Meudon, Hauts-de-Seine, France
November 2013
The biographies of Daphne du Maurier state that the finishing school she attended was “located in Camposena, a village near Meudon.” Camposena … As a Frenchwoman, I can’t help smiling at the Italian-sounding name. If there had been a village with that name anywhere near Meudon, I would know about it.
I find the answer in the Hauts-de-Seine departmental archives. The Villa Camposenea (not Camposena) was located at 25 Rue de l’Orphelinat (formerly the main street of the village of Fleury), now known as Rue du Père-Brottier, in Meudon. I also obtain a list from the 1926 population census providing me with the name of each person working at the finishing school at that date. Meudon’s communal archives send me a precise description of the place and the land registers, as well as some photographs: the property was constructed in Fleury in the eighteenth century; it belonged to Armand-Gaston Camus, the founder of the national archives, and then to the famous printer Charles Panckoucke. The mayor of Clamart, Jules Hunebelle, took possession of the house in 1860 and had it extended.
The dancer Isadora Duncan, states the same document, lived there in 1902, and the finishing school, directed by Mrs. Hubbard, and then by Mrs. Wicksteed, was situated there between 1921 and 1934. After that (and this greatly amuses me) it was taken over by a community of nudists. The lot, consisting of “a main residence, a large circular greenhouse, an orangery, a stable, a shed, a concierge’s house, in very poor condition, surface area of three hectares 47 acres,” was sold by the Hunebelle heirs in 1943 to the commune of Meudon. The entire place was razed to the ground in 1950 in order to construct the apartment buildings of the “Fleury park.”
I walk past these unattractive, gray, cubic buildings and wonder if the wide driveway lined with lime trees was saved at the last minute before the demolition took place. A pair of stone angels decorates the gardens of Meudon’s art and history museum. In the old days, the angels sat atop pillars at the entrance to the Panckoucke-Hunebelle property. Apart from them, nothing remains of the original residence. Daphne would not have liked what Camposonea has become, nine decades later.
* * *
Here, they don’t call her Daphne, but Madamoiselle du Maurier. She loves hearing her name pronounced this way, à la française, and she thinks that Kicky would have loved it, too. She arrived at the station in Bellevue on January 19, 1925. Meudon and Fleury reminded her oddly of Hampstead, with its steep slopes, its affluent houses, its well-kept gardens. What does she know about Meudon? Not much, except that her compatriot Alfred Sisley never tired of painting the changing reflections on the Seine and that Wagner composed his Flying Dutchman here. Obviously, it is not Paris, but the capital city and its wonders are only a half-hour train journey away.
Inside a wooded garden, the Villa Camposonea, situated at the end of a long driveway bordered by lime trees, is a tall, pale house with a small clock tower and a bartizan. Daphne instantly likes its Gothic appearance. Mrs. Wicksteed, the manager of the establishment—a cheerful, gray-haired lady in her fifties—welcomes her new student warmly. It is a beautiful day, not too cold, and Mrs. Wicksteed decides to make the most of this to show the young lady around the park. Mrs. Wicksteed tells her about one of the house’s previous owners, Mrs. Panckoucke, first name Ernestine, a pretty brunette painted by Ingres who used to receive celebrities here such as Alfred de Musset and Berlioz. Daphne listens, blank faced. No doubt Mrs. Wicksteed guesses that, behind this new student’s haughty, almost arrogant appearance (that determined chin raised like a shield!) lies a pathological shyness. This is the first time, she knows, that Daphne has left home. Mrs. Wicksteed embarks on a story, explaining that the Panckoucke household entertained their guests with “constructions” set up in the park, few of which remain. She describes the Tell chapel, the Polynesian hut, the grotto built with rocks from Fontainebleau, the Chinese pavilion with dragons and pagodas at the top of the hill, and she congratulates herself when Daphne finally smiles, charmed by this nostalgic description.
In the long room on the first floor, which must have witnessed the most glorious moments of Mrs. Panckoucke’s era, and whose stained-glass windows are now faded, its tapestries tattered, its chandeliers covered with dust, Mrs. Wicksteed eagerly introduces her team: the servants, and the twenty-five young boarders, most of whom are English. The school’s headmistress, Mlle Yvon, her right-hand woman (pretty green eyes); Mrs. Evans, the (rather stiff) governess; Miss Engler, the (somewhat strict-looking) music teacher; Mr. Baissac, the guard; Mr. and Mrs. Sassisson, the cooks; Miss Chassagniole, the tough laundrywoman; Marcel, the groom (watch out for him); then Yvonne, Adrienne, Lucienne, Marguerite, the maids, and other, more humble servants who are not named. Next come Daphne’s new classmates, all so bland and nondescript, so lacking in panache and style. Thank goodness her dear Doodie is there, with her impish smile.
Daphne is disappointed to discover, during the first meal in the freezing-cold dining room, that the illustrious du Maurier name carries no weight at Camposonea—no one seems impressed by it—because there are a plethora of aristocratic young ladies here, princesses, countesses, heiresses, and she feels invisible. Not easy, either, to become accustomed to this communal life, particularly for a girl such as Daphne, who has known only the quiet comforts of her childhood homes and the occasional luxury hotel. She must get used to her noisy classmates with their jokes, their cliques, their barely interesting manners.
She is not bothered by sleeping with Doodie, but by the room itself, which is, she complains in a letter to Tod, as bare as a maid’s quarters: no carpet, and the drawers in the chests all squeak. As for the temperature in the building here, she finds it icy cold, and they don’t even have the right to light a fire. She has always been sensitive to the cold: How will she survive? As it is, she has to jump up and down every night before she goes to bed just to warm herself up a bit, watched by the giggling Doodie, and to sleep all bundled up in her fur coat.
The first few nights go badly. A distant, but still too loud, bell rings every fifteen minutes, and the roosters on a neighboring farm crow their heads off at the crack of dawn. Weary and drawn, Daphne stares through the window. It is not yet daylight. She has a view over the white cottages of Fleury’s winemakers and, beyond those, the roofs of a large manor house that is home to the Saint-Philippe orphanage. How is she going to adapt to this new life? The morning ablutions are unspeakably barbarous: cold water in a cracked basin, and each boarder must make her own bed! Never in all her life has Mlle du Maurier made her own bed. And she’s not about to start now.
In the room next door are two younger girls, one of whom is a clumsy oaf named Henrietta, one of the few to have been impressed by the du Maurier name. In the blink of an eye, Daphne sweet-talks, charms, and enslaves her. From that point on, Henrietta will, very discreetly, make Daphne’s bed for her every morning. As for the cold, Daphne complains about it so much to Muriel that her mother pays a supplementary fee to the school’s management in order that Daphne and Doodie be allowed to light a fire in their room. Adrienne, the young maid, comes in to light it every morning.
Another downer is the formal prohibition on walking anywhere other than in the Camposenea park. An enthusiastic walker, used to invigorating hikes on the Heath, Daphne rails against this confinement. And her list of grievances grows longer: she doesn’t like Mr. and Mrs. Sassisson’s cooking and barely touches her meals. Is she being difficult in order to get attention? Maybe. She also complains about the timetable: the “inhuman” wake-up call at 7:15, prayers at 7:50, breakfast at 8:00, music at 9:45, classes from 10:15 until noon, the too-early lunch, and all those bells ringing at the most ungodly hours. An affectionate telegram sent by the actress and close family friend Gladys Cooper makes her smile: Fondest love darling, thinking of you, Glads.
But the worst thing is the humiliation Daphne suffers in her French course. There are four classes in Camposenea. In the First group are the “elite,” the five or six most brilliant students, who speak perfect French. Next is the Second A class for those just below this level, then Second B for those with “passable” French, and Third for girls whose French is below average. After a test, which Daphne thinks she has aced, she finds herself in Second B. This is a blow to her pride. She, a du Maurier, with French blood flowing in her veins! It’s unbelievable.
The only parts of this new existence that excite her are the weekly outings to Paris. The young boarders, accompanied by Mlle Yvon and Miss Engeler, take the train to Bellevue in a group and go to visit the Louvre, the Comédie-Française, the Opéra. Daphne, who is not especially musical, gets a shock when she hears Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring, conducted by the composer himself. That evening, in their room, while Doodie dances to a ragtime tune on the gramophone, Daphne writes in her journal, attempting to describe this strange, modern music that seemed to transport her to another world, then begins a letter to Tod. Don’t you love Paris? With its cobbled streets, shrieking taxis and wonderful lights and chic little women and dago*-like men with broad-rimmed trilby hats? I think that the Place de la Concorde, at night, after it’s been raining, with all the lights, is too wonderful, it’s all quite divine.2
One evening in February 1925, on the train back to Versailles, Daphne sits opposite Mlle Yvon, the headmistress, a small, plump woman in her thirties with very dark hair and green, almond-shaped eyes. She speaks fluent English, with a strong French accent, and this only adds to her charm. A lively, sophisticated woman, she attracts a court of admirers from among the girls; in fact, Daphne realizes, the majority of the students seem spellbound by Mlle Yvon’s ironic humor and sparkling smile. To begin with, after Daphne arrived at Camposenea, the headmistress’s charm somehow passed her by, but now, here on the train, as Mlle Yvon’s eyes rest on her—just for a few seconds—Daphne feels a strange pang, a sensation she had forgotten.
Mlle Yvon teaches only the Firsts, the elite students, an exclusive club over which she reigns supreme. The Firsts have the right to eat dinner at the same table as Mrs. Wicksteed, Miss Engeler, and Mlle Yvon, while all the other students must sit with one another. After the meal is over, Mlle Yvon and her favorites go to the “back room,” a space reserved especially for them. The other students have to content themselves with dancing on the mezzanine or stifling their yawns as Mrs. Wicksteed reads to them out loud.
Above the sound of the music and Mrs. Wicksteed’s quavering voice, Daphne pricks up her ears toward the “back room,” listening out for every burst of laughter, every shout. Often one of the elite girls runs out in tears, face bright red, and another quickly follows to console her and bring her back. But what are they up to? Daphne wonders in a whisper directed at Doodie and her friend Sheila. It’s the truth game, which they play with Mlle Yvon. Apparently, it’s pretty strong stuff: you need nerves of steel.
Weeks pass, and Daphne quietly seethes. Why isn’t she part of the group that goes to the “back room” after dinner? Why must she make do with these deadly dull evenings listening to Mrs. Wicksteed’s readings? Because she’s not in the group of Firsts? It’s so unfair. Doodie is friends with two of the elite girls, but according to her it’s impossible to even try to get into that closed group. Not that she minds: Doodie and Sheila seem perfectly happy with their dances on the mezzanine and their meaningless chatter with the Seconds and Thirds.
Daphne looks at herself in the mirror one morning, standing proudly at five feet three inches tall. She is a du Maurier, after all: her grandfather and her father would never have been afraid to enter that famous back room, to take part in their game, so what is she waiting for? Her father would have gone in nonchalantly, all charm. A boy’s voice whispers in her ear. The voice of Eric Avon, ousted so long ago. Go on, Daph; you can do it. What do those girls have that you don’t? You’re the prettiest of all of them, and you’ve seen how Mlle Yvon looked at you, on the Versailles train. She’s watching you with those cat eyes of hers; you know she is; you can see it; she’s waiting for you to go and join them. Don’t be frightened.
That evening, with a supreme insouciance that Gerald would have approved of, Daphne carefully chooses a book from the library—Women in the 18th Century by the Goncourt brothers—and makes a spectacular entrance into the “back room,” walking in calmly, sitting on one of the chairs, and beginning to read. The conversation comes to a halt and the little group sitting in front of the fireplace stares at her. Their gazes are openly hostile. All of them wait for Mlle Yvon to ask this interloper to leave. But the headmistress’s deep voice sounds welcoming, amused. Come close to the fire, my child.
It’s a triumph.
Daphne is now part of the elite, and the other young girls must simply accept it, because Mlle Yvon seems to consider her the favorite of all her favorites. In Daphne’s private journal, Mlle Yvon’s first name appears very often. Fernande. Daphne’s lessons, the outings to the Louvre and the Opéra … all these things are relegated to the background. The essential thing, from now on, is to be close to her, at meals, during visits to Paris, to be next to Fernande, at her right or her left, and what does it matter if the others notice this devotion and giggle about it? Half the girls in Camposenea have a crush on Mlle Yvon, after all. To comfort her, Doodie admits to having a weakness for Miss Vincent, the new red-haired teacher. Daphne questions herself, pouring her heart out in her journal. Crushes are the kind of thing her sister Angela has, rather ridiculously falling under the spell of almost everyone she meets, male or female.
Falling asleep in her sparsely furnished bedroom, hearing only the regular breathing of Doodie and that bell ringing every quarter of an hour, Daphne thinks about Fernande Yvon, about her theatricality, her sophistication. On waking in the morning, her first thought is for Mlle Yvon, asleep on the second floor, just above her, in the apartments reserved for the school’s management. What is Mlle Yvon’s life like? What secrets does she keep? Daphne wants to know everything about her. This desire consumes her, gnaws at her, and she knows that all of this is much, much more than a mere crush: it is fascination, it is adoration, it has turned into obsession.
One evening, Mlle Yvon accidentally drops her handkerchief on the mezzanine. Daphne discreetly picks it up. What a precious relic, this still-warm handkerchief, steeped in her scent. During an outing to Paris, Daphne buys a light, lemony eau de toilette, and pours a few drops onto the handkerchief. Later, in the back room, she hands the little cloth square back to the headmistress with a sort of courtly gallantry, like a gentleman spreading his cape over a muddy puddle so that his beloved may pass over it without dirtying herself.
Daphne’s days revolve around Mlle Yvon’s reactions. If Fernande pays her no attention, if she seems preoccupied, Daphne is dismayed; if she sends her a look of complicity, one of her devastating smiles, Daphne feels like singing and dancing on the lawn under the spring sun that shines down on Fleury.
Several times, she is bedridden by colds; hardly a surprise, as Daphne has always been fragile. She receives little gifts from her friends: books, chocolates. But what give her the most pleasure are the handwritten notes from Fernande Yvon, signed F.Y., slipped beneath her door. One day, picking up one of these cards from the floor, she is the recipient of an unctuous smile from Marcel the groom, who is always lurking where you least expect him. He asks her if everything is all right. She glares at him disdainfully. What’s it to him? In almost perfect French, she replies that everything is fine, thank you, and slams the door in his face, holding the precious card to her heart.
In April 1925, Daphne returns to Cannon Hall for the Easter holidays. Her parents are struck by how different she is: distant, mysterious, and thinner (and she had no need to lose weight). Her face is pale, her eyes dreamy. Her sisters are in on the secret: Daphne has told them about Mlle Yvon and what an important part of her life she has become. To her parents, she says nothing. She spends hours on end in her room, writing in her journal. She stands in the hall, waiting impatiently for the mailman every morning, and the only mail that matters to her are those letters from the other side of the Channel, the envelopes covered with French stamps and that instantly recognizable handwriting. She counts the days before her return to Camposenea. But didn’t Daphne originally want to stay for just one more term? No, she wants to stay until the end of the year, to perfect her French, to master her grandfather’s native language. Has she made new friends? Yes, lots of friends, she says nonchalantly. A secret smile. They know nothing. They must never know anything.
At Camposenea, spring has arrived, and Daphne finds Meudon and Fleury overflowing with greenery, flowers, scents. When she walks down Rue Banès to the train station, she always admires the houses that neighbor Camposenea: the villa La Source, with its lofty pediment and its orangeries, the Marbeau property and its chapel, the Villa Paumier and its immense gardens, its elm-lined paths.
On warm evenings, after dinner, Mlle Yvon takes her Firsts to the back of the villa, up the hill, close to the remains of Mrs. Panckoucke’s Chinese pavilion. There, they can sit down and contemplate the view of Paris. The air is deliciously perfumed. Here, the truth game takes on another dimension: the questions are intimate, unnerving. If you were invisible, what is the first thing you would do? What is the most foolish thing you have ever done? If you were a meal, what would you be, and how should you be eaten? What is your most shameful dream? Have you ever swum naked? When was the last time you cried, and why? If you were a man, what is the first thing you would do? Who is your favorite person at Villa Camposenea?
Some girls turn white, or scarlet, and flee. Mlle Yvon snorts with laughter, her bright red fingernails covering her pretty mouth like a fan. My God, how timid these English girls are! All except for Miss du Maurier. That flint-sharp look in her blue eyes, that resolute chin, no, she is not afraid of anything, that one, and yet she still has all the charms of a girl of noble breeding, her finesse, her femininity. No question shocks or intimidates her; she gives as good as she gets with her replies, so assured and provocative, and then asks questions that disarm even the boldest of the other girls.
Tod is the only one who knows about the next stage of their relationship. Daphne is less open with her sisters, saving all her secrets for the letters she writes to her former governess, in which she admits her deep crush for Mlle Yvon. Could the headmistress be “Venetian”?* she wonders. It certainly seems that way! Mlle Yvon turns up in their bedroom most unexpectedly and is at her most alluring in the taxi on their way home from the opera. She even goes so far as to embrace the young girl in the backseat, something Daphne finds simultaneously sordid and thrilling. Oh yes, Daphne has been lured straight into the net, and she describes it all rapturously to Tod. Is it love? There is something secret, clandestine, compartmentalized about it: a whirlwind of intimate emotions, a powerful current that surges constantly, but of which she must not allow anything to show on the surface, about which she must say nothing, let nothing slip out; it is in the same disturbing, arousing vein as what she went through four years earlier with her cousin Geoffrey, an experience she has never forgotten. Some of the girls are jealous of her closeness with Mlle Yvon. Daphne has noticed those sideways looks, those whispers, that suspicion.
The finishing school will soon close its doors for the summer, and Daphne is filled with apprehension at the thought of this: How will she cope without the presence of the woman she now calls Ferdie? Daphne has seen her every day now for nearly six months, in classes, in the corridors, on outings, in the back room, at meals, and yet she is never alone with Mlle Yvon. Only in her journal does she dare to describe all her feelings, unburden herself freely of this passion. In her letters to Mlle Yvon she shyly attempts to reveal, without saying anything overtly, a hint of the fizzing effervescence she feels; she writes these letters in French, as best she can, taking care over her spelling, her grammar. Mlle Yvon responds to these letters with a simple look—a brief, discreet look, to which the others are oblivious—but in those green eyes is a promise that Daphne intercepts and treasures.
A wild hope is born in Daphne when Mlle Yvon suggests she come to spend a few weeks at the end of July in the Massif Central, where Ferdie is going for a treatment. Would Daphne care to go with her? Accompanying Ferdie to a spa resort in Auvergne? Is she dreaming? She immediately writes a letter to her parents, making clear the advantages of going on vacation with her headmistress. After all, what could be better for the progress of her French? To Gerald and Muriel’s stupefaction, she happily gives up the prospect of a vacation in the sun of Capri and Naples in favor of studiously following Mlle Yvon to La Bourboule.
* * *
Daphne still can’t quite believe it. There she is, in the middle of summer, at an altitude of over twenty-five hundred feet, her lungs filled with pure air, looking down on the misty mountaintops of the Massif de Sancy, with Fernande Yvon by her side. Daphne’s parents gave in so easily. In one of her most recent letters, her mother tells Daphne she thinks it an excellent idea, this studious vacation in La Bourboule; Mo has been told by her dear friends the P. family that it is a charming place and so fashionable: Sacha Guitry, Buster Keaton, all the top people go there. Daphne must write to tell her all about it! Daphne smiles as she replies to her mother’s letter. The Italian mail is slow, and letters from her family arrive in Auvergne in dribs and drabs, while hers take a long time to reach her parents in Capri.
She is free. Never before has she felt like this, so independent. Every morning, Fernande goes off for her treatments at the Grands Thermes, a large gray building topped with surprising Oriental-style domes. What kind of treatment is Fernande having, exactly? Daphne doesn’t know and Fernande has not told her. This adds to the mystery. While she waits for her friend’s return, Daphne writes to her sisters, to Tod, and then fills pages and pages in her journal. Later, she goes for a walk in the town’s peaceful, flower-lined streets, where she admires all the elegantly dressed people strolling around. She visits the neo-Romantic church built in white lava, the former casino with its pagoda-style roof that has been converted into the mayor’s office. She crosses a bridge over the Vendeix, her fingers brushing the mosaics on its parapets. She sits on a bench and basks in the sunlight. She observes the tall sandstone façade of the Grand Hotel Metropole, with its black pointed rooftops, and spots her room, up there, on the fifth floor, with the wrought-iron balcony. She remembers the train journey that brought them here, her and Fernande. It was the first time Daphne had gone on such a long trip with someone who did not belong to her family. They’d had to catch a train at Austerlitz station and then, eight hours later, change at Clermont-Ferrand to take another, smaller one, which took them to the station here. Daphne watched the countryside move past, glorying in the wild, mountainous landscape. She had never seen the center of France before, imagined that even her grandfather had never ventured as far as these green peaks.
They arrived at the hotel late and rather tired. She recalls her first dinner, alone with Fernande, far from Camposenea, far from everything. In the dining room, filled with the hubbub of conversations among the well-dressed guests, they ate a plate of Auvergne cheeses, a salad, and thin slices of local cured meat. Fernande, as talkative as ever, had made her laugh with her puns on the name Bourboule, inspired—according to their maître d’—by the Celtic name of the god of spring waters, a certain Borvo. They are in communicating rooms. Through the closed door, that first night, Daphne heard the quiet coughing of the headmistress, the sound of running water, then the squeak of bedsprings. It took her a long time to fall asleep.
At noon, Fernande returns from the spa, her skin pink and smooth. They eat lunch in the hotel, then take the cable car up to the plateau of Charlannes, which towers more than three thousand feet over La Bourboule. Daphne enjoys herself in the little oblong-shaped train that climbs up the mountainside like a caterpillar, digging a path through the huge pine trees. Up at the summit, the view is breathtaking. They sit at a shady terrace of the Hotel du Funiculaire, order tea, converse, and read. Since she has been here, Daphne has been reading, in French, the books of Anatole France, Paul Bourget, Jean Richepin, and, above all, de Maupassant. Reading occupies a large part of each day. She is pleased to be able to read in the language of her ancestors, and when she senses someone looking at her in the cable car, with Une Vie or Bel-Ami under her arm, she thinks that the person glancing at her must imagine her as French as Fernande.
They speak French together, always. From time to time, Fernande will correct Daphne’s pronunciation of a word, a turn of phrase, but she is proud of her young student. It is generally Fernande who speaks and Daphne who listens, religiously. The headmistress is extremely chatty, and her young disciple never tires of hearing her deep voice, her throaty laughter. Fernande’s sense of humor is irresistible, and Daphne is in thrall to her mischievous mind. They laugh loudly and heartily together. Between cups of tea, Fernande tells Daphne about her childhood in Avranches, in Normandy. Her father, a gardener named Ferdinand, was hoping for a boy, Fernand; oh well, she was called Fernande! Her mother, Maria, was originally from Aesch, in Switzerland; she is very close to her. As for Mlle Yvon’s love life, it is like a novel. Daphne wonders if she is exaggerating a little bit. She had a fiancé, who died at the front; a cousin, who was madly in love with her but for whom she felt nothing; and then a dear friend, a young actor (quite well-known, according to Ferdie) who died in a car accident. And that’s without even mentioning the fathers of some of her students, who have tried to seduce her behind their wives’ backs, and that Parisian banker, so attentive, who was prepared to offer her financial advantages in return for … A shrug, a suggestive smile. Never has Daphne had such conversations with another woman. She is not shocked, simply dazzled. Why is Fernande, who will be thirty-two on her next birthday, still not married? She doesn’t dare ask. Why this interminable list of admirers? Does she imagine she is going to impress her young student?
Daphne says nothing, listens closely. In spite of the attraction she feels for Fernande, she realizes she is capable of distancing herself, as if observing their table from afar, and later she will describe in her journal the precise content of these conversations, Fernande’s expressions and mannerisms, but also the surrounding décor, the golden slowness of those afternoons in Charlannes, the play of shadows on the tea set, the persistent resinous smell of the pine trees, the laughter of the guests at nearby tables. She is learning how to narrate, recount, seize upon the tiniest detail, and transcribe it on paper, and even if no one else reads her journal, she takes a vital pleasure in this.
Fernande is affectionate, tactile. When they go out for walks, she holds Daphne’s arm, leans against her; a passerby might see them as two old friends, happy to be together again. Sometimes, during meals, her fingers brush Daphne’s. When Fernande tells a joke, when she bursts out laughing, she puts a hand casually on Daphne’s shoulder. Does she have any idea of the excitement her touches provoke? Describing each scene in her journal, Daphne wonders: In a distant future, reading these impassioned pages devoted to Ferdie, will she feel embarrassed? But for now, she is only eighteen, and her whole life is before her.
At the day’s end, the mail is distributed at the Hotel Metropole. Daphne is moved by a letter from Angela, in which she learns that Katherine Mansfield, her literary idol, who died two years ago, had once lived in Hampstead—in Portland Villas, very close to their own home. That window she saw, from her bedroom, lit all night, that window belonged to the novelist’s house, a coincidence she finds magical. Fernande reads; frowning, she sighs, drums her fingernails on the table. Her mood is changeable, oscillating between giggles and preoccupied silence, and then mutating into irritated impatience. What is in those letters? Why doesn’t she smile anymore? When Daphne asks her, Fernande replies that she is annoyed by “un rien”—a small thing, of no importance—and this response unsettles her young student. What is this “nothing”? Is it a word, a line, a disappointment, an unkept promise?
During dinner, while Fernande remains walled up in her discontent, Daphne again distances herself from the table, unknown to her companion, projecting herself outside the scene, as if photographing it with words. Nothing escapes her: the bitter creases around Fernande’s mouth, the way she keeps shooting disillusioned glances toward the guests at the table facing them, the yawn she conceals with a weary hand, the forced smile that appears on her face when the mayor of La Bourboule, Mr. Gachon, who is dining at an emir’s table, comes over to greet each guest. Then, as if by a miracle, without Daphne understanding why, Fernande’s face relaxes: she gives her student a sly elbow when a woman wearing too much makeup walks past, takes another slice of tarte tatin. The pianist plays “Plaisir d’Amour,” a tune Daphne loves. Her eyes meet Fernande’s.
The vacation takes place under the August sun, punctuated by Fernande’s treatment, outings to Charlannes, the reading of books. Each night, Daphne listens to the sounds coming from the room next to hers, her face turned toward the door that separates them. Soon, they will go back to Paris together, from where Daphne will return to Hampstead and Fernande to Normandy. After that, they won’t meet again until classes start at Camposenea in early October. Two months without seeing each other, without speaking. Only letters. She stares at the door. Last night, Fernande half-opened it to say good night, dressed in a bathrobe, her long black hair flowing over her shoulders. Daphne was reading de Maupassant in bed and this sudden appearance startled her. She dropped her book. Then the door was closed again. She didn’t get a wink of sleep.
Was it a message? An invitation? Daphne gets up, draws back the curtain, looks through the window. It is late, almost midnight. The square outside the hotel is deserted. She sees the bench where she sometimes sits during her walks, near the bridge. A pale moon shines in the night. Not a sound. She turns around, looks at the communicating door. A thread of light is visible underneath it. So Fernande is not sleeping either.
Suddenly Eric Avon’s voice whispers into her ear, and it is his boy’s heart that she feels beating, very strongly, inside her. Go on, Daph; open the door. What are you waiting for?
* * *
It is their last day at La Bourboule. Tomorrow morning, they must wake early to catch the train. Their suitcases are almost packed. Daphne and Fernande have afternoon tea at Maison Rozier, the tearoom with the gold-and-blue mosaics in its storefront. They are sitting upstairs, overlooking the street and the passersby. Daphne is reading de Maupassant’s Le Horla; Fernande is writing to her mother. From time to time, Daphne looks up from the page at the headmistress, observing her suntanned skin, her black, shining hair, her plump little hand, and she wonders, her mind buzzing, if it can be seen by other people, if the couple sitting opposite them have any idea, if it’s written on their faces, hers and Fernande’s, if their passion can be detected, their desire sensed. But no, nothing is visible, all they see is a woman in her thirties, concentrated on her letter, and another woman, younger, very studious, book in hand. The others see nothing, notice nothing; their secret is well guarded. As they leave the little town the next morning, Daphne knows she will not return to La Bourboule, but this is the place where she will have lived the most intense moments of her young life, instants that—even if they remain confined to the pages of her private journal—will have forged her.
On her return to Hampstead, Gerald and Muriel discover—to their intrigued amusement—a new Daphne, a real young woman, sure of herself, relaxed. She is cheerful, less timid, unhesitatingly accompanying her parents to cocktail parties, playing tennis at Cannon Hall with princes and viscounts, basking in a social whirl that, before, seemed not to interest her at all. But behind the sequined excitement of these soirées, Daphne still thinks about writing. Isn’t it time she got down to it properly? These few weeks with Fernande have not solved anything. Good God, she’ll never be a writer if she doesn’t give herself the opportunity! She complains about this in her letters to Tod. I try to write, but I find it boring … 3 The ultimate irony is that her aunt Billy has lent her a typewriter and she hasn’t even been able to change the ribbon.
September comes around, and she returns to Camposenea for her final term. To Camposenea, and to Fernande. Now Daphne is at last among the Firsts. This is a great satisfaction to her. The other young girls, envious, sense that something has happened between Mlle Yvon and Daphne during the summer vacation. Even Mrs. Wicksteed notices it; she doesn’t say anything, but she becomes more vigilant.
On October 19, 1925—a cold, rainy day—Fernande Yvon celebrates her thirty-second birthday. Mr. Sassisson, the chef, makes her a cake. There is a party atmosphere at Camposenea. Daphne, sadly, has caught a cold and must stay in bed. From her room, she hears the sound of voices, laughter, the cheerful singing before the candles are blown out, and she seethes at being separated like this from the one person who means so much to her. After a bad night, Daphne wakes with a high fever. She shivers, coughs, complains of aches and nausea. She looks exhausted. One week later, she is no better. Mrs. Wicksteed begins to worry. The doctor is called. He diagnoses a bad case of flu and expresses concern about the state of the young student’s lungs. Panic sets in. Gerald and Muriel demand her immediate return to Hampstead, but a Parisian specialist, after examining her, decides it is impossible for her to cross the Channel in her current state. She cannot stay at Camposenea either, as the temperature in the apartments is too low during this chilly November.
It is one of Muriel’s close friends—Mrs. Miller, a rich American lady, married to an impresario—who offers to put up the young convalescent at her suite in the Hotel de Crillon in Paris. That way, Daphne can be looked after by her personal physician, a marvelous Swiss doctor. Everyone agrees with this idea, except Daphne. Leaving Camposenea means leaving Fernande. When Mrs. Miller’s chauffeur arrives to pick Daphne up, she is struck down by sorrow, crying like a small child torn away from her mother. Bundled up in blankets, she sobs all the way from Fleury to the Place de la Concorde. In a vast, overheated room, pampered by luxury after the spartan conditions in the finishing school, she begs Fernande to come and visit her more often. Is Mlle Yvon being closely watched by Mrs. Wicksteed? Whatever the reason, Daphne doesn’t see her as much as she wants, and that hurts. Daphne submits to the doctor’s bizarre treatments: injections of volatile salt, electrified cushions placed on her abdomen, exposure to ultraviolet rays. The doctor’s assistant claims that this procedure works miracles but does point out that the doctor’s usual clientele consists of ladies of a certain age. After a few weeks of this, Daphne loses weight with frightening speed, falling below one hundred pounds. No one suspects that it is the absence of Fernande—whose every letter, every call, she awaits in a frenzy—that is making her waste away. After receiving yet another tearstained postcard from her daughter, bemoaning her fate at the Crillon, Lady Mo decides to leave right away for Paris, accompanied by Jeanne, who is now fourteen, to judge Daphne’s state of health for herself.
It is early December 1925, and snow is falling over Paris. Jeanne catches a cold. Daphne is fraught with anxiety: tonight, Ferdie will come to have dinner at the Crillon; she will meet her mother for the first time. The doctor will be there, too, and Mrs. Miller. What might Lady Mo detect? Will she suspect something? During the meal, Daphne watches her mother on the sly as her mother observes Mlle Yvon. Fernande, dressed in a severe navy-blue suit, her black hair pulled back, is serious, attentive, professional; she acts like a headmistress with a student. Lady Mo is completely fooled. She finds Mlle Yvon remarkably efficient and energetic.
The doctor advises Lady du Maurier to send her daughter to Davos to continue her treatment. Daphne explodes. This is too much! She refuses to go to Switzerland; she will not leave Paris. After a few lively words with her daughter, alone in her room, Muriel finally yields. The doctor suggests Lady du Maurier bring her daughter back to Paris in early January to continue her treatment at a clinic in the 8th arrondissement for six weeks. Muriel asks Mlle Yvon if she could supervise Daphne’s treatment in January, during the school holidays. She could stay in a little hotel near the clinic; Muriel would take care of all her costs. After that, when classes begin in Camposenea, Angela will arrive to watch over her sister in Paris, then accompany her to London in mid-February, at the end of the treatment. Mlle Yvon agrees: it is an honor for her to take care of Miss du Maurier’s health. Daphne’s face regains its radiance, and when the time comes for the headmistress to leave she says a polite, restrained good-bye to Mlle Yvon in front of her mother and her sister, knowing that Fernande will see the warmth and delight in her eyes, like a secret code.
The next day, Daphne, pale and very thin, accompanies her mother and sister to London. Daphne is happy to see her father and Angela again, but she is counting the days until her departure for Paris, when she will once again be with Fernande. As the Christmas festivities are in full swing, Daphne wonders what she is going to do with her life. What will happen to her? When she returns to London for good, next February, how will she settle down to her old routine, the walks on the Heath, the writing of poems and stories that she will never finish, the tall pile of novels that she will read, one after another?
In her journal, on New Year’s Eve 1925, Daphne writes these words: The finish of security. Doubt lies ahead. Adieu les jours heureux†.4
* * *
Every night, after the medical treatment at the clinic on Rue du Colisée is over, Daphne and Fernande have dinner together at Le Cheval Pie, a restaurant with a black-and-white, half-timbered façade on Avenue Victor Emmanuel, very close to the hotel where they are staying, on Rue de Ponthieu. A table is reserved for them, always the same one, near the chickens roasting on spits, the mouthwatering smell reviving Daphne’s appetite. But what most entertains them is the little half-hidden step in the middle of the floor. A good number of customers regularly trip over it and fall flat on their faces right next to Daphne and Fernande’s table. The two young women dissolve into infectious laughter and the waiters, accustomed to their bouts of hysterical giggling, wink at them while they help the customers to their feet.
Daphne comes back to life. Since her return, on January 4, 1926, since Fernande’s beaming face appeared before hers on the platform of the Gare du Nord, she has felt happier than ever before. She suspects the doctor is a quack who is pocketing her parents’ money with impunity for a harebrained treatment that is no longer needed because she is already cured, but she is in Paris, in this captivating city, Kicky’s city, and she is with the person who matters more to her than anyone else in the world. She feels Parisian to the tips of her fingers, proud of her French blood, and Paris is opening itself up to her. She no longer has to visit it like a rushed tourist, with a herd of clumsy, badly dressed English classmates for company; she is free to stroll along its boulevards, to roam its avenues, its parks, the banks of the Seine.
The first thing she must do is follow in her grandfather’s footsteps, walking or by tram, along the Right Bank. She stands dreamily outside 53 Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, imagining Kicky emerging from these huge double doors with his companions from the Gleyre studio; then she sips a lemonade at the Rotonde or Le Dôme Café, on Boulevard du Montparnasse. She takes notes in her journal, eating up every detail that the city offers her. Nothing escapes her: the smell of the air, so different from London; the passersby, more elegant and amusing than those in Piccadilly; the packed cafés, the noise, the traffic, the lit store windows, the exhilarating rhythm of life in this capital where Kicky’s literary and emotional legacy leaves an indelible imprint on her.
Sometimes Fernande goes with her, but most of the time she is alone. She likes to walk up the Champs-Élysées, past number 80 where Kicky was born, to stroll down Avenue Kléber toward Passy and Rue de la Tour, to immerse herself once again in the atmosphere of her grandfather’s first novel, going out as far as the Bois de Boulogne. The next day, indefatigable, she walks along the docks, beneath the rearing white walls of Notre-Dame; she leafs through the wares of the secondhand booksellers on the Seine. It is a personal version of Paris that she is forging, a Paris of the heart that she creates with her hiker’s strides, her head filled with Kicky’s nostalgic imagined world. Night falls quickly in January. Fernande is waiting for her at the Hotel du Rond-Point, and Daphne rushes back to see her. It is time to eat something after her exhausting explorations. Fernande has ordered brioches, eclairs, cups of hot chocolate.
Daphne’s treatment is reaching its end. Fernande must return to Camposenea. When Angela arrives in Paris to take over from Fernande and accompany her sister back to London, she is shocked by the fragile, hypersensitive state of her younger sibling. Angela doesn’t recognize this Daphne. Nothing seems to cheer her up or distract her. Leaving Paris is a tragedy for her: she feels like Kicky, torn from a city she loves so much, brutally uprooted. How can she bear this return to foggy London, so far from her darling Fernande, and submit to her parents’ authority after escaping it completely for almost a year? She has never dreaded crossing the Channel as much as she does now. Her parents make an effort to be accommodating with her bad moods and lethargy. The only thing that soothes her at all is Muriel’s suggestion that she learn to drive. Daphne throws herself into this, and after a few weeks of instruction from the chauffeur and her parents she is capable of driving her mother to the hairdresser, going shopping at Harrods. Another reason to smile: her own dog, which she names Jock, in memory of the Westie she had as a child on Cumberland Terrace. Jock and Daphne become inseparable: he sleeps in her room and sits by the window for her whenever she leaves Cannon Hall, eagerly awaiting her return. But beneath this apparent serenity, enough to reassure her parents, lurk the old ghosts of melancholy and boredom. In her journal, she gives free rein to her feelings of angst: Everyone at dinner says how well I am looking. If only they knew what I felt like inside they’d talk differently. I guess I hide my feelings pretty well, if I want to. They don’t know my mind is starving. Even if I read Claude Farrère, Zola and Maeterlinck. But it’s when I get back into the house, and the same things happen every day, that I go into a silent frenzy, and a mist of hate comes over me for it all.5
How can she motivate herself? She is not satisfied with the few short stories she’s written, including “The Terror,” which describes a child’s nightmare, and “The Old Woman,” which features a French peasant, nor with a long untitled poem that expresses her disenchantment. She loses heart. She will never be able to write like Katherine Mansfield. As for being published one day … it’s unthinkable. She dreams of leaving London, sleeps badly, loiters in the hallways of Cannon Hall. In March 1926, Jeanne suggests they get away for a few weeks, to Cumberland, that mountainous region in the northwest of England, famous for the beauty of its lakes, which inspired poets such as Wordsworth and Coleridge. Jeanne has friends who stayed at a farm near Derwentwater: Why not go there for a while? Muriel seizes this opportunity, certain that a change of air will do the taciturn Daphne good. And why not invite Mlle Yvon to join the girls when Muriel has to go back to London in order not to leave Gerald on his own for too long? Daphne is stunned by this suggestion of her mother’s. Does she really not suspect anything? So this long-distance, secret passion of Daphne’s doesn’t show on the surface at all? She immediately writes to Ferdie. It will be like reliving La Bourboule: the walks, the pure air, the landscape. Ferdie agrees, to Daphne’s joy.
In early April, Muriel, Daphne, and Jeanne leave for Cumberland by train. Muriel has rented rooms from Mrs. Clarke, the owner of the large farm. In her journal, Daphne describes the pleasure she feels at being surrounded by wild nature again, the hills, streams and rivers, the silver-shining lakes, the green smells of the trees and plants. She doesn’t want to live in the city anymore, content with a walled garden. She enjoys the rhythms of days spent in nature, showing an interest in the farmers and their work, and even the charms of Parisian sidewalks seem to fade when faced with this need that grows inside her: to know the strength of the wind, the taste of the rain, the desire to touch the earth with her hands, to smell it, to feel it. Every morning, she leaves with her sister and her dog and goes off to climb peaks with magical names: Cat Bells, Causey Pike. With her mother, she visits Dove Cottage, the little white house that once belonged to William Wordsworth, left just as it was when he lived there; she walks through the rooms on tiptoes, thrilled by the sight of the desk where he wrote his most beautiful poems.
When Fernande Yvon arrives, ten days later, she brings the rain with her: huge thunderstorms and incessant downpour. This does not bother Daphne; in fact, she delights in the wildness of nature in the dark skies above, the heavy clouds, the wind that howls down the chimney. The bad weather is not to the taste of the sophisticated Frenchwoman, however: the dampness turns smooth hair curly, and, unlike the unperturbed du Maurier sisters, she is far from excited by the prospect of walking through a deluge. It rains every day. Fernande prefers to stay by the fire and chat to the farmers’ daughter, with her muddy clogs. And one morning, Daphne hears her friend boasting about the renown of the du Maurier family to a dumbfounded Miss Clarke: Fernande describes Daphne’s half-French grandfather, famous all over the world for his novels and drawings, and her father, who is undoubtedly the greatest living actor in England. Daphne can’t believe it. Her Ferdie, lowering herself to such pretentious verbosity. This is a facet of the headmistress she has never discovered before. (Later, “doing a Miss Clarke”* will signify “overdoing it” for Daphne and Fernande.)
Back in London in late April, when she arrives at the small hotel in Russell Square where she is staying, Mlle Yvon finds a letter from Mrs. Wicksteed, the manager of Camposenea. Mlle Yvon has been fired. Her services are no longer required at Fleury. There is no explanation. Fernande is in shock, Daphne too. Why this sudden dismissal? Could Mrs. Wicksteed have suspected the true nature of their relationship? Daphne doesn’t dare speak about this to Ferdie. And there is no way for her to verify the matter either way. All she can do is try to console Fernande and to encourage her in her idea of starting her own school in Paris. The next day, Daphne accompanies her to Victoria Station; she knows she won’t see her again until the summer. Impossible to kiss her tenderly in public, except on both cheeks, Parisian-style. The train moves away, and Ferdie’s gloved hand waves through an open window. Two months without seeing Ferdie. It is going to feel like a long time.
In early May 1926, while Daphne frets over the fate of her former headmistress, the country is paralyzed by a general strike that is carried out on an unprecedented scale and will last ten days. Workers protest against the lowering of wages and working conditions for miners. Gerald is panicked at the idea of having to cancel performances of his new play at Wyndham’s Theatre, The Ringer, adapted from a book by his novelist friend Edgar Wallace. Despite London being blocked by striking workers, the premiere is a success and the play will have a good, long run. Daphne is interested in the prolific Edgar Wallace and his working methods. He has published dozens of books at an impressive rate; what is the secret of his writing? She asks him, as he often drops by Cannon Hall with his daughter Pat, who is the same age as Daphne. He admits that he is capable of “bashing out” a novel in a few days. Daphne stares, amazed, at this balding man with his affable smile, a cigarette holder always to hand. The only method that works, according to him, is discipline. An iron discipline. There is no other secret. No doubt he is right. She will have to force herself to write at least one page per day. Beyond her desire to be a writer, there is another desire, even more pressing: to be independent, to earn a living, no longer to rely, as her sisters do, on the pocket money given them by their parents.
At almost nineteen, Daphne already knows that she wants to live a long way from her family, a long way from Cannon Hall. She must provide herself with the means to do so. She shuts herself up in the little changing room above the tennis courts, with its musty smell of sweat, and sits there with a notebook and a pen. I sit down all afternoon and do more writing. It comes very slowly, though. It’s so much easier to think out vaguely in my head than to set it down in words. I wrote better at fifteen than now.6
The coming summer is full of temptations for a pretty girl who loves to dance and laugh. The invitations pile up; Daphne is never short of devoted admirers eager to take her to a ball, or the theater, or a garden party. Must writers hide away in a cave in order to write, she complains, when told that her car is waiting for her downstairs and she still hasn’t found the earring she was looking for. Or maybe she must simply become less attractive, so no one notices her, so people don’t whisper as she passes, That’s the du Maurier girl, the prettiest of the three. She will write tomorrow.
* * *
On the evening of July 15, 1926, Daphne arrives in Paris, at the Gare du Nord. Fernande has arranged to meet her at the café Le Dôme, at the Vavin crossroad. The next morning, early, they will catch a train from Montparnasse station to Lannion, in Brittany. Their ultimate destination is Trébeurden, the small fishing port on the Côte de Granit Rose. Her parents agreed without too much difficulty that she could accompany Mlle Yvon there. Paris is wilting under a heat wave. Sitting on the terrace of the Dôme, a place that always makes her think of Kicky, Daphne stays in the shade, her suitcase at her feet, and writes in her journal, discreetly observing the customers at the next table. To her amusement, they seem to be an illicit couple, the girl younger than the man, and their falsely casual attitude fails to conceal their nervousness. What point have they reached in their love affair? Where are they from? Daphne listens: they are British, which makes her smile. The man is cursing because he can’t find a hotel room: there are no vacancies in the whole of Paris, it’s outrageous. He pours wine clumsily, his face glowing and flushed; he’s drunk already. The girl, who is not much older than Daphne, says nothing, biting her lips and looking lost, her face wan, dark rings under her eyes.
Daphne watches them, thoughtfully, and the story comes to her on its own: she sees its basic outline, knows how it will start, already knows the ending. She has no need to dig deeper or reflect. It’s simply there. Leaning over her notebook, she doesn’t notice that Fernande has slipped into the chair next to hers, so occupied is she with her writing; she no longer hears anything, she is caught up in her own momentum, whisked into a world that is not hers. When at last she glances up, Fernande is looking at her, warmly, tenderly. Daphne hugs her tightly—she is so happy to see her—then shows her the notebook with its pages full of words and whispers that she was inspired by the English couple next to them. She tells Fernande the story, and when her friend says, smiling, that it is a horrible story, Daphne bursts out laughing and nods, overexcitedly, yes, yes, it’s a very dark tale, just awful.
Fernande has reserved a room in a hotel on one of the little streets off Boulevard du Montparnasse. She warns Daphne smilingly: It’s not the Crillon, or even the Hotel du Rond Point, but everything else was full; she had no choice. On the doorstep, the manageress of the hotel looks them up and down with a contemptuous, mocking expression, as if she knew all about them, as if she didn’t approve but had seen others just like them, and Daphne notes her white, puffed-up face, her dull red-dyed hair, just as she notes the shabby décor of the seedy hotel—a real hôtel de passe, she breathes to Fernande, who laughs loudly—and the murmurs behind the doors, the stained carpet on the stairs, the hideous wallpaper, the smell of something foul in the air, the chipped pitcher, the view over a dark courtyard with wet rags hanging from a clothesline. In the oppressive heat, undimmed by the fall of night, Daphne weaves her story, thinking about it constantly as she and Fernande have dinner in a brasserie on the boulevard. She listens patiently as her friend complains about the heat wave, her exhaustion, the difficulties she is having setting up her school, and the story continues to construct itself inside Daphne’s mind, until late at night, in the stifling humidity of the little room on the top floor.
The next day, on the train, while Fernande dozes, Daphne continues writing, rereading, scratching words out, correcting them. She gently wakes Fernande, hands her the notebook. Fernande deciphers the determined, resolute handwriting, taking a little longer because the story is in English, then, at the end, smiles, patting Daphne’s wrist: but how on earth did she think of all this, what an amazing imagination she must have, and that ending … it’s so dreadfully macabre! Daphne nods: she’s not interested in romances or happy endings; she wants to grab her readers by the throat, never to leave them indifferent. That English couple, things were not looking good for them; you could see it on their faces, they were going to have a terrible night. Daphne takes back the notebook and, in a firm hand at the top of the page, writes a single word, the title of the short story.
“Panic.”
* * *
What a relief to leave the sweltering sauna of Paris for the coastal breezes of Trébeurden, to breathe its scents of seaweed and salt. The Hotel de la Plage is situated almost on the sand, next to the little port of Trozoul. Although “port” is something of an overstatement: there are only about thirty fisherman’s dinghies here, and a few yachts. Daphne likes the sounds of the Breton names when she hears the locals pronounce them and repeats them herself, laughing as she rolls her r’s: Pleumeur-Bodou, Lan Kerellec, Goas-Treiz, Trémeur. Fernande seems less preoccupied, more relaxed, happy to lie in the sun and smile. Daphne goes swimming every morning, discovering deserted coves where she can bathe nude, unobserved, in a turquoise sea. She likes to gaze at Le Castel, a rocky promontory that encroaches on the sea with a large rock that looks like a man’s head in profile, and to admire the island of Milliau, which is sometimes accessible by foot at low tide. What a delight it is to walk on the still-wet sand, to discover, in the puddles that remain, what the sea has left behind it: the seaweed, the clams, the crabs that are a source of joy to fishermen.
In the afternoon, the two women go out near Perros-Guirec in a charabanc and return tired but happy, their blood stirred by the sea air. While Fernande takes a nap during the hottest part of the day, Daphne roams in the hills of the little town, admiring the Gothic architecture of the Ker Nelly château, walking past an abandoned manor house and pausing there for a while, enchanted by the ruins of the high walls, the remains of the square tower, starting to daydream about what might have happened here, hundreds of years before. On Rue de Bonne-Nouvelle, the highest in the town, she notices the rectangular bell tower of an old granite chapel, by the side of the road. There aren’t many people around as she slips inside, sits on a wooden bench, and admires the inner framework, in the form of an upturned ship’s hull. Above the altar, she sees a retable representing the Virgin Mary in front of a maritime landscape, carved models of ships, inscriptions on the walls: Pray for my son, out on the sea. Suddenly everything snaps into place, just like it did on the terrace of Le Dôme Café. She leaves the chapel with the beginning of a story brewing in her head. She already has the first line: It was hot and sultry, that oppressive kind of heat where there is no air, no life. A sad tale about a naïve young woman, engaged to an unfaithful sailor, who comes to pray in this church.
Later, in the silence of the hotel room, while Fernande is still asleep, Daphne writes, sitting in front of the window, looking out to sea. From time to time, she turns to glance at Fernande, her black hair spread over the pillow, one naked voluptuous shoulder revealed by the crumpled sheet. The title of Daphne’s short story: “La Sainte-Vierge.” During aperitifs on the terrace (both of them drink Dubonnet Rouge), Daphne hands the notebook to Fernande, hoping for her approval, watching every expression on her face. Why are the young woman’s writings so gloomy, so dark, when she herself is funny and cheerful? Better like that than the other way around, replies Daphne, her nose turned up in a comical grimace that makes Fernande laugh. The summer days stretch out between sea, swimming, walking, and reading—de Maupassant, D’Annunzio, Voltaire. Every morning, from her window, Daphne contemplates the rolling hills of the little island of Molène, feeling an instinctive attraction for its wild, uninhabited appearance. One day, they rent a fisherman’s boat to take a tour around it, admiring the fine sand that looks untouched, the white dunes. Daphne starts to daydream about living by the sea, as if Trébeurden’s motto, “Ar Mor Eo Ma Plijadur” (the sea is my pleasure), had been written especially for her.
When she gets home in late August, Daphne’s family is amazed by her radiance, her joie de vivre, even if none of them suspects how much she misses Fernande and France. In the dining room, after the evening meal one Sunday, Daphne asks her father to read the two stories and the handful of poems she wrote during her trip to Brittany. To her surprise, he seems proud of her, encourages her, is not put off by the darkness of the tales, even whispering to her tenderly that one day, he hopes, she will write novels even more famous than Trilby. You remind me so much of Papa, always have done. Same forehead, same eyes. If only you had known him.7 Will she ever have the courage to work as tenaciously as Kicky, to embark upon a novel? Well, doesn’t she already feel the same love her grandfather felt for Paris, the same curiosity toward the family’s noble glassblowing forebears?
Every week, she waits for Fernande’s letters. Her former headmistress has found a house in Boulogne-sur-Seine and already has two boarders with which to launch her finishing school. Daphne has only one desire: to go back to Paris, to see Fernande again.
Angela, in turn, reads her short stories and encourages her. Daphne decides to write in a more disciplined way in an unused room above the garage in Cannon Hall, but she lacks inspiration. One morning, at breakfast, as she is holding Ferdie’s latest letter in her hand, her mother announces in a casual voice: Your father and I have been thinking, that it would be a good idea if we could find somewhere, a house of our own, perhaps in Cornwall, where we could all go for holidays, instead of abroad. Edgar has been so generous over The Ringer that we could afford it. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Lots of swimming and walking.8 Daphne is mistrustful, detecting a parental plot hatched with the aim of dissuading her from returning to France and seeing Fernande. Her parents must by now have guessed at the intensity of the connection she shares with her former headmistress.
Grudgingly, with a shrug, Daphne agrees to accompany her mother and her sisters to Cornwall on September 13, 1926, to look at houses.
Though she cannot know it yet, this journey will turn her life upside down.