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Authors: Mary Stewart
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the village, with time to spare. I stood in the little square outside the church and looked about me.
The day was warm, the sunlight as it beat up from flags and cobbles was bright and almost hot. There was a white cat sunning itself on top of a low wall below which someone had planted primulas. The single
bistro
had put out its red-and-black striped awning, and in spite of faded paint and peeling walls the houses looked gay with their open doors and the coloured shutters fastened back from the windows. A canary, in a small cage hanging outside a shop, sang lustily. Some small children, black-haired and brown-limbed, were intent on something in a gutter. Outside a food-shop cabbage and cheeses and tired-looking oranges made a splash of colour. A boy on a bicycle shot past me, with a yard or so of bread under one arm.
It was a pleasant, peaceful, light-hearted little scene, and my own heart was light as I surveyed it. It was a lovely morning; I was free to do as I wished with it for two hours; I had some money in my pocket; the shadow of the Constance Butcher Home for Girls dwindled and shrank to nothing in the warm Savoyard light. It was also-as a stray warm breeze stirred fragrance from the primulas and brought a shower of early cherry-blossom floating out over the presbytery wall-it was also spring.
I walked slowly across the square, made sure that it was only marbles, and not a frog or a kitten, that was occupying the children in the gutter, then turned into the pharmacy beside the
bistro
to carry out what commissions I had for the day.
"Mademoiselle Martin?" The apothecary came out of his dark cave at the back. He knew me well by this time. Mrs. Seddon, in the intervals of anti-histamine, seemed to live exclusively on aspirin and something she called Oh Dick Alone, while I (after half a lifetime of White Windsor) had developed a passion, which had to be satisfied frequently, for the more exotic soaps.
I said gaily, in my most English French: "Oh, good morning, Monsieur Garcin. It is a fine day, is it not? It was a fine day yesterday. It will be a fine day tomorrow. Not? I am looking at the soaps, as usual."
I said
par usuel,
and the chemist's thin lips pursed. It was his weekly pleasure to correct my French, always with that pained, crab-apple face, and I didn't see why I should deny him anything.
"Comme d'habitude,"
he said sourly.
"Pla
ȋ
t-il?"
I said, very fluently. He had taught me that one last week.
"Comme d'habitude,"
said Monsieur Garcin, raising his voice as to the slightly deaf.
"Comme quoi?
I do not understand," I said carefully. I was behaving badly and I knew it, but it was a heavenly day and it was spring, and Monsieur Garcin was prim and dry and a bit musty, like herbs that have been kept too long, and besides, he always tried to put me in what he thought was my place. I raised my voice, too, and repeated loudly: "I said I was looking at the soaps,
par usuel."
The chemist's thin nose twitched, but he restrained himself with an effort. He looked at me dourly across a pile of laxatives. "So I see. And which do you want?" He heaved up a box of Roger and Gallet from behind the counter. "There is a new box this week. Rose, violet, cologne, sandalwood, clove pink-"
"Oh, yes, please. The clove pink. I love that."
A slight gleam of surprise showed in the oyster-like eyes. "You know what flower that is
? Oeillet mignardise?"
I said composedly: "The name is on the soap. With a picture.
Voilà.
" I reached across to pick the tablet out, sniffed it, smiled at him, and said kindly:
”C’est le plus bon, ça."
He rose to that one
.
"Le meilleur."
“Le meilleur,” I
said meekly. "Thank you, monsieur."
"You are doing quite well," said Monsieur Garcin, magnanimously. "And have you any little commissions for your employers today?"
"Yes, if you please. Madame de Valmy asked me to get her medicine and the tablets-her pills for sleeping."
"Very well. Have you the paper?"
"Paper?"
"You must give me the
The day was warm, the sunlight as it beat up from flags and cobbles was bright and almost hot. There was a white cat sunning itself on top of a low wall below which someone had planted primulas. The single
bistro
had put out its red-and-black striped awning, and in spite of faded paint and peeling walls the houses looked gay with their open doors and the coloured shutters fastened back from the windows. A canary, in a small cage hanging outside a shop, sang lustily. Some small children, black-haired and brown-limbed, were intent on something in a gutter. Outside a food-shop cabbage and cheeses and tired-looking oranges made a splash of colour. A boy on a bicycle shot past me, with a yard or so of bread under one arm.
It was a pleasant, peaceful, light-hearted little scene, and my own heart was light as I surveyed it. It was a lovely morning; I was free to do as I wished with it for two hours; I had some money in my pocket; the shadow of the Constance Butcher Home for Girls dwindled and shrank to nothing in the warm Savoyard light. It was also-as a stray warm breeze stirred fragrance from the primulas and brought a shower of early cherry-blossom floating out over the presbytery wall-it was also spring.
I walked slowly across the square, made sure that it was only marbles, and not a frog or a kitten, that was occupying the children in the gutter, then turned into the pharmacy beside the
bistro
to carry out what commissions I had for the day.
"Mademoiselle Martin?" The apothecary came out of his dark cave at the back. He knew me well by this time. Mrs. Seddon, in the intervals of anti-histamine, seemed to live exclusively on aspirin and something she called Oh Dick Alone, while I (after half a lifetime of White Windsor) had developed a passion, which had to be satisfied frequently, for the more exotic soaps.
I said gaily, in my most English French: "Oh, good morning, Monsieur Garcin. It is a fine day, is it not? It was a fine day yesterday. It will be a fine day tomorrow. Not? I am looking at the soaps, as usual."
I said
par usuel,
and the chemist's thin lips pursed. It was his weekly pleasure to correct my French, always with that pained, crab-apple face, and I didn't see why I should deny him anything.
"Comme d'habitude,"
he said sourly.
"Pla
ȋ
t-il?"
I said, very fluently. He had taught me that one last week.
"Comme d'habitude,"
said Monsieur Garcin, raising his voice as to the slightly deaf.
"Comme quoi?
I do not understand," I said carefully. I was behaving badly and I knew it, but it was a heavenly day and it was spring, and Monsieur Garcin was prim and dry and a bit musty, like herbs that have been kept too long, and besides, he always tried to put me in what he thought was my place. I raised my voice, too, and repeated loudly: "I said I was looking at the soaps,
par usuel."
The chemist's thin nose twitched, but he restrained himself with an effort. He looked at me dourly across a pile of laxatives. "So I see. And which do you want?" He heaved up a box of Roger and Gallet from behind the counter. "There is a new box this week. Rose, violet, cologne, sandalwood, clove pink-"
"Oh, yes, please. The clove pink. I love that."
A slight gleam of surprise showed in the oyster-like eyes. "You know what flower that is
? Oeillet mignardise?"
I said composedly: "The name is on the soap. With a picture.
Voilà.
" I reached across to pick the tablet out, sniffed it, smiled at him, and said kindly:
”C’est le plus bon, ça."
He rose to that one
.
"Le meilleur."
“Le meilleur,” I
said meekly. "Thank you, monsieur."
"You are doing quite well," said Monsieur Garcin, magnanimously. "And have you any little commissions for your employers today?"
"Yes, if you please. Madame de Valmy asked me to get her medicine and the tablets-her pills for sleeping."
"Very well. Have you the paper?"
"Paper?"
"You must give me the
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