Désirée (5 page)

He laughed. "You needn't be surprised. I might tell you that the eyes of the law see everything and that I, as an official of the Republic, am one of those many eyes. But I'll be honest, mademoiselle, and admit that you yourself told me. You said you were Etienne Clary's sister, and I learned from he documents that Etienne Clary is the son of the late François Clary."

He spoke quickly, and when he does that he is liable to roll his r´s like a real foreigner. But, after all, he is a Corsican.

By the way, mademoiselle," he said suddenly, "you were right. Your brother's arrest was indeed due to a misunderstanding. The warrant for the arrest was actually made out in your father's name-François Clary.

" But Papa is no longer alive!"

"Quite so, and that explains the misunderstanding. It's all down in your brother's file. Recently an examination of certain pre-Revolution documents revealed that the silk merchant François Clary had petitioned to be granted a patent of nobility."

I was astonished. "Really? We knew nothing about that. And I don't understand it. Papa never had any liking for the aristocracy. Why should he have done that?"

"For business reasons," Citizen Buonaparte explained, "only for business reasons. I suppose he wanted to be appointed Purveyor to the Court?"

"Yes, and once he sent some blue silk velvet to the Queen at Versailles—to the Widow Capet, I mean. Papa's silks were famous for their excellent quality," I added proudly.

"His petition was regarded as—well, let us say as entirely unsuited to the times. That's why a warrant for his arrested issued. And when our people went to his address they found only the silk merchant Etienne Clary, and so they arrested him."

"I'm sure that Etienne knew nothing about that petition," I declared.

"I assume that your sister-in-law Suzanne convinced Deputy Albitte of her husband's innocence. That is why your brother was released. Your sister-in-law must have hurried to the prison at once to fetch him. But all that is over and done with. What interests me," he continued, and his voice was soft, almost tender, "what interests me is not your family mademoiselle, but you yourself, little citizeness. What is your name?"

"My name is Bernardine Eugénie Désirée. They call me Eugénie. But I should much prefer Désirée."

"All your names are beautiful. And what shall I call you Mlle Bernardine Eugénie Désirée?"

I felt myself blushing. Thank goodness it was dark, and he could not see my face. I had a feeling that the conversation was taking a turn which Mama would not have approved.

"Call me Eugénie. as everyone else does. But you must come to see us, and in front of Mama I'll suggest that you call
me by my Christian name. Then there won't be a row, because I believe that if Mama knew—"

I stopped short.

"Are you never allowed to take a walk with a young man?" he inquired.

"I don't know. So far, I've never known any young man," I said without thinking. I had completely forgotten Persson.

He pressed my arm again and laughed. "But now you know one—Eugénie.!"

"When will you call on us?" I asked.

"Shall I come soon?" he rejoined, teasing.

But I did not answer at once. I was full of an idea that had occurred to me a little earlier—Julie! Julie, who so loves reading novels, would adore this young man with the strange foreign accent.

"Well, what is your answer, Mlle Eugénie.?"

"Come tomorrow," I said, "tomorrow after the shop has been closed for the day. If it is warm enough we can sit in the garden. We have a little summer house—it's Julie's favourite spot in the garden." I considered that I had been extremely diplomatic.

Julie? So far I have only heard about Suzanne and Etienne, not Julie. Who is Julie?"

We had already reached our road, and I had to talk quickly. "Julie is my sister," I said.

"Older or younger?" He sounded keenly interested.

"Older. She is eighteen."

"And-pretty?"

"Very pretty," I assured him eagerly, but then I wondered whether Julie would really be considered pretty. It is so difficult to judge one's own sister.

"You swear it?"

" She has lovely brown eyes," I declared, and so she has.

"Are you sure your mother would welcome me?" he asked with diffidence. He did not seem at all certain that Mama would be glad to see him, and, quite frankly, I wasn't sure either.

"I am sure she would welcome you," I insisted, determined
to give Julie her chance. Besides, there was something I wanted myself. "Do you think you could bring your brother, the General?" I asked.

Now M. Buonapat was quite eager. "Of course. He would be delighted, we have so few acquaintances in Marseilles."

"You see, I've never seen a real general close up," I confessed.

"Well, then you can see one tomorrow. True, at the moment he has no command, he is working out some scheme or other. Still, he is a real general."

I tried in vain to imagine what a real general would be like. I was sure that I had never met a general, and, as a matter of fact, I had not seen one even at a distance. And the pictures of the old generals in the days of the
Roi
Soleil
are all of old gentlemen with huge wigs. After the Revolution, Mama took down those portraits, which had been in the parlour, and stored them in the attic.

"There must be a great difference in age between you and your brother," I said, for M. Bunapat seemed very young.

"No, not much difference. About a year."

"What?" I exclaimed. "Your brother is only a year older than you, and a general?"

"No, a year younger. My brother is only twenty-four. But he is aggressive, and full of astonishing ideas. Well, you'll see him tomorrow yourself."

Our house was now in sight. Lights shone from the groundfloor windows. No doubt the family had been at supper for some time.

"That is where I live, in that white house."

Suddenly M. Bunapat's manner changed. When he saw the attractive white house he was less sure of himself, and quickly said good-by. "I mustn't keep you, Mlle Eugénie. I'm sure your family is anxious about you. Oh, no, don't thank me. No trouble at all. It was a great pleasure to escort you, and, if you really meant it, I shall take the liberty of calling tomorrow in the late afternoon, with my young brother. That is, if your mother does not object, and we would not be disturbing you."

At that moment the house door was opened, and Julie's
voice pierced the darkness. "There she is, by the garden gate!" Then she called out impatiently, "Eugénie, is that you, Eugénie?"

"I'm coming in a moment, Julie," I called back.

"Au revoir, mademoiselle," M. Bunapat said as I ran up to the house.

Five minutes later I was informed that I was a disgrace to the family.

Mama, Suzanne, and Etienne were at the dining table; the meal was over and they were having coffee when Julie brought me in in triumph. "Here she is!"

"Thank God," Mama said. "Where were you, my child?"

I glanced at Suzanne reproachfully. "Suzanne forgot all about me," I informed them. "I went to sleep and—"

Suzanne was holding her coffeecup in her right hand, and w
ith her left she was clinging to Etienne's hand. She put down her cup indignantly. "Well, I never! First she went so sound asleep in the Town Hall that I couldn't arouse her, and I had to see Albitte alone. I couldn't keep him waiting until Mlle Eugénie condescended to wake up. And now she dares—"

"When you left Albitte I think you must have hurried to he prison and forgotten all about me!" I said. "But I'm not cross with you, really."

'But where have you been all this time?" Mama asked a
nxiously. "We sent Marie to the Town Hall, but the buildi
ng was closed and the porter said that there was no one there e
xcept Albitte's secretary. Marie came back half an hour ago. G
reat heavens, Eugénie, to think that you walked through t
he town alone, at this late hour. When I think what might h
ave happened to you!"

Mama took up the little silver bell which always stands at her place and rang it vigorously. "Bring the child her soup, Marie!"

"But I did not walk through the town alone," I said. "Albitte's secretary accompanied me."

Marie put down the soup in front of me. But before I could get the spoon to my mouth Suzanne burst out, "The secretary?
That rude fellow who stood guard outside the door and called out the names?"

"No, he was only a guard. Albitte's real secretary is a very nice young man who knows Robespierre personally. At least he says he does. By the way, I have . . ."

But they would not let me finish. Etienne, who had not been able to shave in prison but otherwise was quite unchanged, interrupted me. "What is his name?"

"A complicated name. Hard to remember, Boonapat I something like that. A Corsican. By the way, I have ..."

Again they would not let me finish.

"And you walked about the town alone with this strange Jacobin in the evening?" Etienne shouted at me. He imagined that he was taking Papa's place.

Some families are quite incapable of logical thinking. First they had fussed because they thought I had walked home alone, and now they were outraged because I had not been alone, but instead had had excellent male protection.

"He is not a complete stranger; he introduced himself to me. His family live in Marseilles. They are refugees from Corsica. By the way, I have . . ."

"Have your soup before you go on, or it will be cold," said Mama.

"Refugees from Corsica?" said Etienne contemptuous "Probably adventurers who were involved in political intrigues at home, and are trying their luck under the protection of the Jacobins. Adventurers, nothing but adventurers!"

I put down my spoon to defend my new friend. "I think he has a very respectable family," I said. "And his brother is a general. By the way, I have . . ."

"What is his brother's name?"

"I don't know, I suppose it's Bunapat, too. By the way, I ..."

"Never heard the name," Etienne growled. "But then most of the officers of the old regime have been dismissed, there aren't enough young ones, and promotions have been granted
indiscriminately. The new generals have no manners, no knowledge, and no experience!"

"They can all get experience enough. After all we're at war," I interrupted. "By the way, I wanted to say ..."

"Go on with your soup!" Mama insisted.

But I refused to be interrupted again. "I have been trying to say that I have invited them both here tomorrow."

Then I started quickly on my soup, because I knew that they would all be looking at me in horror.

"Whom have you invited, my child?" Mama asked.

"Two young gentlemen. Citizen Joseph Bonpat or whatever his name is, and his young brother, the General." I answered stoutly.
 

"You will have to cancel that invitation." said Etienne, banging the table. "Times are too unsettled to offer hospitality to two escaped Corsican adventurers no one has ever heard of!"

"And it's not proper for you to invite a gentleman you met by chance in a government office. That is not the way to behave. You are no longer a child, Eugénie!" This from Mama.

"That is the very first time anyone in this house has admitted that I am no longer a child," I remarked.

"Eugénie, I am ashamed of you," said Julie, in tones of deep sorrow.

"But these Corsican refugees have so few friends in the
town," I ventured. I hoped to appeal to Mama's soft heart.

"People whose origins Mama and I know nothing about?
Out of the question. Don't you ever consider your sister's and
your own good name?" This from Etienne.

"It won't hurt Julie," I murmured, and glanced at her. I hoped she would help me. But she remained silent.

Etienne's experience during the last few days had destroyed his self-control. "You are a disgrace to the family!" he shouted.

"Etienne, she is only a child and does not know what she has done," said Mama.

At that, unfortunately, I, too, lost my temper. I was burning with rage. "Once and for all, I wish to have it understood that I am neither a child nor a disgrace!"

For a moment there was silence. Then Mama commanded, "Go to your room.at once, Eugénie!"

"But I'm still hungry, I've only begun my meal."

Mama's silver bell rang violently. "Marie, please serve Mlle Eugénie's meal in her room. " And to me, "Go along, my child, have a good rest and think about your recent behaviour. You have caused your mother and your good brother Etienne great anxiety. Good night."

Marie brought me my supper up to the room I share with Julie. She sat down on Julie's bed. "What happened?" she demanded at once. "What's wrong with them all?"

When we are alone Marie always speaks to me informally: she is my friend and not a servant—after all, she came to us years ago when I needed a wet nurse, and I believe she loves me as much as her own natural child, Pierre, who is being brought up somewhere in the country.