Read Online Bon Marche by Chet Hagan - Free Book Online Page A

affirmation of the love, if we may call it that, the young gentleman professes for her.”
    â€œI’ll be most careful,” Charles assured him.
    â€œGood! Someday it may be worth your life that you are.”
    MacCallum picked a spot under a leafless maple tree, dropping to the ground with a satisfied groan. He gestured for Charles to follow his example.
    â€œNow, Charles”—the tutor leaned back against the trunk— “another reality of Elkwood. Mr. Statler, a widower of some seven years, has only daughters as his issue, as you’re already aware. He doesn’t enunciate this, but he’s deeply distressed by the fact that he has no male heir. Therefore, there’s a tendency on his part to … uh … overindulge a new male inhabitant of Elkwood, to look upon him as a son. It has happened to me, and I’ll wager it’ll happen to you. If you don’t want to be a surrogate son, you’ll have to resist his entreaties.”
    Andrew paused briefly. “Of course, perhaps you’ll see such an opportunity differently than did I. I call this to your attention only to make you aware of it. It will make no difference to me, one way or another, how you choose to handle it.”
    Charles nodded. He saw no reason to comment. But he was intrigued by what the tutor had just told him.
    â€œFinally, a third warning, if I may,” MacCallum went on. “The institution of slavery is deeply ingrained here. As a northerner—I was brought to New Jersey from Scotland at an early age and raised there—that institution remains foreign to me. It would be wise for a newcomer such as yourself not to intrude into the matter of the treatment of the slaves— not intrude in any manner! Such intrusion, believe me, will be resented. With vehemence. If slavery offends you, keep your own counsel. Nothing will bring you more trouble, perhaps not even the dalliance with a daughter, than expressing your disapproval of slavery. It’s a fact of life here. Accept it in silence.”
    â€œI appreciate your … uh…”
    â€œ Candor is the word you seek, Charles.”
    The young Frenchman laughed. “Thank you. I can see that I’m going to learn much from this association.”
    â€œAnd perhaps I’ll learn to contend with French pronunciation,” MacCallum countered. “If we had a bottle of wine here now, I’d propose a toast.” He pantomimed pouring the wine, and lifting the glass high. “To a happy collaboration!”
    â€œTo a happy collaboration!” Charles repeated, duplicating the mime.
    IV
    D EWEY’S first few days as a French tutor went well enough, under the firm direction of Andrew MacCallum. Since Charles knew only conversational French and had no grounding in grammar, Andrew had him give the girls a list of often-used words at first. Correct spellings were gleaned from the appendix of a very old and very large British dictionary in MacCallum’s possession.
    Katherine and Martha wrote the words in their copybooks. It wasn’t “lessons,” really—it seemed like great fun.
    And rudimentary. Tête, head. Oeil, eye, and the plural, yeux. Bouche, mouth. Menton, chin. Goulot, neck, and the feminine, encolure. Corps, body. Poitrine, breast. Charles noticed that Martha actually blushed when he included the word. Bras, arm. Jambe, leg. Pied, foot.
    They counted: Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf, dix.
    Into the copybooks went the common greetings and social niceties: Bonjour, bonsoir, au revoir, enchanté, merci, s’il vous plaît.
    At the end of the second day, Katherine interrupted the rote lessons. “Monsieur Dewey, you haven’t mentioned the most important word of all.”
    â€œAnd that would be?”
    â€œLove!”
    â€œAh, mademoiselle, ” Charles answered playfully, “that would be amour. ”
    â€œYou’ll note,”