“Life is a joke that’s just begun!” she carolled, as Minnie stood on the threshold. The words, at the moment, had for her no meaning. She was just singing.
II
Jane had no time to read La Dame aux Camellias that night. Her homework was very long. She looked it over, translating a line here and there, hoping in vain for pictures, before she went to bed. She left it on her table next morning when she started out for school.
André had the copy of Le Théâtre under his arm when she met him under the Water Works Tower. They sat down on a green bench in the little public park to inspect it. Flora and Muriel went on ahead. There were four pictures of Bernhardt. Three of her as Camille and one in a play called Phèdre. In Phèdre, she wore a Greek costume and a chiffon veil was over her frizzy hair. But in Camille Jane could see clearly just how lovely it was. There was one of her dying, on a kind of sofa, with her curls straying out all over the pillows. No wonder that André thought it was beautiful. Jane thought she could copy the costumes. André remembered all the colours.
She told Agnes about the play at recess and Agnes was very much thrilled. She took special pains with her French that morning and learned one extra irregular verb. She hoped it would appear in Camille, in one of its most unusual tenses. She decided, quite firmly, to work hard on the grammar that winter and really learn to speak the language. Perhaps when she and André had done Camille he might ask her to do Phèdre, too. She talked about that possibility very seriously with Agnes after school. So long and so seriously that she was just a little late in getting home for luncheon.
Her mother and Isabel were already seated at the dining-room table. The homely odour of fried ham greeted her nostrils as soon as she entered the room. She flung her books on a chair. She was pleasantly hungry.
“Gosh, I had fun in school today,” she said.
Then she noticed that something was wrong. She would have noticed it sooner if she hadn’t been thinking so intently of the joys in store for her.
“You’re very late,” said Isabel.
Jane sat down and unfolded her napkin. Minnie passed the ham. No one said anything more for a moment. The silence was very forbidding.
“Jane,” said her mother presently, “where did you get the book that I found on your table this morning?”
Jane dropped her knife and fork. She was extremely surprised.
“Wha—what book?” she asked, instinctively playing for time.
“That French book,” said her mother, and her tone spoke volumes.
Jane stared at her in silence.
“Where on earth did you find it?” asked Isabel.
Jane’s great brown eyes turned on her sister.
“Answer Mother, Jane.” The tone brooked no delay. Jane’s eyes returned to the head of the table.
“From—from André,” she said. Her voice, in her own ears, sounded strangely husky.
“André!” said her mother, staring at Isabel. “That explains it.”
“You don’t mean to say,” said Isabel, “that André gave you that book?”
“Yes,” said Jane with difficulty.
“What for?” said her mother. The last word was really almost a shriek.
“To—to read,” said Jane.
Isabel and her mother exchanged a glance of horror.
“Well—honestly—” said Isabel.
“Have you read it?” asked her mother.
“No,” said Jane. Her ear caught their little gasps of relief. She didn’t understand at all. She only knew that she and André and their perfect plan were in some dreadful danger. She must try to explain.
“He’s going to give it in his theatre. Mamma,” she went on hurriedly. “He wants me to help him. He wants me to make the costumes. We’re going—”
Her mother and Isabel exchanged another glance of horror.
“What’s the matter?” cried Jane, her nerves breaking under the strain. “What’s happened?”
Her mother smiled at her very kindly.
“Nothing has happened, Jane. I’m very glad you haven’t read the book. It’s not at all a nice book for a child to read. But we’ll just return it to André today. You needn’t think anything more about it.”
“But Mamma!” cried Jane. “You—you can’t do that! Why—why we’ve made all our plans—I was going over there this afternoon—we’ve almost finished the first set—he—”
“It doesn’t make any difference what you’ve done, Jane,” said her mother firmly, “or what you’ve planned. It’s not a nice book for a little girl to read and—”
“Have you read it?” asked Jane rudely. And she meant to be rude. She knew her mother couldn’t read French. Isabel herself couldn’t read it, half as well as Jane could.
“You don’t have to read books, Jane,” said her mother with dignity, “to know that they shouldn’t be read. This book is very unpleasant.”
“Why, it’s notorious!” said Isabel.
“Isabel!” said her mother.
Jane felt very confused.
“If you haven’t read it, Mamma,” she said reasonably, “don’t you think that perhaps you’ve made a mistake? André’s mother saw him give it to me. She’s going to help us with the play.”
She saw at once that she hadn’t helped her cause at all.
“Honestly!” said Isabel again. “Those frogs!”
“French people,” said her mother, once more with dignity, “don’t feel about these things the way we do. They have very different ideas of right and wrong.”
“André’s mother is English,” said Jane sullenly.
“She married a Frenchman,” said Isabel, as if that settled it.
“We won’t discuss it further,” said Jane’s mother. “Eat your lunch.”
“Mamma!” cried Jane in desperation. “You don’t understand. I—I can’t go back on André! I can’t—”
“Jane,” said her mother. “You will eat your lunch. And then you will call up André and tell him that you can’t have anything to do with the play and that you can’t go over there this afternoon. I’ll send Minnie over with the book. I don’t want you to go over to André’s any more at all. You’ve been seeing far too much of him lately. Any
