shakespeare has taken advantage of.”

“Yes, that chap painted with a pen at a fine rate,” replied the boy, as Lady R— opened the letter and read it.

“You may go, Lionel,” said she, putting the letter down.

“I just wanted to know, now that you’ve opened your toad, if you have found the jewel, or whether it’s a vulgar error?”

“It’s a vulgar letter, at all events, Lionel,” replied her ladyship, “and concerns you; it is from the shoemaker at Brighton, who requests me to pay him eighteen shillings for a pair of boots ordered by you, and not paid for.”

“Well, my lady, I do owe for the boots, true enough; but it’s impossible for me always to recollect my own affairs, I am so busy with looking after yours.”

“Well, but now you are reminded of them, Lionel, you had better give me the money, and I will send it to him.”

At this moment Lady R— stooped from her chair to pick up her handkerchief. There were some sovereigns lying on the desk, and the lad, winking his eye at me, took one up, and, as Lady R— rose up, held it out to her in silence.

“That’s right, Lionel,” said Lady R—; “I like honesty.”

“Yes, madame,” replied the impudent rogue, very demurely; “like most people who tell their own stories, I was born of honest, but poor parents.”

“I believe your parents were honest; and now, Lionel, to reward you, I shall pay for your boots, and you may keep your sovereign.”

“Thank your ladyship,” replied the lad. “I forgot to say that the cook is outside for orders.”

Lady R— rose, and went out of the room; and Mr Lionel, laughing at me, put the sovereign down with the others.

“Now, I call that real honesty. You saw me borrow it, and now you see me pay it.”

“Yes; but suppose her ladyship had not given you the sovereign, how would it have been then?” said I.

“I should have paid her very honestly,” replied he. “If I wished to cheat her, or rob her, I might do so all day long. She leaves her money about everywhere, and never knows what she has; besides, if I wanted to steal, I should not do so with those bright eyes of yours looking at me all the time.”

“You are a very saucy boy,” replied I, more amused than angry.

“It’s all from reading, and it’s not my fault, for her ladyship makes me read, and I never yet read any book about old times in which the pages were not saucy; but I’ve no time to talk just now—my spoons are not clean yet,” so saying he quitted the room.

I did not know whether I ought to inform her ladyship of this freak of her page’s; but, as the money was returned, I thought I had better say nothing for the present. I soon found out that the lad was correct in asserting that she was careless of her money, and that, if he chose, he might pilfer without chance of discovery; and, moreover, that he really was a good and honest lad, only full of mischief and very impudent; owing, however, to Lady R—’s treatment of him, for she rather encouraged his impudence than otherwise. He was certainly a very clever, witty boy, and a very quick servant; so quick, indeed, at his work, that it almost appeared as if he never had anything to do, and he had plenty of time for reading, which he was very fond of.

Lady R— returned, and resumed her writing.

“You sing, do you not? I think Mrs Bathurst told me you were very harmonious. Now, Valerie, do me a favour: I want to hear a voice carolling some melodious ditty. I shall describe it so much better, if I really heard you sing. I do like reality; of course, you must sing without music, for my country girl cannot be crossing the mead with a piano in one hand, and a pail of water in the other.”

“I should think not,” replied I, laughing; “but am not I too near?”

“Yes, rather; I should prefer it on the stairs, or on the first floor landing, but I could not be so rude as to send you out of the room.”

“But I will go without sending,” replied I; and I did so, and having arrived at my station, I sang a little French refrain, which I thought would answer her ladyship’s purpose. On my return her ladyship was writing furiously, and did not appear to notice my entrance. I took my seat quietly, and in about ten minutes she again threw down the pen, exclaiming:

“I never wrote so effective a chapter! Valerie, you are more precious to me than fine gold; and as Shylock said of his ring, ‘I would not change thee for a wilderness of monkeys.’ I make the quotation as expressive of your value. It was so kind-hearted of you to comply with my wish. You don’t know an author’s feelings. You have no idea how our self-love is flattered by success, and that we value a good passage in our works more than anything else in existence. Now, you have so kindly administered to my ruling passion twice in one morning, that I love you exceedingly. I daresay you think me very odd, and people say that I am so; I may ask you to do many odd things for me, but I shall never ask you to do what a lady may not do, or what would be incorrect for you to do, or for me to propose; that you may depend upon, Valerie: and now I close my manuscript for the present, being well satisfied with the day’s work.”

Lady R— rang the bell, and on Lionel making his appearance, she desired him to take away her writing materials, put her money into her purse—if he knew where the purse was—and then asked him what were her engagements for the evening.

“I know we have an engagement,” replied the boy; “I can’t recollect it, but I shall find it in the drawing-room.”

He went out, and in a minute returned.

“I have found it, my lady,” said he. “Here’s the ticket; Mrs Allwood, at home, nine o’clock.”

“Mrs Allwood, my dear Valerie, is a literary lady, and her parties are very agreeable.”

The page looked at me from behind Lady R—’s chair, and shook his head in dissent.

“Shall we go?” continued Lady R—.

“If you please, madame,” replied I.

“Well, then, we will take a drive before dinner, and the evening after dinner shall be dedicated to the feast of reason and the flow of soul. Dear me, how I have inked my fingers, I must go upstairs and wash them.”

As soon as Lady R— left the room, Master Lionel began.

“Feast of reason and flow of soul; I don’t like such entertainment. Give me a good supper and plenty of champagne.”

“Why, what matter can it make to you?” said I, laughing.

“It matters a good deal. I object to literary parties,” replied he. “In the first place, for one respectable carriage driving up to the door, there are twenty cabs and jarveys, so that the company isn’t so good; and then at parties, when there is a good supper, I get my share of it in the kitchen. You don’t think we are idle down below. I have been to Mrs Allwood’s twice, and there’s no supper, nothing but feast of reason, which remains upstairs, and they’re welcome to my share of it. As for the drink, it’s negus and cherry-water; nothing else, and if the flow of soul is not better than such stuff, they may have my share of that also. No music, no dancing, nothing but buzz, buzz, buzz. Won’t you feel it stupid!”

“Why, one would think you had been upstairs instead of down, Lionel.”

“Of course I am. They press all who have liveries into the service, and I hand the cakes about rather than kick for hours at the legs of the kitchen-table. I hear all that’s said just as well as the company, and I’ve often thought I could have given a better answer than I’ve heard some of your great literaries. When I hand the cakes to-night, take them I point out to you: they’ll be the best.”