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I ARRIVED PROMPTLY at Hauteville House, my palms clammy from nerves. The thought of copying the manuscript unsupervised and within m’sieur’s own walls suddenly seemed quite frightening. The maid led me to the staircase on the left of the hall, quite narrow dark wood which twisted upwards towards a skylight some floors above. The walls are covered in fabric and carpet covers the stair treads. She turned through a doorway on the left and I followed her into a room even more flamboyant than the tapestried room I’d seen on my first visit. Hung with red damask and embroideries of glass beads and gilt and copper thread on the walls and ceiling. Red and gold curtains hung at the full-height windows. My jaw dropped.
‘Takes your breath away, doesn’t it? Only finished a few months ago, it was, like the blue drawing room through there,’ the girl nodded to an archway separating this room from the next. A softer, cooler-looking room lined with blue damask and pearl and silver tapestries. Together the rooms must have been around twelve metres long. I felt even more insignificant and out of place.
‘The master says you’re to work at this table,’ she continued, going over to the large carved table in the middle of the room, where paper, ink and pages of handwritten manuscript were waiting for me. An armchair was already placed, facing out to the window to the garden below.
‘Thank you, it all looks splendid.’
‘I’ll bring you a carafe of water, m’dame, and would you like some coffee now or later?’
‘Later would be fine, thank you.’
She nodded and left, closing the door behind her. Before setting to work I couldn’t resist the opportunity to explore a little. Tiptoeing across the brightly-coloured carpets, I took a turn about both rooms, noticing a door on the left leading to a conservatory furnished with ottomans and a carpet. New shoots from plant pots curled up the windows. Everything smelled fresh and newly painted. After a quick look out of the window I took my place at the table and began to work, becoming absorbed once more in the story of Cosette and Valjean taking shape as I transcribed the scribblings of M’sieur Hugo.
The time passed quickly and it was only a rumble in my stomach that alerted me to the approach of lunchtime. I knew that m’sieur always broke off at one o’clock for lunch and that was the time for me to stop work. An elegant clock on the mantelpiece showed the time as fifteen minutes to the hour. I put my pen in the tray and flexed my fingers before running my eyes over the last paragraph I’d written.
At nightfall, Jean Valjean re-entered Paris, and got into a cabriolet which conveyed him to the Esplanade of the Observatory. Here he got down, and the pair proceeded in the darkness toward Boulevard de ‘Hôpital. The day had been strange and full of emotions for Cosette: she felt tired, and Jean Valjean perceived it by her hand, which dragged more and more...
The door opened and, turning, I saw M’sieur Hugo enter the room. He looked dishevelled, his hair springing up from his head and his hands blotted with ink stains. Standing, I bobbed a curtsy.
‘You are finishing for the day, ma petite?’ he said, his face creased with tiredness. I knew he started work early in the morning and felt guilty I was only required to work for four hours.
‘Yes, m’sieur. That is the arrangement as I understand it, but I’m happy to work longer–’
He shook his head and smiled.
‘No, no we must not wear you out also, n’est ce pas? Let me see how many pages you have copied.’ He stood by me at the desk and checked the pile of freshly written pages. ‘Why, this is excellent work. You write quickly, ma petite, and at this rate you will be able to keep pace with me and we’ll be ready to send another volume to the publishers quite soon.’ He rubbed his hands together, his tiredness seemingly dissolved. ‘Come, I have something to show you before luncheon is ready.’
He led the way up the stairs and two flights later we stood on the narrow landing with the skylight ahead. He beckoned me through a narrow doorway on the left and we entered a low-ceilinged, narrow room with little decoration and not much furniture. I was puzzled. What was so interesting about this small room? Then I turned to face the window and understood.
‘Oh! It’s like a miniature conservatory!’ I cried, gazing at a fully glazed room perched as it was on the roof, and reached through a glazed door which once must have led onto a terrace.
‘Isn’t it marvellous? Today is the first time I’ve been able to work in here even though it’s not finished. I call it my “crystal room”. Come,’ he added, inviting me to join him, ‘see what I look out onto when I’m in here.’
I picked my way carefully through piles of violet, blue and white faience tiles waiting to be mounted on the far wall where the outlines of structures had been partly tiled. Some rubble lay on the bare floor and an unfinished tiered seating area took up space on the right-hand side. Joining him at the furthest glazed wall I stared at the view spread out before me.
‘See, ma petite, I am in the clouds up here, at the centre of my universe: overlooking not only Castle Cornet and St Peter Port, but all the islands and when it is clear, as it is today, the coast of our beloved France.’ His eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, as well they might. It was a wondrous sight. A veritable eyrie in the sky.
I touched the dark window frame, surprised to find it cold.
‘The frame is of steel, to give it strength and survive against the onslaught of the sun. I am installing a fireplace and the seating will be carpeted, but there is little else I shall need, other than my writing table,’ he said, pointing to a wooden flapped table against the inside wall.
‘It is indeed a wonderful construction, m’sieur. I’ve never seen anything like it.’
He threw his arms wide.
‘It is a miniature version of England’s Crystal Palace is it not? I shall be working in here instead of my old lookout.’ He waved to the small room behind us. ‘As you see, exile has not only detached me from France, it has almost detached me from the Earth.’ He laughed. ‘But now I must hurry or I’ll be late for lunch and you must be off home. Let’s go down.’
I collected my belongings from the salon below and arrived in the hallway in time to see m’sieur greet a young woman about to enter the dining room at the bottom of the stairs.
‘Papa, I must speak with you...’ she stopped when she saw me, her eyes wide with surprise.
‘Adèle, my dear, this is M’dame Sarchet, who has begun work as my copyist and will be here in the mornings.’
‘M’amselle,’ I said bobbing a curtsy. She inclined her head. I saw the resemblance between her and the dead Léopoldine, only this woman had a wildness about her eyes. They travelled over me, taking in my mourning garb but she made no comment, only grabbing hold of her father’s arm and forcing him into the dining room. I caught a hurried nod from him before they were out of sight. The maid, who’d been hovering in the background now came forward to see me out.
‘Don’t worry, m’dame, she’s an odd one, that one. Doesn’t like other young women around her father and spends most of her time at the blessed piano, driving everyone mad.’
‘Oh, I wasn’t upset, just thought...well, it doesn’t matter. What’s your name? I feel I should know it if I’m to be a regular visitor here.’ I smiled at the girl, not more than about fourteen years old, I thought, with an open, friendly face.
‘Henriette Morvan, m’dame. I’ve only been here a few weeks myself, and still getting used to the ways of the household.’ She opened the door for me and I stepped out into the hazy sunshine.
‘Thank you, Henriette. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
She nodded and the door closed behind me. As I walked the few yards to my home my head was full of the events of the morning and my first sight of Adèle Hugo. With a shock, it came to me that the expression on her face was of jealousy. I would need to take care around her.
Friday 11th April
I have seen the young woman again today. I had been working as normal upstairs in the drawing room and was collecting up the copied pages of manuscript when M’sieur Hugo rushed in. I had only caught brief glimpses of him in the previous days and my little friend, Henriette, had told me how busy he was and hardly stopped even to eat. Certainly the piles of the manuscript had been growing at an alarming rate and I was struggling to keep up.
‘Ah, ma petite, I need your help. With my wife and sons away, we need more hands to help with the dinner for the poor. Are you able to stay? Naturally you will be able to eat with us.’
My face must have shown my puzzlement as he explained that for some weeks, every Friday, he had opened his house to poor children and their mothers and they were fed a simple meal before being encouraged to play in the garden. This week there were ten children and they were served by himself, his family and the servants.
‘I would be honoured to help, m’sieur. What a wonderful gesture! Not unlike something Jean Valjean would do,’ I replied with a smile.
He clapped his hands in delight.
‘Well said! You are enjoying my book, then?’ I nodded, somewhat unsure whether I had been too bold. ‘Good, but we must hurry as the children and their mothers are gathering in the kitchen to wash their hands before adjourning to the dining room. My daughter Adèle will be helping, too.’
As I followed him downstairs my initial pleasure at being of service evaporated at the thought of how his daughter had behaved towards me the first time we met. I sighed inwardly, hoping she would pay me no heed and concentrate on the poor children.
We arrived in the hall as the children and their mothers filed up from the kitchen, escorted by Henriette and Marie Sixty the cook. The faces of the ‘guests’ were pinched with hunger and their clothes little more than rags and my heart went out to them as they shyly shook the host’s hands before entering the dining room where the table was already set for the meal. I noticed Mam’selle Adèle waiting at the end of the table as she directed the children to their seats. There was no warmth in her actions and I gained the impression she felt this mingling with the poor was beneath her and she made sure not to touch them. Very different from her father, who gaily welcomed them all as if they were honoured guests and not from the slums of St Peter Port. It was as we were taking our seats that Adèle saw me and her face became even more closed in, if that were possible. I made sure to stay as far away as possible, standing behind two mothers who looked as if they hadn’t eaten since last they were here.
M’sieur said a simple prayer, offering thanks to God, and then we started serving the food. I was amazed to see plates of meat and vegetables and carafes of wine, for both the mothers and their offspring, though served with water to the children. It was a common practice in France, but I’d not seen it in Guernsey, where sobriety was much admired. The diners were silent as they ate, the children pushing food into their mouths as if this were likely to be their last meal for some time. Marie and Henriette returned to the kitchen for more food and I busied myself with cutting up food for a small child who struggled with the cutlery.
A voice hissed in my ear, ‘What do you think you’re doing here? At my mother’s dining table while she is away?’
I jumped with shock and turned to see Adèle behind me, her face close to mine and her eyes dark with fury. Glancing across the room I saw m’sieur deep in conversation with a young lad at the other end of the table. He didn’t seem aware of where his daughter was.
‘I do not know what you suspect me of, mam’selle, but I assure you I’m a respectable widow who is grateful to your father for offering me honest employment after my recent loss. He asked me to help today as you have so many guests.’ I met her glare with forced calm, determined she would not see how I shook inside. Her insinuation was hurtful and without any basis, except perhaps in her fevered imagination.
She opened her mouth to respond when M’sieur Hugo called out, ‘Is something amiss, Adèle?’ Turning to face him I saw he was frowning, tapping the table as if annoyed. His daughter arranged her features into a smile, replying that all was well. She left my side but not before pinching my arm hard enough to bring tears to my eyes. I bent down as if to retrieve something from the floor and wiped the tears with my handkerchief. The child gaped at me open-mouthed but said nothing. Marie and Henriette arrived with more food and the meal continued without further incident. At the end m’sieur again offered a short prayer before suggesting the children go into the garden to play and their mothers could go with them to enjoy the sunshine. Marie led them out and Henriette began to clear away their plates and glasses, placing them on trays set on side-tables. I moved to help her but m’sieur came up to me and said I was to take a seat and Marie would bring us our food.
I was uncomfortable at the thought of sitting down with Adèle after her outburst, but realised she was nowhere to be seen.
‘Please, sit. You have earned your meal and I’d like to talk to you.’ He pulled out a chair for me and I sat, wondering if he believed I had done something to anger his daughter. My stomach lurched at the thought. I dearly wanted to keep my place as his copyist. The maid left with a full tray and we were alone.
‘It seems my daughter doesn’t share my good opinion of you, ma petite.’ He sighed, drumming his fingers on the table, his gaze on my face. I swallowed. Was he going to dismiss me? Shifting in his chair, he went on, ‘Adèle is a little...difficult. She is prone to melancholia and the doctors have tried their best with her and she is, I know, lonely since we left Paris, missing the excitement of the social whirl we enjoyed. And now she is without her mother and brothers and feels I should devote all my attention to her, when I’m not working. You understand?’
‘Of course, m’sieur.’
He patted my arm.
‘Good. Please make allowances for her if she is less than polite towards you. I don’t want her to scare you away.’
I breathed a sigh of relief and further conversation was interrupted by Marie and Henriette bringing in our food.
‘Where’s Mam’selle Adèle, m’sieur?’ Marie asked as she deposited a tray on the table. I noted we were to dine on the same fare as the poor mites before us and was impressed by the egalitarianism of this.
He waved his hands in exasperation.
‘Oh, she has gone to her room in a sulk, Marie. Please take a tray up to her, if you would be so kind.’
Marie rolled her eyes, as if to say this was not a new occurrence and bustled away, followed by the maid, who winked at me as she left. M’sieur poured us both a glass of wine and I filled my plate, aware of how hungry I was after a good morning’s work. Between mouthfuls, he regaled me with stories of his time in Paris, of the salons and theatres and the glittering crowd of artists, actors and writers. I was spellbound. His descriptions were so vivid I could imagine myself there, discoursing with the likes of Balzac, Gautier and Flaubert. And as a Senator, he’d been active in government, fighting for the rights of the poor. My admiration for him rose the more I learned. I left for home almost dizzy with the visions he had laid before me, flattered that I was deemed worthy of such conversation. And relieved that Mam’selle Adèle had not turned him against me.