And so, bit by bit, corner by corner, the great house was prepared for the event of the year, and excitement seemed to thicken in the air as Easter drew nearer. Then came the final touches; flowers were carried in from the hot-houses, camellias and lilies and gorgeous blooms I didn't recognise, with tub after tub of bluebells and narcissi and tulips looking cool and virginal among the heavy-scented exotics. In one of the galleries there was even a miniature grove of willows over a shallow basin where goldfish glided, with cyclamens clustering like butterflies at the water's edge. Outside, floodlights had been fitted up, and a fountain like a firework shot its sparkling trails thirty feet towards Saturday's big yellow moon. For on Easter Eve the weather cleared, and Easter itself came in bright and beautiful, with a soft wind blowing that set the wild daffodils dancing in the woods, and put the seal on the success of the affair.
The Chateau Valmy was en fȇte.
On Saturday night after Philippe had gone to bed I put the finishing-touches to my frock. Berthe had stayed to help me, and now paraded it delightedly before me, while I sat on the floor among a scatter of pins and watched her with critical eyes.
“Ye-es," I said. "Turn round again, will you? Thanks. It’ll do, I think, Berthe."
Berthe twirled a curtsy in it, gay and graceful. It was amazing how she had shed her prim servant-maid attitude along with her uniform. In the shimmering dress she looked what she was a pretty country-girl, slim and young and-just now-flushed with excitement.
"It's lovely, miss, it's really lovely." She spun round so that the full skirt swirled and sank. She lifted a fold and fingered it almost wistfully. "You'll look beautiful in it."
"I've an awful feeling it'll look pretty home-made alongside the collection downstairs."
"Don't you believe it," said Berthe stoutly. "I’ve seen some of them; Mariette and me did most of the unpacking. The prettiest frock I think belongs to the Marquise in the yellow guest-room, and she's no oil-painting herself by a long chalk."
"Hush, Berthe," I protested, laughing, "you mustn't say things like that to me!"
She began to waltz round the room, humming a tune. "Of course Madame's always nice. She looks lovely in grande toilette -like a Queen. And that Madame Verlaine gets herself up very smart, doesn't she? Hers is black."
"Is Monsieur Florimond here?"
"Oh, he always comes. He says he wouldn't miss it for worlds. He dresses half the ladies, anyway."
I began to pick up the scattered pins, asking casually: "And Monsieur Raoul? Does he come to this affair as a rule?"
There was a tiny pause. At the edge of my vision I saw Berthe's circling form check and turn. I looked up to catch a sidelong glance before her eyes slid from mine. She plucked at a fold of the skirt. "He hasn't been for years. But they're expecting him-this time."
I said nothing, and picked up pins.
She came over to where I sat, her voice warming into naturalness again. "Why don't you try it on now, miss? Don't bother with those, I'll pick them up after."
"It's done," I said. 'There, that's the lot, I think."
"Don't you believe it," she said darkly. "We'll be finding them for weeks. Go on, miss, put it on, do. I want to see you in it, with the silver shoes and all."
I laughed and got up. "All right."
"It's a shame you haven't got a decent mirror. That one in the wardrobe door's no good at all, not for a long frock."
"It's all right. I told Madame I was making a frock and she said I might use the glass in her room. I'll just go along now and give it the final check-up. Tomorrow night I’ll have to make do in here."
She followed me into my bedroom, speaking a little shyly. "May I help you to dress tomorrow?"
"Why, Berthe, how nice of you! But you'll have so much to do! And I could manage quite well, really. I'm not used to luxuries, you know."
"I'd like to. I would really."
"Then thank you very much. I'd be awfully glad to have you."
Back in her uniform, she helped me pleasedly with the dress. At last I stood surveying myself in the narrow wardrobe mirror.
"Oh, miss, it's lovely!"
"We put a lot of work into it, Berthe. I'm terribly grateful to you for helping. I couldn't have managed without you."
I turned this way and that, eyeing the line and fall of the material, and wondering just how amateurish it was going to look against the other gowns downstairs. Then I saw Berthe's eyes in the glass. They were brilliant with uncomplicated excitement and pleasure. Her delight, it was obvious, wasn't fretted by the shades of Balenciaga and Florimond. "Oh, miss, it's lovely! There won't be one prettier! You'll look a picture! Wait, I'll get the shoes!"
She was scurrying towards a cupboard but I stopped her impulsively. "Berthe…"
She turned.
"Berthe, would you like to wear it too, for your own dance on Tuesday? You've probably got another just as pretty, but if you'd like it-"
"Oh, miss!" Her eyes grew enormous and she gripped her hands together. "Me? Oh, but I couldn't…Could I?"
"Why not? You look lovely in it, and it was practically made on you, after all. If you'd really like it, Berthe, I'd be terribly pleased for you to take it I don't suppose anyone'll recognise it.”
"No, they won't," she said ingenuously. "It'll be hired waiters here tomorrow, and Ber-the servants won't be about. If-if you really mean it-" She began to thank me again, but I said quickly:
"Then that's settled. Fine. Now I'll better fly if I'm to get to that looking-glass before Madame comes upstairs."
Berthe dived once more for the cupboard. "Your shoes! Put on your new shoes with it! "
"No, no, don't bother," I said hastily, making for the door, “I must run. Thanks again, Berthe! Goodnight!"
Madame de Valmy's bedroom adjoined a small sitting-room which she used in the mornings. I went through, leaving the connecting-door ajar.
Her bedroom was a beautiful room, all soft lights and brocade and elegant Louis Seize, with a positively fabulous glitter of silver and crystal on the toilet-table. An enormous Venetian mirror flanked the bathroom door, apparently held to the silk panelling by the efforts of the whole cherub choir.
I stood in front of this. The long window-curtains mirrored behind me were of rose-coloured brocade. The lighting was lovely. As I moved I saw the gleam of the cobwebbed silver thread shift and glimmer through the white cloud of the skirt the way sunlight flies along blown gossamer.
I remember that the thought that surfaced first in my mind was that now Cinderella had no excuse to stay away from the ball. And-at midnight?
Impatiently I shook my thoughts free, angry that I could still fool around even for a moment with the myth that I knew was nonsense. I'd burned myself badly enough on that star already.