whisper.
“Do look at what Eulalie’s doing. It’s called macrame. She has such talent with her hands, she made those portieres.”
Obediently he looked to where the somber one—for he had mentally bestowed that name upon Eulalie—was making elaborate motions with a length of string.
“Very nice,” he murmured, smiling inwardly at his own newfound suavity. I am learning, he thought, returning to the music.
After a while his mind began to wander. His eyes moved from Pelagie’s floating skirt to the carpet’s arabesques, then to the red silk draperies, splashed pink by candlelight. Down the depths of the house, across the hall, he could see the dining room, where servants were still clearing the long table. Beyond that, he knew, stretched a verandah from which one stepped down into the courtyard, the garden, the stables, and the kitchen, where the true life of the great house was carried on. There in the cellars, the wash-house, and quarters the work was done. His room faced in that direction, and last night he had heard servants’ voices talking and arguing, heard shrill female yapping and resonant male rumbling. He had heard singing, too, rich, passionate song, different from any he had ever experienced, and it had touched him as he lay in bed, touched him with a strange nostalgia, a strange yearning. But yearning for what? Nostalgia for what? Surely not for home. He never wanted to go “home.”
Ah, such confusion in his young heart! That the comfort of this room, at this moment, with the chairsso soft, with stomach so filled, and the gauzy light, the drowsy fragrance—that these should seem so wrong! There was a surfeit in them. Something cloyed in this house. There was too much food, too much silk, too many flowers—
Sisyphus, entering on soundless feet, was murmuring something to Emma. He caught the words “Blaise and Fanny.” Emma stood up just as the music was coming to a close and the evening ending.
“David and Miriam, come with me. Blaise and Fanny have arrived,” she explained as they climbed the stairs. “I’ve sent for them from the country, or rather bought them from a dear friend of mine who has no need of them anymore. They are sister and brother and very well recommended, naturally, or I wouldn’t have taken them. Well, here we are.”
In the upstairs hall a young girl waited. She was possibly twelve or thirteen years old. Her skin was almost white; her black hair, straight as Miriam’s, hung in two braids down her back.
“This is Mam’selle Miriam, Fanny.”
Fanny curtsied.
“And this, Blaise, is M’sieu David.”
He was a boy of David’s age. His light-gray eyes were startling in his dark face, so many shades darker than his sister’s.
“Of course,” Aunt Emma said, “it would have been better to begin your association at first. That’s the custom and it’s very nice to have a servant who goes straight through life with you,” she explained to Miriam and David. “But still, you’re all young and you’ll have many good years together, I’m sure. Fanny, you will sleep on a quilt at Mam’selle Miriam’s door in case she should need you for anything during the night. But I’m sure you know that already.” Emma smiled encouragement. “And Blaise will do the samefor you, David. As soon as you start school, he will go with you to carry your books and packages or do any errand you may have. Well, again, no need to go into that, Blaise knows what’s expected. Now, if ever you have need of extra help for any reason, David, your father will lend Maxim or Chanute. Otherwise, they already have plenty to do around the house. I’m told you are both very good-tempered, Blaise and Fanny, and I’m glad to know that, because that’s just what we want.” She paused, as if waiting for some comment or question, but since there was none, concluded the interview with “Well, I can’t think of anything else,” and started downstairs. Halfway down she called back, “They
“Do look at what Eulalie’s doing. It’s called macrame. She has such talent with her hands, she made those portieres.”
Obediently he looked to where the somber one—for he had mentally bestowed that name upon Eulalie—was making elaborate motions with a length of string.
“Very nice,” he murmured, smiling inwardly at his own newfound suavity. I am learning, he thought, returning to the music.
After a while his mind began to wander. His eyes moved from Pelagie’s floating skirt to the carpet’s arabesques, then to the red silk draperies, splashed pink by candlelight. Down the depths of the house, across the hall, he could see the dining room, where servants were still clearing the long table. Beyond that, he knew, stretched a verandah from which one stepped down into the courtyard, the garden, the stables, and the kitchen, where the true life of the great house was carried on. There in the cellars, the wash-house, and quarters the work was done. His room faced in that direction, and last night he had heard servants’ voices talking and arguing, heard shrill female yapping and resonant male rumbling. He had heard singing, too, rich, passionate song, different from any he had ever experienced, and it had touched him as he lay in bed, touched him with a strange nostalgia, a strange yearning. But yearning for what? Nostalgia for what? Surely not for home. He never wanted to go “home.”
Ah, such confusion in his young heart! That the comfort of this room, at this moment, with the chairsso soft, with stomach so filled, and the gauzy light, the drowsy fragrance—that these should seem so wrong! There was a surfeit in them. Something cloyed in this house. There was too much food, too much silk, too many flowers—
Sisyphus, entering on soundless feet, was murmuring something to Emma. He caught the words “Blaise and Fanny.” Emma stood up just as the music was coming to a close and the evening ending.
“David and Miriam, come with me. Blaise and Fanny have arrived,” she explained as they climbed the stairs. “I’ve sent for them from the country, or rather bought them from a dear friend of mine who has no need of them anymore. They are sister and brother and very well recommended, naturally, or I wouldn’t have taken them. Well, here we are.”
In the upstairs hall a young girl waited. She was possibly twelve or thirteen years old. Her skin was almost white; her black hair, straight as Miriam’s, hung in two braids down her back.
“This is Mam’selle Miriam, Fanny.”
Fanny curtsied.
“And this, Blaise, is M’sieu David.”
He was a boy of David’s age. His light-gray eyes were startling in his dark face, so many shades darker than his sister’s.
“Of course,” Aunt Emma said, “it would have been better to begin your association at first. That’s the custom and it’s very nice to have a servant who goes straight through life with you,” she explained to Miriam and David. “But still, you’re all young and you’ll have many good years together, I’m sure. Fanny, you will sleep on a quilt at Mam’selle Miriam’s door in case she should need you for anything during the night. But I’m sure you know that already.” Emma smiled encouragement. “And Blaise will do the samefor you, David. As soon as you start school, he will go with you to carry your books and packages or do any errand you may have. Well, again, no need to go into that, Blaise knows what’s expected. Now, if ever you have need of extra help for any reason, David, your father will lend Maxim or Chanute. Otherwise, they already have plenty to do around the house. I’m told you are both very good-tempered, Blaise and Fanny, and I’m glad to know that, because that’s just what we want.” She paused, as if waiting for some comment or question, but since there was none, concluded the interview with “Well, I can’t think of anything else,” and started downstairs. Halfway down she called back, “They
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