But all at once I had an inspiration, and I proffered the symbolic little doll to Mademoiselle Pearl. At first everyone was surprised, then they must have appreciated my delicacy and discretion, for they applauded furiously, shouting: “Long live the queen! Long live the queen!”
As for the poor old maid, she was covered with confusion; she trembled and lifted a terrified face. “No … no … no …” she stammered; “not me … I implore you … not me … I implore you.”
At that, I looked at Mademoiselle Pearl for the first time in my life, and wondered what sort of a woman she was.
I was used to seeing her about this house, but only as you see old tapestried chairs in which you have been sitting since you were a child, without ever really noticing them. One day, you couldn’t say just why, because a ray of sunlight falls across the seat, you exclaim: “Why, this is a remarkable piece of furniture!” and you discover that the wood has been carved by an artist and that the tapestry is very uncommon. I had never noticed Mademoiselle Pearl.
She was part of the Chantal family, that was all; but what? What was her standing? She was a tall thin woman who kept herself very much in the background, but she wasn’t insignificant. They treated her in a friendly fashion, more intimately than a housekeeper, less so than a relation. I suddenly became aware now of various subtle shades of manner that I had never troubled about until this moment. Madame Chantal said: “Pearl.” The young girls: “Mademoiselle Pearl,” and Chantal never called her anything but “Mademoiselle,” with a slightly more respectful air perhaps.
I set myself to consider her. How old was she? Forty? Yes, forty. She was not old, this maiden lady, she made herself look old. I was suddenly struck by this obvious fact. She did her hair, dressed herself, and got herself up to look absurd, and in spite of it all she was not at all absurd. So innately graceful she was, simply and naturally graceful, though she did her best to obscure it and conceal it. What an odd creature she was, after all! Why hadn’t I paid more attention to her? She did her hair in the most grotesque way in ridiculous little grey curls; under this crowning glory of a middle-aged Madonna, she had a broad placid forehead, graven with two deep wrinkles, the wrinkles of some enduring sorrow, then two blue eyes, wide and gentle, so timid, so fearful, so humble, two blue eyes that were still simple, filled with girlish wonder and youthful emotions, and griefs endured in secret, softening her eyes and leaving then untroubled.
Her whole face was clear-cut and reserved, one of those faces grown worn without being ravaged or faded by the weariness and the fevered emotions of life.
What a pretty mouth, and what pretty teeth! But she seemed as if she dared not smile.
Abruptly, I began to compare her with Madame Chantal. Mademoiselle Pearl was undoubtedly the better of the two, a hundred times better, nobler, more dignified.
I was astounded by my discoveries. Champagne was poured out. I lifted my glass to the queen and drank her health with a pretty compliment. I could see that she wanted to hide her face in her napkin; then, when she dipped her lips in the translucent wine, everyone cried: “The queen’s drinking, the queen’s drinking!” At that she turned crimson and choked. They laughed; but I saw clearly that she was well liked in the house.
III
As soon as dinner was over, Chantal took me by the arm. It was the hour for his cigar, a sacred hour. When he was alone, he went out into the street to smoke; when he had someone to dinner, he took them to the billiard room, and he played as he smoked. This evening they had lit a fire in the billiard room, since it was Twelfth Night; and my old friend took his cue, a very slender cue which he chalked with great care; then he said:
“Now, sonny.”
He always spoke to me as if I were a little boy: I was twenty-five years old but he had known me since I was four.
I began to play; I made several cannons; I missed several more; but my head was filled with drifting thoughts of Mademoiselle Pearl, and I asked abruptly:
“Tell me, Monsieur Chantal, is Mademoiselle Pearl a relation of yours?”
He stopped playing, in astonishment, and stared at me.
“What, don’t you know? Didn’t you know Mademoiselle Pearl’s story?”
“Of course not.”
“Hasn’t your father ever told you?”
“Of course not.”
“Well, well, that’s queer, upon my word, it’s queer. Oh, it’s quite an adventure.”
He was silent, and went on:
“And if you only knew how strange it is that you should ask me about it today, on Twelfth Night!”
“Why?”
“Why, indeed! Listen. It’s forty-one years ago, forty-one years this very day, the day of Epiphany. We were living then at Roüy-le-Tors, on the ramparts; but I must first tell you about the house, if you’re to understand the story properly. Roüy is built on a slope, or rather on a mound which thrusts out of a wide stretch of meadow land. We had there a house with a beautiful hanging garden, supported on the old ramparts. So that the house was in the town, on the street, while the garden hung over the plain. There was also a door opening from this garden on to the fields, at the bottom of a secret staircase which went down inside the thick masonry of the walls, just like a secret staircase in a romance. A road ran past this door, where a great
