Her eyes were shining, for he had changed. She had thought for a moment that he was going to lay his hands on her shoulders and kiss her.
"Yes please," she said. "Please."
"When will you be ready to leave?"
"Why, now!" she cried.
"I think in a few days' time would be more convenient. You will need time to prepare."
She was smiling, and she spoke as usual without considering. "I believe," she said, "that you were very fond of my father."
He turned away from her sharply; then suddenly he turned his head and said over his shoulder: "What makes you think so?"
"To have cared so much about me . . . whom you didn't know . . . to be so pleased because I am coming to live in your house."
When he turned back to her his face was without expression. "Let us hope," he said, "that everyone will be pleased."
It was impossible to keep the secret. The auberge hummed with it.
"What did I tell you ?" cried Armand, delighted. "Now, Madame, you see that I am a man who can put two and two together."
But Madame was sad. "He will never come to see us again. And we shall lose Melisande too."
"You have grown fond of her," said Armand pensively. "She is a beautiful girl. You should rejoice since she is going to her father's house. She will have silks and satins, a handsome husband and a fine dowry."
"But we shall not see her in her silks and satins. We shall not see the handsome husband; and none of the dowry will be spent at our inn."
Armand was philosophical. "There will be others . . . other gentlemen who come to see their daughters . . . other gentlemen to sit with me and watch the children."
"That would be too much of a coincidence," retorted his wife.
"Indeed no," murmured Armand; "it would be life."
They watched them depart on the coach which would take them to Paris—that incongruous pair; the Englishman with the melancholy expression and the vivacious young girl in her sombre convent clothes.
Madame was openly weeping, and Armand wiped a tear from his eye as he returned to his bottle of wine.
It was not until they were in Paris that Charles changed his identity. Now it was safe, he thought; and he would have to tell her before they reached England.
"I was Charles Adam to the nuns," he said. "But that is not my real name. It is Charles Trevenning."
"Trevenning," she repeated with her French accent. "Is that so then?" How true it was that she spoke first and thought afterwards. "This ... it was a . . ." She struggled for the word. "It was a necessary . . . ?"
"The position was a little difficult. My friends . . . being unable to see to these matters for themselves ..."
"You mean my parents?"
"Yes. And I . . . with a child on my hands."
She nodded. "It was an awkwardness," she said. "A great awkwardness," she repeated, delighted with the word. Her eyes were sparkling. She had read forbidden books. There had been a lady staying at the auberge who had spoken to her and, being interested in her, had given her several books. She had smuggled them into the Convent. One grew tired of PilgrirrCs Progress and the Bible. How enthralling were those books! What excitement to read of the outside world, where there was love, death and birth—all of which, it seemed so often, should never have taken place.
She was not as ignorant as people believed of life outside convents. She saw his point. Her parents had died and left him a baby. That was an awkwardness indeed. There would be scandal—and scandal was a frequent ingredient of the forbidden books. She understood perfectly why he had had to be Charles Adam. "But," she said, speaking her thoughts aloud, "the nuns would never have told."
"It seemed wiser," he said. "Will you remember then that I am Charles Trevenning, Sir Charles Trevenning. There is another matter. You must have noticed that you and I attract some attention. That is because people wonder about our relationship. It might be wiser if at this stage of our journey I call you . . . my daughter."
She nodded vigorously and with delight. "It is an honour," she said. "It pleases me."
He was relieved to find her so intelligent. He was becoming more and more drawn to her with every passing moment.
"And," he went on, "there is the matter of clothes. While we are in Paris we will try to find something more suitable for you."
She was enchanted by the idea of buying new clothes.
It was necessary to stay some days in the French capital, and he was determined to make her presentable before they left; he wished her *o look like an English schoolgirl, who, having been met by her father after completing her stay at a finishing school, was going home.
He was sure that she attracted attention because of her incongruous clothes, because she talked too much, because she was excited by everything she saw. He believed that she would calm
down. But he found that he could not make her into the girl he wished her to be; she was, above all things, herself. He pictured her vaguely in a discreet dress of dark tartan with a little cape about her shoulders; he saw her in a neat bonnet which would help to subdue the brilliance of her eyes.
When they entered the shop he said to the saleswoman in his stiff French: "This is my daughter. I want her to have a discreet outfit."
But he had reckoned without the saleswoman . . . and Melisande. The latter had already seen a beautiful gown with frills and flounces, with a low-cut bodice and leg-of-mutton sleeves. She stood before it, her arms folded across her breast.
"But it is too old for Mademoiselle," said the saleswoman tenderly.
"But it is so beautiful," said Melisande.
The saleswoman laughed understanding^ while Melisande joined in excitedly; and they talked in such rapid French that he could not possibly follow the conversation.
"It is a travelling dress that is wanted," he began.
"Monsieur?"
"A travelling dress ..."
"I want a dress of scarlet!" cried Melisande. "Of scarlet and blue and gold. I want all the brightest colours in the world, because I have lived in a convent and never worn anything but black . . . black . . . black "
"Black is for when you are a little older," said the saleswoman. "Then with those eyes that will be beautiful. Black ... I see it . . . with the bodice cut low and frills and frills of chiffon."
"It is a travelling dress we want," he insisted.
But the saleswoman had taken Melisande away and as he heard the child's excited squeals of laughter and sat on the chair they had provided for him, he thought of Millie Sand at Hampstead and all she had wanted for this girl. Then he could smile at those excited voices. Could Millie see her daughter now? Of course she could. Wasn't it a tenet of his belief that those who passed away could look down on those who were left ? Then she would be looking down and saying: "I knew I could trust him."
He did not notice how the time was passing for he was going over it all again—that long-ago romance of which this girl, who had caused him such acute embarrassment and would cause him more, was the living reminder.
And when at length she came and stood before him he scarcely recognized her.