Happily there was always Etienne Rambert, who was also staying in Paris just now. It had gradually become the custom of the Baronne de Vibray, when she was dining out, to entrust Thérèse to Etienne Rambert’s care, and the young girl and the old man got on together perfectly. Their hearts had met across the awful chasm that fate had tried to cut between them.
To Thérèse’s last words now Etienne Rambert replied:
“You need not apologise for staying late, dear; you know how glad I am to see you. I wish the house were yours.”
The girl glanced round the room that had grown so familiar to her, and with a sudden rush of feeling slipped her arm around the old man’s neck and laid her fair head on his shoulder.
“I should so love to stay here with you, M. Rambert!”
The old man looked oddly at her for a moment, repressing the words that he might perhaps have wished to say, and then gently released himself from her affectionate clasp and led her to a sofa, on which he sat down by her side.
“That is one of the things that we must not allow ourselves to think about, my dear,” he said. “I should have rejoiced to receive you in my home, and your presence, and the brightness of your dear fair face would have given a charm to my lonely fireside; but unfortunately those are vain dreams. We have to reckon with the world, and the world would not approve of a young girl like you living in the home of a lonely man.”
“Why not?” Thérèse enquired in surprise. “Why, you might be my father.”
Etienne Rambert winced at the word.
“Ah!” he said, “you must not forget, Thérèse, that I am not your father, but—his: the father of him who—” but Thérèse’s soft hand laid upon his lips prevented him from finishing what he would have said.
To change the conversation Thérèse feigned concern about her own future.
“When we left Querelles,” she said, “President Bonnet told me that you would tell me something about my affairs. I gather that my fortune is not a very brilliant one.”
It was indeed the fact that after the murder of the Marquise the unpleasant discovery had been made that her fortune was by no means so considerable as had generally been supposed. The estate was mortgaged, and President Bonnet and Etienne Rambert had had long and anxious debates as to whether it might not be well for Thérèse to renounce her inheritance to Beaulieu, so doubtful did it seem whether the assets would exceed the liabilities.
Etienne Rambert made a vague, but significant gesture when he heard the girl raise the point now, but Thérèse had all the carelessness of youth.
“Oh, I shall not be downhearted,” she exclaimed. “My poor grannie always gave me an example of energy and hard work; I’ve got plenty of pluck, and I will work too. Suppose I turn governess?”
M. Rambert looked at her thoughtfully.
“My dear child, I know how brave and earnest you are, and that gives me confidence. I have thought about your future a great deal already. Some day, of course, some nice and wealthy young fellow will come along and marry you—Oh, yes, he will: you’ll see. But in the meantime it will be necessary for you to have some occupation. I am wondering whether it will not be necessary to let, or even to sell Beaulieu. And, on the other hand, you can’t always stay with the Baronne de Vibray.”
“No, I realise that,” said Thérèse, who, with the native tact that was one of her best qualities, had quickly seen that it would not be long before she would become a difficulty in the way of the independence of the kind Baronne. “That is what troubles me most.”
“Your birth and your upbringing have been such that you would certainly suffer much in taking up the difficult and delicate, and sometimes painful, position of governess in a family; and, without wishing to be offensive, I must remind you that you need to have studied very hard to be a governess nowadays, and I am not aware that you are exactly a bluestocking. But I have an idea, and this is it: for a great many years now I have been on the very friendliest terms with a lady who belongs to the very best English society: Lady Beltham; you may perhaps have heard me speak of her.” Thérèse opened wide eyes of astonishment, and Rambert went on: “A few months ago Lady Beltham lost her husband in strange circumstances, and since then she has been good enough to give me more of her confidence than previously. She is immensely rich, and very charitable, and I have frequently been asked by her to look after some of her many financial interests. Now I have often noticed that she has with her several young English ladies who live with her, not as companions, but, shall I say, secretaries? Do you understand the difference? She treats them like friends or relatives, and they all belong to the very best social class, some of them indeed being daughters of English peers. If Lady Beltham, to whom I could speak about it, would admit you
