the days in paris flew past far too quickly for barbara, who enjoyed everything to the full.
as she came to know her aunt better, and got accustomed to her dry manner and rather exact ways, she found her to be a really good companion, not altogether lacking in humour, and having untiring energy in sight-seeing and a keen sympathy with barbara's delight in what was new.
perhaps miss britton, too, was gaining more pleasure from the trip than she had expected, for up till now she had seen her niece only as one a little sobered by responsibility and the constraint of her own presence. whatever the cause, it was certain that during the past fortnight miss britton had felt the days of her youth nearer her than for some time, and it was with mutual regret that they reached the last day of their stay in paris.
they were sitting together on the balcony, with the bees very busy in the lilac-bush near them, and the doves murmuring to each other at the end of the garden. barbara was reading a guide-book on brittany, and miss britton, with her knitting in her hands, was listening to bits the girl read aloud, and watching a little frown grow between the eyebrows. it was curious how the frown between the dark brows reminded her of her dead brother; and after a moment she laid down her knitting.
"you may think it a little unkind, barbara," she began, "that i am not coming with you to see what kind of place it is to which you are going, but i think it is good for a girl to learn to be independent and self-reliant. i made careful inquiries, and the people seem to be very good at teaching french—they used to live in paris—and they are quite respectable. of course, you may not find everything just as you like it, and if it is really unpleasant, you can write me, and i shall arrange for you to return here. but paris would be more distracting for you to live in, and in a week or two far too hot to be pleasant.
"besides, i should like you really to study the language, so that you may profit by your stay in france, as well as enjoy it. if i stayed with you you would never talk french all the time." she stopped a moment, and took a stitch or two in her knitting, then added in a tone quite different from her usual quick, precise way, "your father was a splendidly straight, strong man—in body and mind. try to be like him in every way. he would have wished his eldest daughter to be sensible and courageous."
barbara flushed with pleasure at the praise of her father. she had never heard her aunt mention him before, and she leaned forward eagerly, "thank you, aunt anne—i want to be like him."
she would gladly have kissed her, but the family habit of reserve was strong upon her.
"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 passed 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 passed 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 passing, 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-fashioned 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 ships 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 loiré, rue calvados, was. grinning broadly he bade her step in, and presently they were rolling and bumping along rough cobble-stoned streets. barbara had further imagined, from the description of the house that mademoiselle loiré 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 loiré in?" she inquired of the thin and severe-looking woman with hair parted tightly in the middle.
"i am mademoiselle loiré," 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 loiré 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 thérèse loiré. 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 loirés so that they might go to the lycée[1] in the town. after supper, mademoiselle thérèse explained that they usually went for a walk with the widower and his children who lived next door.
"poor things!" she said, "they knew nobody when they came to the town, and a widower in france is so shut off from companionship 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 thérèse 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 thérèse 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 dashing 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.
