Unfinished Portrait. Агата Кристи

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      The incident remained one of those inexplicable ones where grown-ups fuss about nothing at all.

      Celia would, of course, have to learn French. Cyril had a young Frenchman who came every day. For Celia a young lady was engaged to take her for walks every day and talk French. The lady was actually English, the daughter of the proprietor of the English bookshop, but she had lived her whole life in Pau and spoke French as easily as English.

      Miss Leadbetter was a young lady of extreme refinement. Her English was mincing and clipped. She spoke slowly, with condescending kindness.

      ‘See, Celia, that is a shop where they bake bread. A boulangerie.’

      ‘Yes, Miss Leadbetter.’

      ‘Look, Celia, there is a little dog crossing the road. Un chien qui traverse la rue. Qu’est-ce qu’il fait? That means, what is he doing?’

      Miss Leadbetter had not been happy in this last attempt. Dogs are indelicate creatures apt to bring a blush to the cheek of ultra-refined young women. This particular dog stopping crossing the road and engaged in other activities.

      ‘I don’t know how to say what he is doing in French,’ said Celia.

      ‘Look the other way, dear,’ said Miss Leadbetter. ‘It’s not very nice. That is a church in front of us. Voilà une église.’

      The walks were long, boring, and monotonous.

      After a fortnight, Celia’s mother got rid of Miss Leadbetter.

      ‘An impossible young woman,’ she said to her husband. ‘She could make the most exciting thing in the world seem dull.’

      Celia’s father agreed. He said the child would never learn French except from a Frenchwoman. Celia did not much like the idea of a Frenchwoman. She had a good insular distrust of all foreigners. Still, if it was only for walks … Her mother said that she was sure she would like Mademoiselle Mauhourat very much. It struck Celia as an extraordinarily funny name.

      Mademoiselle Mauhourat was tall and big. She always wore dresses made with a number of little capes which swung about and knocked things over on tables.

      Celia was of opinion that Nannie would have said she ‘flounced’.

      Mademoiselle Mauhourat was very voluble and very affectionate.

      ‘Oh, la chère mignonne!’ cried Mademoiselle Mauhourat, ‘la chère petite mignonne.’ She knelt down in front of Celia and laughed in an engaging manner into her face. Celia remained very British and stolid and disliked this very much. It made her feel embarrassed.

      ‘Nous allons nous amuser. Ah, comme nous allons nous amuser!’

      Again there were walks. Mademoiselle Mauhourat talked without ceasing, and Celia endured politely the flow of meaningless words. Mademoiselle Mauhourat was very kind—the kinder she was the more Celia disliked her.

      After ten days Celia got a cold. She was slightly feverish.

      ‘I think you’d better not go out today,’ said her mother. ‘Mademoiselle can amuse you here.’

      ‘No,’ burst out Celia. ‘No. Send her away. Send her away.’

      Her mother looked at her attentively. It was a look Celia knew well—a queer, luminous, searching look. She said quietly:

      ‘Very well, darling, I will.’

      ‘Don’t even let her come in here,’ implored Celia.

      But at that moment the door of the sitting room opened and Mademoiselle, very much becaped, entered.

      Celia’s mother spoke to her in French. Mademoiselle uttered exclamations of chagrin and sympathy.

      ‘Ah, la pauvre mignonne,’ she cried when Celia’s mother had finished. She plopped down in front of Celia. ‘La pauvre, pauvre mignonne.’

      Celia glanced appealingly at her mother. She made terrible faces at her. ‘Send her away,’ the faces said, ‘send her away.’

      Fortunately at that moment one of Mademoiselle Mauhourat’s many capes knocked over a vase of flowers, and her whole attention was absorbed by apologies.

      When she had finally left the room, Celia’s mother said gently:

      ‘Darling, you shouldn’t have made those faces. Mademoiselle Mauhourat was only meaning to be kind. You would have hurt her feelings.’

      Celia looked at her mother in surprise.

      ‘But, Mummy,’ she said, ‘they were English faces.’

      She didn’t understand why her mother laughed so much.

      That evening Miriam said to her husband:

      ‘This woman’s no good, either. Celia doesn’t like her. I wonder—’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Nothing,’ said Miriam. ‘I was thinking of a girl in the dressmaker’s today.’

      The next time she went to be fitted she spoke to the girl. She was only one of the apprentices; her job was to stand by holding pins. She was about nineteen, with dark hair neatly piled up in a chignon, a snub nose, and a rosy, good-humoured face.

      Jeanne was very astonished when the English lady spoke to her and asked her whether she would like to come to England. It depended, she said, on what Maman thought. Miriam asked for her mother’s address. Jeanne’s father and mother kept a small café—very neat and clean. Madame Beaugé listened in great surprise to the English lady’s proposal. To act as lady’s-maid and look after a little girl? Jeanne had very little experience—she was rather awkward and clumsy. Berthe now, her elder daughter—but it was Jeanne the English lady wanted. M. Beaugé was called in for consultation. He said they must not stand in Jeanne’s way. The wages were good, much better than Jeanne got in the dressmaking establishment.

      Three days later Jeanne, very nervous and elated, came to take up her duties. She was rather frightened of the little English girl she was to look after. She did not know any English. She learnt a phrase and said it hopefully. ‘Good morning—mees.’

      Alas, so peculiar was Jeanne’s accent that Celia did not understand. The toilet proceeded in silence. Celia and Jeanne eyed each other like strange dogs. Jeanne brushed Celia’s curls round her fingers. Celia never stopped staring at her.

      ‘Mummy,’ said Celia at breakfast, ‘doesn’t Jeanne talk any English at all?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘How funny.’

      ‘Do you like Jeanne?’

      ‘She’s got a very funny face,’ said Celia. She thought a minute. ‘Tell her to brush my hair harder.’

      At the end of three weeks Celia and Jeanne could understand each other. At the end of the fourth week they met a herd of cows when out on СКАЧАТЬ