Barbara in Brittany Part 10

The young man laughed.

"Pardon me, you are wrong, for I am an American."

Barbara's cheeks could hardly grow more flushed, but she felt uncomfortably hot.

"I am so sorry," she stammered, getting up hurriedly; "I really thought it was an Englishman, and felt--at home, you know."

"Please continue to think so if it makes you any happier; and--I think you had better stay a little longer before going on--the fellow might be waiting farther down the road."

Barbara subsided again. She had no desire to have any further encounter with the French cyclist.

Meanwhile, the stranger had taken one or two rapid glances at her, and the surprise on his face grew. "Where are the rest of the party?" he asked presently.

"The rest of the party has gone on by train," and Barbara laughed.

"Poor party, it would be so horribly alarmed if it could see me now. I always seem to be alarming it."

"I don't wonder, if it is always as careless as on the present occasion. Whatever possessed he, she, or it, to let you come along by yourself like this? It was most culpably careless."

"Oh, no, indeed. It is what I have been begging for since I came to Brittany--indeed it is. She gave me _most_ careful directions as to what turnings to take"--and Barbara repeated them merrily--"it was only that I was silly enough to take the wrong one. And now I really must be getting on, or poor Mademoiselle Therese will be distracted.

Please, does this road lead to Dol?"

"Dol?" he repeated quickly. "Yes, certainly. I am just going there, and--and intend to pa.s.s the night in the place. I'm on a walking tour, and--if you don't mind walking--I know there's a short cut that would be almost as quick as cycling; the high road is a good distance off yet."

Barbara hesitated. The fear of meeting any more tramps was strong upon her, and her present companion had a frank, honest face, and steady gray eyes.

"I don't want Mademoiselle Therese to be frightened by being any later than necessary," she said doubtfully.

"I really think this will be as quick as the other road--if you will trust me," he returned. And Barbara yielded.

It certainly was a very pretty way, leading across the fields and through a beech wood, and they managed to lift the bicycle over the gates without any difficulty. The girl was a little surprised by the unerring manner in which her companion seemed to go forward without even once consulting a map; but when she complimented him on the fact he looked a little uncomfortable, and a.s.sured her that he had an excellent head for "direction."

It was very nice meeting some one who was "almost an Englishman," and they talked gaily all the time, till the square tower of Dol Cathedral came into view--one of the grandest, her guide a.s.sured her, that he had seen in Brittany. They had just entered the outskirts of the town when they pa.s.sed a little _auberge_, where the innkeeper was standing at the door. He stared very hard at them, then lifted his hat, and cried with surprise, "Back again, monsieur; why, I thought you were half way to St. Malo by this time."

Then the truth struck Barbara in a flash, and she had only to look at her companion's face to know she was right.

"You were going the other way," she cried--"of course you were--and you turned back on my account. No wonder you knew your way through the wood!"

He gave an embarra.s.sed laugh. "I'm sorry--I really did not mean to deceive you exactly. I _have_ a good head for 'direction.'"

"And you came all that long way back with me I It _was_ good of you. I really----"

But he interrupted her. "Please don't give me thanks when I don't deserve them. This town is such a quaint old place I am quite glad to spend the night here. And--I really think you ought not to go hither and thither without the rest of the party--I don't think your aunt would like it. The house you want is straight ahead." Then he took off his cap and turned away, and Barbara never remembered, until he had gone, that though he had seen her name on the label on her bicycle she did not know his.

She christened him, therefore, the "American Pretender," firstly, because he looked like an Englishman, and secondly, because he pretended to be going where he was not. After all, she was not very much behind her time, and, fortunately, Mademoiselle Therese had been so interested in the lawyer's conversation that she had not worried about her. Barbara did not speak of her encounter with the cyclist, but merely said she had got out of her way a little, and had found a kind American who had helped her to find it; which explanation quite satisfied "the party."

The lawyer's chateau, as it was called, seemed to Barbara to be very like what French houses must have been long ago, and she imagined grand ladies of the Empire time sweeping up the long flight of steps to the terrace, and across the polished floors. The _salon_, with its thick terra-cotta paper, and gilded chairs set in stiff rows along the walls, fascinated her too, and she half expected the lady of the house to come in, clad in heavy brocade of ancient pattern. But everything about the lady of the house was very modern, and Barbara thought Mademoiselle Therese's garments had never looked so ugly. The girl enjoyed sitting down to a meal which was really well served, and she found that the lawyer, though clever, was by no means alarming, and that his wife made a very charming hostess.

Mademoiselle Therese was radiating pride and triumph at having been able to introduce her charge into such a "distinguished" family, and as each dish was brought upon the table, she shot a glance across at Barbara as much as to say, "See what we can do!--these are _my_ friends!"

Poor Mademoiselle Therese! After all, when she enjoyed such things so much, it was a pity, Barbara thought, that she could not have them at home.

She was enjoying, too, discussing various matters with the lawyer, for discussion was to her like the very breath of life.

"She will discuss with the cat if there is no one else by," her sister had once said dryly, "and will argue with Death when he comes to fetch her."

At present the topic was schools, and Barbara and Madame Dubois sat quietly by, listening.

"I am not learned," madame whispered to the girl, with a little shrug, "and I know that nothing she can say will shake my husband's opinion--therefore, I let her speak."

Mademoiselle was very anxious that his little girl should go to school, and was pointing out the advantages of such education to the lawyer.

The latter smiled incredulously. "Would you have me send her to the convent school, where they use the same-knife and fork all the week round, and wash them only once a week?" he asked contemptuously.

"No," mademoiselle agreed. "As you know, Marie used to be there, and learned very little--nothing much, except to sew. No, I would not send her to the convent school. But there are others. A young English friend of mine, now--Mademoiselle Barbara knows her too--she is at a very select establishment--just about six girls--and so well watched and cared for."

Barbara looked up quickly. She wondered if she dared interrupt and say she did not think it was such an ideal place, when the lawyer spoke before her.

"_Parbleu!_" he said with a laugh, "I should prefer the convent! There at least the religion is honest, but--with those ladies you mention--there is deceit. They pretend to be what they are not."

"Oh, but no!" Mademoiselle Therese exclaimed. "Why, they _are_ Protestants."

The lawyer shrugged his shoulders.

"Believe it if you will, my dear friend, but we lawyers know most things, and I know that what I say is true. When my little Helene goes to school she shall not go to such. Meanwhile, I am content to keep her at home."

"So am I," murmured Madame Dubois. "Schools are such vulgar places, are they not?"

But Barbara, to whom the remark was addressed, was too much interested in this last piece of news to do more than answer shortly. For if what the lawyer said were true--and he did not seem a man likely to make mistakes--then Alice Meynell might really have sufficient cause to be miserable, and Barbara wondered when she would see her again, which was to be sooner than she expected.

CHAPTER XI.

BARBARA TURNS PLOTTER.

The day after her expedition to Dol, Barbara saw Alice Meynell again, and in rather a strange meeting-place--namely, the public bath-house.

The house in which the Loires lived was an old-fas.h.i.+oned one, and had no bath, and at first Barbara had looked with horror upon the bath-house. She had become more reconciled to it of late, and, as it was the only means of obtaining a hot bath, had tried to make the best of it. It was a funny little place, entered by a narrow pa.s.sage, at one end of which there was a booking-office, and a swing door, where you could buy a "season-ticket," or pay for each visit separately.

On one side of the pa.s.sage there were rows of little bathrooms, containing what Barbara thought the narrowest most uncomfortable baths imaginable. A boy in felt slippers ran up and down, turning on the water, and a woman sat working at a little table at one end--"to see you did not steal the towels," Barbara declared. It was here she met Alice Meynell, under the care of an old attendant, whom the girl said she knew was a spy sent to report everything she said or did.

"Mademoiselle, who came with me to call the other day, has taken a great dislike to you," Alice whispered hurriedly in pa.s.sing; "and when I asked if I might go to see you again, said, 'No, it was such a pity to talk English when I was here to learn French.' I am _quite_ determined to run away."

The boy announced that the bath was ready, and the old attendant, putting her watch on the table, said--

"Be quick, mademoiselle. Only twenty minutes, you know."

Before leaving the place, Barbara managed to get a moment's speech, in which she begged Alice not to do anything until they met again, and meanwhile she would try hard to think of some plan to make things easier; for the girl really looked very desperate, and Barbara had so often acted as the confidante of her own brother and sister that she was accustomed to playing the part of comforter.