It was not very definitely known what Mademoiselle Brun taught in the School of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart in the Rue1 du Cherche-Midi in Paris. For it is to be feared that Mademoiselle Brun knew nothing except the world; and it is precisely2 that form of knowledge which is least cultivated in a convent school.
“She has had a romance,” whispered her bright-eyed charges, and lapsed4 into suppressed giggles5 at the mere6 mention of such a word in connection with a little woman dressed in rusty7 black, with thin grey hair, a thin grey face, and a yellow neck.
It would seem, however, that there is a point where even a mother-superior must come down, as it were, into the market-place and meet the world. That point is where the convent purse rattles8 thinly and the mother-superior must face hunger. It had, in fact, been intimated to the conductors of the School of the Sisterhood of the Sacred Heart by the ladies of the quarter of St. Germain, that the convent teaching taught too little of one world and too much of another. And the mother-superior, being a sensible woman, agreed to engage a certain number of teachers from the outer world. Mademoiselle Brun was vaguely9 entitled an instructress, while Mademoiselle Denise Lange bore the proud title of mathematical mistress.
Mademoiselle Brun, with her compressed mouth, her wrinkled face, and her cold hazel eyes, accepted the situation, as we have to accept most situations in this world, merely because there is no choice.
“What can you teach?” asked the soft-eyed mother-superior.
“She has had a romance,” whispered some wag of fourteen, when Mademoiselle Brun first appeared in the schoolroom; and that became the accepted legend regarding her.
“What are you saying of me?” she asked one day, when her rather sudden appearance caused silence at a moment when silence was not compulsory11.
“That you once had a romance, mademoiselle,” answered some daring girl.
“Ah!”
And perhaps the dusky wrinkles lapsed into gentler lines, for some one had the audacity12 to touch mademoiselle's hand with a birdlike tap of one finger.
“And you must tell it to us.”
For there were no nuns13 present, and mademoiselle was suspected of having a fine contempt for the most stringent14 of the convent laws.
“No.”
“But why not, mademoiselle?”
“Because the real romances are never told,” replied Mademoiselle Brun.
But that was only her way, perhaps, of concealing15 the fact that there was nothing to tell. She spoke16 in a low voice, for her class shared the long schoolroom this afternoon with the mathematical class. The room did not lend itself to description, for it had bare walls and two long windows looking down disconsolately17 upon a courtyard, where a grey cat sunned herself in the daytime and bewailed her lot at night. Who, indeed, would be a convent cat?
At the far end of the long room Mademoiselle Denise Lange was superintending, with an earnest face, the studies of five young ladies. It was only necessary to look at the respective heads of the pupils to conclude that these young persons were engaged in mathematical problems, for there is nothing so discomposing to the hair as arithmetic. Mademoiselle Lange herself seemed no more capable of steering18 a course through a double equation than her pupils, for she was young and pretty, with laughing lips and fair hair, now somewhat ruffled19 by her calculations. When, however, she looked up, it might have been perceived that her glance was clear and penetrating20.
There was no more popular person in the Convent of the Sacred Heart than Denise Lange, and in no walk of life is personal attractiveness so much appreciated as in a girls' school. It is only later in life that ces demoiselles begin to find that their neighbour's beauty is but skin-deep. The nuns—“fond fools,” Mademoiselle Brun called them—concluded that because Denise was pretty she must be good. The girls loved Denise with a wild and exceedingly ephemeral affection, because she was little more than a girl herself, and was, like themselves, liable to moments of deep arithmetical despondency. Mademoiselle Brun admitted that she was fond of Denise because she was her second cousin, and that was all.
When worldly mammas, essentially21 of the second empire, who perhaps had doubts respecting a purely22 conventional education, made inquiries23 on this subject, the mother-superior, feeling very wicked and worldly, usually made mention of the mathematical mistress, Denise Lange, daughter of the great and good general who was killed at Solferino. And no other word of identification was needed. For some keen-witted artist had painted a great salon24 picture of, not a young paladin, but a fat old soldier, eighteen stone, on his huge charger, with shaking red cheeks and blazing eyes, standing25 in his stirrups, bursting out of his tight tunic26, and roaring to his enfants to follow him to their death.
It was after the battle of Solferino that Mademoiselle Brun had come into Denise Lange's life, taking her from her convent school to live in a dull little apartment in the Rue des Saints Pères, educating her, dressing27 her, caring for her with a grim affection which never wasted itself in words. How she pinched and saved, and taught herself that she might teach others; how she triumphantly28 made both ends meet,—are secrets which, like Mademoiselle Brun's romance, she would not tell. For French women are not only cleverer and more capable than French men, but they are cleverer and more capable than any other women in the world. History, moreover, will prove this; for nearly all the great women that the world has seen have been produced by France.
Denise and Mademoiselle Brun still lived in the dull little apartment in the Rue des Saints Pères—that narrow street which runs southward from the Quai Voltaire to the Boulevard St. Germain, where the cheap frame-makers, the artists' colourmen, and the dealers29 in old prints have their shops. To the convent school, the old woman and the young girl, walking daily through the streets to their work, brought with them that breath of worldliness which the advance of civilization seemed to render desirable to the curriculum of a girls' school.
“It must be heavenly, mademoiselle, to walk in the streets quite alone,” said one of Mademoiselle Brun's pupils to her one day.
But this afternoon there was no conversation, for the literature class knew that Mademoiselle Brun was in a contrary humour.
“She is looking at that dear Denise with discontented eyes. She is in a shocking temper,” had been the whispered warning from mouth to mouth.
And in truth Mademoiselle Brun constantly glanced down the length of the schoolroom to where Denise was sitting. But a seeing eye could well perceive that it was not with Denise, but with the schoolroom, that the little old woman was discontented. Perhaps she had at times a cruel thought that the Rue des Saints Pères, emphasized as it were by the Rue du Cherche-Midi, was hardly gay for a young life. Perhaps the soft touch of spring that was in the March air stirred up restless longings31 in the soul of this little grey town-mouse.
And while she was watching Denise, the cross-grained old nun who acted as concierge32 to this quiet house came into the room, and handed Denise a long blue envelope.
“It is addressed in a man's handwriting,” she said warningly.
“Then let us by all means send for the tongs,” answered Denise, taking the letter with a mock air of alarm.
But she looked at it curiously33, and glanced towards Mademoiselle Brun before she opened it. It was, perhaps, characteristic of the little old schoolmistress to show no interest whatever. And yet to her it probably seemed an age before Denise came towards her, carrying the letter in her outstretched hand.
“At first,” said the girl, “I thought it was a joke—a trick of one of the girls. But it is serious enough. It is a romance inside a blue envelope—that is all.”
“It is my father's cousin, Mattei Perucca, who has died suddenly, and has left me an estate in Corsica,” she continued, impatiently opening the letter, which Mademoiselle Brun fingered with pessimistic distrust. “See here! that is the address of my estate in Corsica, where I shall invite you to stay with me—I, who stand before you in my old black alpaca, and would borrow a hairpin35 if you can spare it.”
Her hands were busy with her hair as she spoke; and she seemed to touch life and its entanglements36 as lightly. Mademoiselle Brun, however, read the letter very gravely. For she was a wise old Frenchwoman, who knew that it is only bad news which may safely be accepted as true.
The letter, which was accompanied by an enclosure, was from a Marseilles solicitor37, and began by inquiring as to the identity of Mademoiselle Denise Lange, instructress at the convent school in the Rue du Cherche-Midi, with the daughter of the late General Lange, who met his death on the field of Solferino. It then proceeded to explain that Denise Lange had inherited the property known as the Perucca property, in the commune of Calvi, in the Island of Corsica. Followed a schedule of the said property, which included the historic chateau38, known as the Casa Perucca. The solicitor concluded with a word for himself, after the manner of his kind, and clearly demonstrated that no other lawyer was so capable as he to arrange the affairs of Mademoiselle Denise Lange.
“Jean Jacques Moreau,” read Mademoiselle Brun, with some scorn, the signature of the Marseilles notary39. “An imbecile, your Jean Jacques—an imbecile, like his great and mischievous40 namesake. He does not say of what malady41 your second cousin died, or what income the property will yield—if any.”
“But we can ask him those particulars.”
“And pay for each answer,” retorted Mademoiselle Brun, folding the letter reflectively.
She was remembering that a few minutes earlier she had been thinking that their present existence was too narrow for Denise; and now, in the twinkling of an eye, life seemed to be opening out and spreading with a rapidity which only the thoughts of youth could follow and the energy of spring keep pace with.
“Then we will go to Marseilles and ask the questions ourselves, and then he cannot charge for each answer, for I know he could never keep count.”
But Mademoiselle Brun only looked grave, and would not rise to Denise's lighter42 humour. It almost seemed, indeed, as if she were afraid—she who had never known fear through all the years of pinch and struggle, who had faced a world that had no use for her, that would not buy the poor services she had to sell. For to know the worst is always a relief, and to exchange it for something better is like exchanging an old coat for a new one.
“And in the mean time—” said Mademoiselle Brun, turning sharply upon her pupils, who had taken the opportunity of abandoning French literature.
“In the mean time,” said Denise, turning reluctantly away—“in the mean time, I am filling a vat3 of so many cubic metres, from a well so many metres deep, with a pail containing four litres, and of course the pail has a leak in it, and the well becomes deeper as one draws from it, and the Casa Perucca is, I suppose, a dream.”
She went back to her work, and in a few moments was quite absorbed in it. And it was Mademoiselle Brun who could not settle to her French literature, nor compose her thoughts at all. For change is the natural desire of youth, and the belief that it must be for the better, part and parcel of the astounding43 optimism of that state of life.
A few minutes later Denise remembered the enclosure—a letter in a thick white envelope, which was still lying on her desk. She opened it.
“MADEMOISELLE” (the letter ran),
“I think I have the pleasure of addressing the daughter of an old comrade-in-arms, and this must be my excuse for at once approaching my object. I hear by accident that you have inherited from the late Mattei Perucca his small property near Olmeta in Corsica. I knew Mattei Perucca, and the property you inherit is not unknown to one who has had official dealings with landowners in Corsica. I tell you frankly44 that it would be impossible, in the present disturbed state of the island, for you to live at Olmeta, and I ask you as frankly whether you are disposed to sell me your small estate. I have long cherished the scheme of buying a small parcel of land in Corsica for the purpose of showing the natives that agriculture may be made profitable in so fertile an island, by dint45 of industry and a firm and unswerving honesty. The Perucca property would suit my purpose. You may be doing a good action in handing over your tenants46 to one who understands the Corsican nature. I, in addition to relieving the monotony of my present exile at Bastia, may perhaps be inaugurating a happier state of affairs in this most unfortunate country.
“Awaiting your answer, I am, mademoiselle,
“Your obedient servant,
“LOUIS GILBERT (Colonel).”
The school bell rang as Denise finished reading the letter. The class was over.
The girls trooped out into the forlorn courtyard, leaving Mademoiselle Brun and Denise alone in the schoolroom. Mademoiselle Brun read the second letter with a silent concentration. She glanced up when she had finished it.
“Of course you will sell,” she said.
Denise was looking out of the tall closed windows at the few yards of sky that were visible above the roofs. Some fleecy clouds were speeding across the clear ether.
“No,” she answered slowly; “I think I shall go to Corsica. Tell me,” she added, after a pause—“I suppose I have Corsican blood in my veins48?”
“I suppose so,” admitted Mademoiselle Brun, reluctantly.
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1
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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vat
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| n.(=value added tax)增值税，大桶 | |
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lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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5
giggles
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| n.咯咯的笑( giggle的名词复数 )；傻笑；玩笑；the giggles 止不住的格格笑v.咯咯地笑( giggle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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7
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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rattles
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| （使）发出格格的响声， （使）作嘎嘎声( rattle的第三人称单数 )； 喋喋不休地说话； 迅速而嘎嘎作响地移动，堕下或走动； 使紧张，使恐惧 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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compulsory
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| n.强制的，必修的；规定的，义务的 | |
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12
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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13
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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14
stringent
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| adj.严厉的；令人信服的；银根紧的 | |
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15
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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disconsolately
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| adv.悲伤地，愁闷地；哭丧着脸 | |
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steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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25
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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tunic
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| n.束腰外衣 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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28
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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dealers
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| n.商人( dealer的名词复数 )；贩毒者；毒品贩子；发牌者 | |
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gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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concierge
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| n.管理员；门房 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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hairpin
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| n.簪,束发夹，夹发针 | |
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entanglements
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| n.瓜葛( entanglement的名词复数 )；牵连；纠缠；缠住 | |
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solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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38
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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notary
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| n.公证人，公证员 | |
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40
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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41
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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42
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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43
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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44
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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45
dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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46
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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47
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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48
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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