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Barbara in Brittany

<h3> CHAPTER VI. </h3> <h3> THE REVOLT OF TWO. </h3> The days that followed were not as pleasant to Barbara as those she had spent in Paris, for though St. Malo, just across the river, fascinated her, she did not care much for St. Servant, and the people did not prove congenial to her—especially Mademoiselle Th�r�se. Though she seemed to be a clever teacher, Barbara could never be sure that she was speaking the truth, and in writing home she described her as "rather a humbug." "Most English people," she told Barbara shortly after her arrival, "pronounce French badly because their mouths are shaped differently from ours, but yours, Miss Britton, is just right, therefore your accent is already wonderfully good." The girl laughed; the family had never been in the habit of flattering one another, and she did not appreciate it as much as Mademoiselle Th�r�se had meant she should. Indeed, Barbara wished that the lady would be less suave to her and more uniform in temper towards the rest of the household, who sometimes, she shrewdly surmised, suffered considerably from the younger sister's irascibility. She had just been in St. Servan ten days, when she had an example of what she described in a letter home as a "stage quarrel" between the Mademoiselles Loir�. It began at second d�jeuner over some trivial point in the education of Marie, about whom they were very apt to be jealous. Their voices gradually rose higher and higher, the remarks made being anything but complimentary, till finally Mademoiselle Loir� leaped from her seat, saying she would not stay there to be insulted, and darted upstairs. Her sister promptly followed, continuing her argument as she went, but arriving too late at the study door, which was bolted on the inside by the fugitive. After various fruitless attempts to make herself heard, Mademoiselle Th�r�se returned to the dining-room, and after a few words of politeness to Barbara, began once more on the subject of dispute, this time with Marie, her niece. Apparently the latter took a leaf out of her aunt's book, for after speaking noisily for a few minutes, she said she would not be insulted either, and followed her upstairs. Thereupon Mademoiselle Th�r�se's anger knew no bounds, and finding that Marie had taken refuge beside her aunt in the study, she began to beat a lively tattoo upon the door. The two boys, full of curiosity, followed to see what was going on, so Barbara was left in solitary grandeur, with the ruins of an omelette before her, and she, "having hunger," went on stolidly with her meal. She was, in truth, a little disgusted with the whole affair, and was not sorry to escape to her room before Mademoiselle Th�r�se returned. They were making such a noise below that it was useless to attempt to do any work, and she was just thinking of going out for a walk, when her door burst open and in rushed Mademoiselle Loir�, dragging Marie with her. "Keep her with you," she panted; "she says she will kill my sister. Keep her with you while I go down and argue with Th�r�se." Barbara looked sharply at the girl, and it seemed to her that though she kept murmuring, "I'll kill her I—I'll kill her!" half her anger was merely assumed, and that there was no necessity for alarm. "How can they be so silly and theatrical?" she muttered. Then, glancing round the room to see if there were anything she could give her, she noticed a bottle of Eno's Fruit Salts, and her eyes twinkled. It was not exactly the same thing as sal volatile, of course, but at any rate it would keep the girl quiet, so, pouring out a large glassful, she bade Marie drink it. The latter obeyed meekly, and for some time was reduced to silence by want of breath. "I shall certainly throw myself into the sea," she gasped at last. "Well, you will certainly be more foolish than I thought you were, if you do," Barbara returned calmly. "Indeed, I can't think what all this fuss is about." Marie stared. "Why, it's to show Aunt Th�r�se that she must not tyrannise over us like that," she said. "I told her I was going to throw myself into the sea, and as she believes it, it is almost the same thing." Barbara shrugged her shoulders. "A very comfortable way of doing things in cold weather," she remarked; "but I want a little quiet now, and I think you had better have some too." The French girl, somewhat overawed by the other's coolness, relapsed into silence, and when the sounds downstairs seemed quieter Barbara got up, and said she was going out for a walk. She found on descending, however, that the "argument" had only been transferred to mademoiselle's workroom, where a very funny sight met her eyes when she looked in. The poor little widower, whom apparently the two sisters had fetched to arbitrate between them, stood looking fearfully embarrassed in the middle of the room, turning apologetically from one to the other. He never got any further than the first few words, however, as they brought a torrent of explanation from both his hearers, each giving him dozens of reasons why the other was wrong. Marie, who watched for a moment or two, could not help joining in; and Barbara, very tired of it all, left them to fight it out by themselves, and went away by the winding streets to the look-out station, where she sat down and watched the sun shining on the beautiful old walls of St. Malo. She had only been once in that town with Mademoiselle Th�r�se, but the ramparts and the old houses had fascinated her, and if she had been allowed, she would have crossed the little moving bridge daily. When she returned, the house seemed quiet again, for which she was very thankful, and, mounting to her room, she prepared the French lesson which was usually given her at that time. But when Mademoiselle Th�r�se came up, she spent most of the time in bewailing the ingratitude of one's fellow mortals, especially near relations, and wondering if Marie were really going to drown herself, and when her sister would unlock her door and come out of the room. Supper was rather a doleful meal, and immediately after it mademoiselle went to look for her niece, who had not returned. Barbara laughed a little scornfully at her fears, and even when she came back with the news that Marie was not concealed next door, as she had thought, refused to believe that the girl was not hiding somewhere else. "But where could she be except next door?" mademoiselle questioned; "and when I went to ask, Monsieur Dubois was seated with his sons having supper, and no signs of the truant. He had seen or heard nothing of her, he said." Barbara wondered which had been deceived, and whether the widower himself was deceived or deceiver, but, giving up the attempt to decide the question, retired to bed, advising mademoiselle to do the same, feeling some curiosity, but no anxiety, as to Marie's fate. She had not been in bed very long when she heard some one move stealthily downstairs and enter the dining-room. Mademoiselle Th�r�se, she knew, had locked all the doors and gone to her bedroom, which was in the front of the house, and she immediately guessed that it must be something to do with Marie. "The plot thickens," she said to herself, stealing to the window, which looked out upon the garden. There, to her amazement, she saw Mademoiselle Loir� emerging laboriously from the dining-room window. She saw her in the moonlight creep down the garden towards the wall at the end, but what happened after that she could only guess at, as the trees cast a shadow which hid the lady from view. "The lady or the tiger?" she said, laughing, as she peered into the shades of the trees, and about five minutes later was rewarded by seeing two figures hurry back and enter the house by the same way that Mademoiselle Loir� had got out. "Marie!" she thought triumphantly, wondering in what part of the garden she had been hidden, as there was no gate in the direction from which she had come. She lay awake for a little while, meditating on the vagaries of the family she had fallen into, and then fell so soundly asleep that she was surprised to find it broad daylight when she awoke, and to see Marie sitting on the end of her bed, smiling beamingly upon her. "So you're back?" Barbara inquired with a yawn. "I hope you didn't find it too cold in the garden last night." "You saw us, then?" giggled Marie. "But you don't know where I came from, do you? Nor does Aunt Th�r�se. I'll tell you now; such an exciting time I've had—just like a story-book heroine." "Penny novelette heroine," murmured Barbara, but her visitor was too full of her adventure to notice the remark. "As you know, I told Aunt Th�r�se I should drown myself," she began complacently; "but, of course, such was not my intention." "Of course not," interpolated Barbara drily. "Instead, I confided my plan to Aunt Marie, then slipped out into the street, and thence to our friends next door." "The widower's?" exclaimed the English girl in surprise. "The very same. I explained to him my project for giving my aunt a wholesome lesson; and he, with true chivalry, invited me to sup with them—he saw I was spent with hunger." Barbara, looking at the plump, rosy face of her companion, which had assumed a tragic air, stifled a laugh, and the girl continued. "I spent a pleasant time, and was just finishing my repast when the bell rang. 'My aunt!' I cried. 'Hide me from her wrath, Monsieur.' 'The coal-cellar,' he replied, after a moment's stern thought. In one second I had disappeared—I was no more—and when my aunt entered she found him at supper with his sons. When she had gone I returned, and we spent the evening cheerfully in mutual congratulation. At nightfall, when we considered all was secure, Aunt Marie came into the garden, placed a ladder against the wall, and I passed from one garden into the other and regained our room securely. I think Aunt Th�r�se suspected nothing—Monsieur Dubois is such a beautiful deceiver." "Well, I think you ought to be ashamed of yourself," Barbara said hotly. "Apart from the meanness and deceitfulness of it all, you have behaved most childishly, and I shall always think less of Monsieur Dubois for his untruthfulness." "Untruthfulness!" Marie returned in an offended tone. "He acted most chivalrously; but you English have such barbarous ideas about chivalry." For a moment Barbara felt tempted to get up and shake the girl, then came to the conclusion that it would be waste of time and energy to argue with an individual whose ideas were so hopelessly dissimilar to her own. "I'm going to get up now," she said shortly. "I'll be glad if you would go." "But don't you want to know what we are going to do now?" queried Marie, a little astonished that her companion should not show more interest in such an exciting adventure. "Our campaign has only begun. We will make Aunt Th�r�se capitulate before we have done. After all, she is the younger. We intend to stay in our rooms without descending until she promises to ask pardon for her insults, and say no more of the matter; and we will go out nightly to get air—carefully avoiding meeting her—and will buy ourselves sausages and chocolate, and so live until she sees how wrong she has been." She ended with great pride, feeling that at length she must have made an impression on this prosaic English girl, and was much disconcerted when Barbara broke into laughter, crying, "Oh, you goose; how can you be so silly!" Marie rose with hurt dignity. "You have no feeling for romance," she said. "Your horizon is most commonplace." Then, struck by a sudden fear, she added, "But you surely will not be unpleasant enough to tell Aunt Th�r�se what I have confided to you? I trusted you." "No," Barbara said, a little unwillingly, "I won't tell her; but I wish you had left me out of the matter entirely, for I certainly cannot lie to her." And with that Marie had to be content. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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