Stephen’s thoughts got themselves entrapped with the others, but hers, at the moment, were those of a schoolgirl, for her eye had suddenly lit on Lavrut, drawn thereto by the trays of ornate india-rubber. And once inside, she could not resist the Bracelets de caoutchouc, or the blotting paper as red as a rose, or the manuscript books with the mottled blue borders. Growing reckless, she gave an enormous order for the simple reason that these things looked different. In the end she actually carried away one of those inspiring manuscript books, and then got herself driven home by a taxi, in order the sooner to fill it.
II
That spring, in the foyer of the Comédie Francaise, Stephen stumbled across a link with the past in the person of a middle-aged woman. The woman was stout and wore pince-nez; her sparse brown hair was already greying; her face, which was long, had a double chin, and that face seemed vaguely familiar to Stephen. Then suddenly Stephen’s two hands were seized and held fast in those of the middle-aged woman, while a voice grown loud with delight and emotion was saying:
“Mais oui, c’est ma petite Stévenne!”
Back came a picture of the schoolroom at Morton, with a battered red book on its ink-stained table—the Bibliothèque Rose—“Les Petites Filles Modèles,” “Les Bons Enfants,” and Mademoiselle Duphot.
Stephen said: “To think—after all these years!”
“Ah, quelle joie! Quelle joie!” babbled Mademoiselle Duphot.
And now Stephen was being embraced on both cheeks, then held at arm’s length for a better inspection. “But how tall, how strong you are, ma petite Stévenne. You remember what I say, that we meet in Paris? I say when I go, ‘But you come to Paris when you grow up bigger, my poor little baby!’ I keep looking and looking, but I knowed you at once. I say, ‘Oui certainement, that is ma petite Stévenne, no one ’ave such another face what I love, it could only belong to Stévenne,’ I say. And now voilà! I am correct and I find you.”
Stephen released herself firmly but gently, replying in French to calm Mademoiselle, whose linguistic struggles increased every moment.
“I’m living in Paris altogether,” she told her; “you must come and see me—come to dinner tomorrow; 35, Rue Jacob.” Then she introduced Puddle who had been an amused spectator.
The two ex-guardians of Stephen’s young mind shook hands with each other very politely, and they made such a strangely contrasted couple that Stephen must smile to see them together. The one was so small, so quiet and so English; the other so portly, so tearful, so French in her generous, if somewhat embarrassing emotion.
As Mademoiselle regained her composure, Stephen was able to observe her more closely, and she saw that her face was excessively childish—a fact which she, when a child, had not noticed. It was more the face of a foal than a horse—an innocent, newborn foal.
Mademoiselle said rather wistfully: “I will dine with much pleasure tomorrow evening, but when will you come and see me in my home? It is in the Avenue de la Grande Armée, a small apartment, very small but so pretty—it is pleasant to have one’s treasures around one. The bon Dieu has been very good to me, Stévenne, for my Aunt Clothilde left me a little money when she died; it has proved a great consolation.”
“I’ll come very soon,” promised Stephen.
Then Mademoiselle spoke at great length of her aunt, and of Maman who had also passed on into glory; Maman, who had had her chicken on Sunday right up to the very last moment, Dieu merci! Even when her teeth had grown loose in the gums, Maman had asked for her chicken on Sunday. But alas, the poor sister who once made little bags out of beads for the shops in the Rue de la Paix, and who had such a cruel and improvident husband—the poor sister had now become totally blind, and therefore dependent on Mademoiselle Duphot. So after all Mademoiselle Duphot still worked, giving lessons in French to the resident English; and sometimes she taught the American children who were visiting Paris with their parents. But then it was really far better to work; one might grow too fat if one remained idle.
She beamed at Stephen with her gentle brown eyes. “They are not as you were, ma chère petite Stévenne, not clever and full of intelligence, no; and at times I almost despair of their accent. However, I am not at all to be pitied, thanks to Aunt Clothilde and the good little saints who surely inspired her to leave me that money.”
When Stephen and Puddle returned to their stalls, Mademoiselle climbed to a humbler seat somewhere under the roof, and as she departed she waved her plump hand at Stephen.
Stephen said: “She’s so changed that I didn’t know her just at first, or else perhaps I’d forgotten. I felt terribly guilty, because after you came I don’t think I ever answered her letters. It’s thirteen years since she left. …”
Puddle nodded. “Yes, it’s thirteen years since I took her place and forced you to tidy that abominable schoolroom!” And she laughed. “All the same, I like her,” said Puddle.
III
Mademoiselle Duphot admired the house in the Rue Jacob, and she ate very largely of the rich and excellent dinner. Quite regardless of her increasing proportions, she seemed drawn to all those things that were fattening.
“I cannot resist,” she remarked with a smile, as she reached for her fifth marron glacé.
They talked
