did,” he replied simply, “and that is why I am here. Is she better? Has the fever abated?”
Annabelle told him her good news, trying to keep the surprise from her face. This was one member of society at least who did not: seem to be worried about infection.
“Then that is good news,” he said, smiling down at her in such a way that her heart gave a wrench. “Come and walk with me in the garden and tell me all the latest on-dits.”
“I fear I am sadly out of touch,” said Annabelle, moving out through the windows and onto the mossy terrace. “I would rather hear your news of Paris. Was it very exciting?”
“Depressing, rather,” said Lord Varleigh, tucking her small hand in his arm. “It was like stepping back into the last century.”
He went on to describe the dark streets, ankle-deep in mud and filled with grimacing, posturing blackguards.She was filled with horror as he described the filthy theaters where even the rich spat on the floor and used their knives as toothpicks and were crammed to capacity, their Napoleonic inscriptions painted over with fleurs-de-lis.
Paris, said Lord Varleigh, showed no signs of being a conquered capital or the French of being a conquered race. On the night after the allies’ entry, he was told that the theaters and public gardens were packed as if nothing had happened. The cynical French were impenitent at the suffering they had caused. There indifference to death remained the same. At Montmartre, where the Russians stormed their way into Paris over the bodies of the boys of the Military College, corpses were carefully preserved for sightseers, and houses pitted with bullets bore notices, “Ici on voit la bataille pour deux sous!” “Here one can see the battle for two sous!”
Despite his dislike of the worldy Parisians, Lord Varleigh said he could not help but be impressed by Napoleon’s great public buildings. It was like another world, he told the fascinated Annabelle, to find all this order and splendor in the middle of a dark medieval jungle of twisted streets and filthy houses.
He praised the splendid prospect from the summit of the Elysian fields with the road descending through masses of trees to the Tuileries. Incredible!
“How I should love to see it all!” cried Annabelle, and then sensed a stiffness and reserve in her companion and wondered what she had said to upset him.
Lord Varleigh was thinking how Lady Jane had thrived in Paris among the indolent, pleasure-loving crowd. There were no gentlemen and certainly no ladies. Even Napoleon himself, now exiled on Elba, had observed, “They are all rascals.” Her rapacious demands for money, for clothes and jewels, and gold for gambling,had increased. She had gained a great deal of weight from sampling all the gastronomic delights of Very’s, Hardis, and the Quadron Bleu, even breakfasting greedily with intending duellists at Tortoni’s off pâtés, game, fish, broiled kidneys, iced champagne and liqueurs.
He had finally told her the liaison was at an end, and a horrendous scene: had followed. She had accused him of being in love with Annabelle Quennell. She had torn her hair like a madwoman and uttered threats against Annabelle’s life. Never had he had to extract himself from an affair with such scenes of ranting and raving.
Now all he wanted to do was walk in the English garden in the failing light under the old cedars with this quiet girl on his aim and breath in the peace. He told himself he felt a fatherly affection for Annabelle and put down his feeling of well-being to being safely back home away from foreign scenes and foreign voices.
“It is time I settled down,” he said quietly, and Annabelle’s heart missed a beat. A nightingale sang from the bushes, a clear heartrending melody, and the sky dimmed from pale green to dark blue.
“I feel I have neglected my estates for too long,” he went on, “and I am weary of the social round. But tell me about yourself,” he added in a
Annabelle told him her good news, trying to keep the surprise from her face. This was one member of society at least who did not: seem to be worried about infection.
“Then that is good news,” he said, smiling down at her in such a way that her heart gave a wrench. “Come and walk with me in the garden and tell me all the latest on-dits.”
“I fear I am sadly out of touch,” said Annabelle, moving out through the windows and onto the mossy terrace. “I would rather hear your news of Paris. Was it very exciting?”
“Depressing, rather,” said Lord Varleigh, tucking her small hand in his arm. “It was like stepping back into the last century.”
He went on to describe the dark streets, ankle-deep in mud and filled with grimacing, posturing blackguards.She was filled with horror as he described the filthy theaters where even the rich spat on the floor and used their knives as toothpicks and were crammed to capacity, their Napoleonic inscriptions painted over with fleurs-de-lis.
Paris, said Lord Varleigh, showed no signs of being a conquered capital or the French of being a conquered race. On the night after the allies’ entry, he was told that the theaters and public gardens were packed as if nothing had happened. The cynical French were impenitent at the suffering they had caused. There indifference to death remained the same. At Montmartre, where the Russians stormed their way into Paris over the bodies of the boys of the Military College, corpses were carefully preserved for sightseers, and houses pitted with bullets bore notices, “Ici on voit la bataille pour deux sous!” “Here one can see the battle for two sous!”
Despite his dislike of the worldy Parisians, Lord Varleigh said he could not help but be impressed by Napoleon’s great public buildings. It was like another world, he told the fascinated Annabelle, to find all this order and splendor in the middle of a dark medieval jungle of twisted streets and filthy houses.
He praised the splendid prospect from the summit of the Elysian fields with the road descending through masses of trees to the Tuileries. Incredible!
“How I should love to see it all!” cried Annabelle, and then sensed a stiffness and reserve in her companion and wondered what she had said to upset him.
Lord Varleigh was thinking how Lady Jane had thrived in Paris among the indolent, pleasure-loving crowd. There were no gentlemen and certainly no ladies. Even Napoleon himself, now exiled on Elba, had observed, “They are all rascals.” Her rapacious demands for money, for clothes and jewels, and gold for gambling,had increased. She had gained a great deal of weight from sampling all the gastronomic delights of Very’s, Hardis, and the Quadron Bleu, even breakfasting greedily with intending duellists at Tortoni’s off pâtés, game, fish, broiled kidneys, iced champagne and liqueurs.
He had finally told her the liaison was at an end, and a horrendous scene: had followed. She had accused him of being in love with Annabelle Quennell. She had torn her hair like a madwoman and uttered threats against Annabelle’s life. Never had he had to extract himself from an affair with such scenes of ranting and raving.
Now all he wanted to do was walk in the English garden in the failing light under the old cedars with this quiet girl on his aim and breath in the peace. He told himself he felt a fatherly affection for Annabelle and put down his feeling of well-being to being safely back home away from foreign scenes and foreign voices.
“It is time I settled down,” he said quietly, and Annabelle’s heart missed a beat. A nightingale sang from the bushes, a clear heartrending melody, and the sky dimmed from pale green to dark blue.
“I feel I have neglected my estates for too long,” he went on, “and I am weary of the social round. But tell me about yourself,” he added in a
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