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THIS MORNING M’DAME Drouet sent round an invitation for me to join her for lunch and I went after leaving Hauteville House. It had been another busy morning of copying and I was glad of a diversion.
‘I hear you helped serve at the dinner for the poor yesterday. I would love to know if it was a success,’ m’dame asked, as we took our seats at the dining table. She looked tired, I thought, and had a persistent cough.
‘Are you unwell, m’dame? That cough...’
She waved her hand.
‘It’s nothing. This house is prone to dampness and I am prone to cough as a result. It will pass. Now, about the lunch?’
I was happy to describe it in almost complete detail, omitting only the interaction between myself and Mam’selle Adèle. She listened intently, nodding approvingly when I told her we all ate the same food.
‘M’sieur wants to set an example to others of his class that treating the poor more as equals is the way to providing an escape from poverty. We have had many discussions on the subject.’ She smiled. ‘These dinners are already attracting comments here in Guernsey. Perhaps others will follow suit, which would be wonderful, would it not?’
Nodding my assent, we continued our talk and the colour returned to her cheeks. I realised I missed the times we had spent together while I was an invalid in her house and she had told me what it was like to be a part of Parisian society. She had many tales to tell and I provided an entranced audience. I could see why she and m’sieur were such a devoted couple, albeit not one universally acknowledged or accepted. She confided how much she missed Paris and found Guernsey somewhat stultifying, with limited cultural activities. Or, at least, ones she could be seen to attend.
‘At least I am able to see more of m’sieur here, which is a great comfort. As you have realised, his wife now spends more and more time in Paris or Brussels and this allows us ample opportunity to spend time together. I am happy to be his helpmate in producing his great works.’ She sighed and I sensed the undeclared desire to have been more than a ‘helpmate’. But he had married his wife when young, only twenty, and was already a father when he met M’dame Drouet. Marriage was never a possibility, she told me.
Before I left, we arranged to meet again in two days’ time. M’sieur Hugo had told her he was too busy with his writing to spend as much time with her and I think I’m to be used as a substitute and keep her up to date with what happens at Hauteville House. I don’t mind as I enjoy her company and am equally lonely. At least she has lived, I told myself as I walked down Hauteville to my home, whereas I have done so little and ended up completely alone at the age of nineteen. I have to force myself not to become maudlin and be grateful for what I have, but there are times when it is difficult.
I am as keen as anyone to learn what is to become of Cosette, Marius and Jean Valjean. The first part – Fantine – was published on 3rd April, the day m’sieur had worked for the first time in his new glass lookout. As I was sitting at the table in the red salon, he told me what a success it was and how people were clamouring for the next part and the publisher was sending him letters almost daily urging him on. It was being hailed as ‘the social and historical drama of the nineteenth century’. M’sieur strutted around the room, pushing out his chest like a peacock as he told me this. I could not blame him for being a little arrogant as I know how many years he had devoted to writing it and I have never read anything so poignantly detailed about how life was for the poor in France. Some passages, I confess, are a little long and not quite to my taste, such as the chapters about Waterloo. The newspapers quoted the less generous remarks from literary critics, but m’sieur seems unconcerned. He has created a mass market for his work few contemporaries had achieved, he said, handing me the latest pages to be copied. I am working longer hours than normal to keep up, but this is no hardship now I am once more in good health. And I am paid handsomely for this extra work and able to add to my meagre savings.
20th May
‘Sales have surpassed all expectations,’ M’sieur Hugo said, waving a letter in his hand as he strode into the salon. I was finishing off that day’s copying, my eyes itching after hours of concentration. The second and third parts of Les Misérables had just been published.
‘I am so pleased, m’sieur, but not surprised. How could anyone not want to read your work?’ I pointed to the stack of paper on the table.
‘You are too kind, ma petite, and it seems many agree with you. The English translations are selling well also and my publisher, Monsieur Lacroix, is promising the public the final two parts will be ready by the end of June.’ He moved to my side, placing his hand lightly on my shoulder. ‘We will both have to continue working long hours, ma petite, but will it not be worth it to know this long voyage, which for me was started in 1845 is soon to be at an end?’
My stomach clenched. Would this mean I might lose my employment?
Taking a deep breath, I said, ‘Of course, m’sieur, it will be a proud moment for me when you send off the final proofs to M’sieur Lacroix.’ Pausing, I went on, ‘But I would be sad to feel I was no longer of any use to you.’ I lowered my gaze, not daring to see his reaction.
‘But of course I will still need you! I have many further works planned and will continue to require such an excellent copyist as yourself.’
I looked up and saw his eyes twinkling at me and smiled back.
‘Thank you, m’sieur, you have made me so happy. I...I was worried you would manage without me in future and I have come to...take pleasure in working for you these past months.’
‘And I enjoy your company, ma petite, as well as your admirable work. You will, however, be having a respite from your endeavours in the near future as I have arranged to travel to the Rhineland with Madame Drouet in July. It’s something we do each year to ensure my health is renewed after working so hard.’
My earlier happiness dissipated. They were leaving and I would be alone. How would I cope? The sadness I felt must have shown in my face as, squeezing my shoulder, he went on, ‘Don’t worry, I shall pay you a retainer while we are away. I can’t expect you to have no income for three months and there are some works still to be copied at your leisure.’
Three months! I forced a smile and thanked him, while inwardly I was bereft. It is kind of him to pay me, for which I am truly grateful, but the thought of the three lonely months looming ahead brought me close to tears. Stupid, I know, having only known them for a few months, but they have been my salvation since I lost poor Arnaud and our son. It is my own fault; I rely too heavily on them and must find other companions. It will not be easy as a widow in early mourning is not encouraged to socialise and is meant to stay shut away indoors instead of reminding others of the spectre of death.
Today the manuscript was finished and ready to be sent to Brussels by tomorrow’s mailboat and an air of excitement fills Hauteville House. M’sieur insists I share a glass of wine before I leave for home and I am happy to accept. Collecting my shawl and bag, I follow him down to the dining room where Marie has laid out a tray with a carafe of red wine and two glasses.
‘Your daughter is not joining us, m’sieur?’
Passing me a glass, he shook his head.
‘No, can you not hear that awful noise? She is playing that mournful music on the piano again and refuses to leave the room.’ He frowned and I felt sorry for him, who seemed so unlucky with his daughters. I had seen little of Adèle of late and was glad our paths did not cross that often. Sometimes she has turned up to help with the dinners for the poor children but simply ignores me as I serve the food. It was as if we had an unspoken agreement not to notice each other.
‘Come,’ he added, brightening. ‘Let us toast the conclusion of the final parts of my work and may it receive the same reception as the earlier parts.’
We raised our glasses and I took a sip of the excellent wine, far superior in quality to that offered at the meals for the poor, I noticed. Gesturing for me to sit, he paced around the room as he drank, appearing preoccupied.
‘Is there something troubling you, m’sieur?’ I asked, hesitantly.
He stopped and stared at me, as if he had forgotten my presence.
‘My apologies, ma petite, my mind was elsewhere. I wish to thank you for all your hard work over the past months. You have proved to be a great asset to us and wondered if you would care to join us this afternoon for a little carriage ride? I know you are in mourning but we both think you would benefit from such a ride into the country. You are still a trifle pale.’
‘I...I would be honoured, m’sieur.’ A lump forms in my throat at this sign of our friendship. For this is what it is. I am not just an employee, but someone they both care for and are happy to acknowledge in public.
He smiled.
‘Good, we were afraid you would be concerned about any impropriety, but you are a woman of spirit, n’est ce pas? These islanders gave us the cold shoulder when we first arrived, and I was vilified for my morals and politics, but now I am considered something of an asset to them and the newspapers write of my dinners for the poor in glowing terms.’ He puffed out his chest in an exaggerated manner and laughing, went on, ‘And as my fame grows with this latest work, well, then they will be beating a path to my door, begging to be my friend, will they not?’
Carried along by his good humour, I joined in and we were both still laughing when a cold voice cut in, ‘What is so amusing, Papa?’
I turned to see Adèle standing in the doorway, her hair in disarray and a wild look in her eyes as she glared first at her father and then at me.
‘A little joke, Adèle, nothing more. Do you wish to join us in toasting the despatch of the final parts to the publishers?’ He offered his glass to her but she shook her head.
‘No, I do not. I have a headache and will go and lie down.’ She turned on her heel and was about to leave when her father called out, ‘I have received a letter from your mother, Adèle. She and your brother will arrive the day after tomorrow and she hopes to find you in good spirits. I trust you will not disappoint her.’ His voice was stern and she stopped, twisting round to face him. She was smiling.
‘Mama and Victor will be here in two days? Oh, that’s wonderful news! Thank you, Papa.’ She rushed out of the room a completely different woman to the one who had entered only minutes ago.
M’sieur shrugged his shoulders.
‘You see? My daughter is like a dual personality and we never know which one we will see. But at least she will be happier when her mother is here.’
It occurs to me that I have yet to meet M’dame Hugo and wonder if she would dislike me as her daughter did. With m’sieur going away for a few months, that could prove difficult for me. My earlier happiness drains away.
‘Come, ma petite, it’s time you went home and we will see you at two o’clock for our drive. Don’t be late,’ he said, patting my arm.
I finish my wine and leave as Marie arrives with his lunch. Sophie will have a cold repast ready for me and there is enough time for me to eat and change. With the arrival of summer I have purchased a dark grey dress in a lighter material and a small widow’s cap to replace my heavy black crepe dress and hat and decide this is a good time to wear it. It may raise a few eyebrows but I need to be comfortable. I’m sure Arnaud would have agreed with me, he was never one for stuffy tradition. The thought of my beloved brings the familiar lump to my throat and tears creep out of my eyes. Instinctively, my hands settle on my stomach and more tears appear. Forcing myself to think of happier things like the forthcoming carriage ride, I change into my new clothes. Immediately, I feel lighter, less restricted. I know I will never stop loving and missing my husband, but I am young and in sore need of a little pleasure.
The small open carriage was pulled up outside Hauteville House as I approached and the coachman was standing by the horse’s head feeding him a carrot. He touched his cap but remained silent. I recognised him as the fellow who was driving the carriage the day I began miscarrying my child and felt myself grow hot with embarrassment. I was debating whether or not to ring the bell when M’sieur Hugo appeared at the door, his hat in his hand.
‘Ah, good, you are punctual, ma petite. Let us go and collect Madame Drouet.’
The coachman assisted me into the carriage and m’sieur sat opposite and a minute later we stopped as M’dame Drouet emerged from the lane. In her hands were two parasols, one cream silk and the other dark grey. M’sieur helped her into the carriage and she took her place beside me, proffering me the dark grey parasol as she dropped a kiss on my cheek.
‘I thought you might be glad of this, it will shade you from both the sun and prying eyes, ma chère. And I am pleased to see you have changed your dress. That other one was too heavy for you, don’t you agree, m’sieur?’
‘I confess I hadn’t noticed, but you are, as ever, right, m’dame.’ He smiled at us both and I opened my parasol to hide my blushes. Suddenly the carriage seemed such an intimate space and I was conscious of knees only inches apart from each other. Perspiration formed on my forehead before the horse broke into a trot and a breeze brought me some relief. It was decided we would drive along the lanes to Jerbourg and then stop for a picnic, provided by Marie and packed in a hamper behind our seats.
M’sieur Hugo was in jovial mood and as the carriage rattled along up George Road and then onto Fort Road, past the barracks on our left, he kept us amused with tales of his latter months in Jersey when he upset the local dignitaries with his impolite references to Queen Victoria. None of this can have been new to m’dame, of course, who was also in Jersey, but she smiled and laughed as if hearing the stories for the first time. I noticed how pale and tired she looked and wondered if their forthcoming trip was as much for her sake as for his own. Selfishly, I didn’t want them to go, but no-one of his years could keep up the punishing pace of work he had set himself without affecting his health. My only consolation was thinking they would both return much refreshed and ready to continue with more wonderful projects.
The hedgerows and trees were in full leaf and formed quite a contrast to the grey warren of houses and shops in the centre of Town. It was another world, with open spaces and only an occasional house as a reminder people lived here, too. A country girl at heart, it lifted my spirits to be in such excellent company and to see so much greenery as we headed out further towards Route de Saumarez. As we approached the imposing gates of Saumarez Manor on our right, I asked m’sieur if he had ever visited the house.
‘Pah! I am not a particular friend of the de Saumarezes and they consider me an outlaw, not fit for genteel society.’ He threw his hands up in the air and scowled. ‘What do these so-called society people know? They are narrow-minded and believe the church is omnipotent. Do they not realise I am a peer of the French realm? A count! No, I would not set foot inside such a house, even if I were to be asked. I prefer to mix with those who earn an honest living and are open to modern ideas such as equality and social reform.’
I was mortified. To have made him so angry! As I was about to apologise, m’dame tapped my arm.
‘Do not worry, ma chère, he is not angry with you, but with the way society is organised here. Is that not so, m’sieur?’
To my relief, he smiled.
‘Of course. You asked an innocent question and I lost my temper, not with you, but with men such as those who live there,’ he waved in the direction of the manor, now behind us as we turned into the lane leading to Jerbourg. M’dame steered the conversation away from anything controversial by asking if he planned to spend more time painting or drawing now the great work was completed. It had been a revelation to me that he was a talented artist, several works of his were displayed in Hauteville House. They tended to be somewhat sombre and even macabre, like the image of a hanged man I had seen in his study. However, he was also fond of painting the local scenery and I particularly liked his colour washes of stormy seas, all blues and greys.
‘Yes, I plan to sketch while you ladies amuse yourselves. It will help to clear my head now the pressure has lifted,’ he said, his humour restored.
Concerned I might say the wrong thing again, I only half-listened to their conversation while taking a keen interest in the vista of fields and the occasional run-down farm cottages. We were now in the parish of St Martin, an area given over to farming, with the cows producing the rich creamy Guernsey milk and where an abundance of vegetables are grown. Rutted tracks lead off the lane towards the farms and I caught a glimpse of cows being led by a young lad with a large stick from their field to a distant barn for the afternoon milking. I breathed deeply, allowing a feeling of contentment to wash over me. As we passed an elderly woman laden with baskets of green vegetables, M’sieur Hugo doffed his hat and called a greeting, being rewarded with a gap-toothed smile.
Moments later we arrived at Jerbourg Point, known for the clear views of all the other islands when the sky was clear, as it was today. Atop a cliff, there was an area of open scrubland popular for al fresco picnics. Today, it was quiet and we were the only ones to take up residence on a patch of grass near the edge of the cliff while our driver, after unhitching the carriage, guided the horse to the opposite side to graze at his leisure. M’dame and I set out the picnic rug and hamper while m’sieur sat with his sketchbook a few feet away. I was so engrossed in laying out the contents of the hamper that I did not notice that instead of facing towards the islands of Herm and Sark, he was facing us and was already busy drawing.
‘We appear to be the subjects this afternoon,’ m’dame said, with a laugh. ‘Is this the first time m’sieur has drawn you?’
‘It is and I feel quite unworthy to be chosen.’ This was true. No-one had ever considered me a suitable subject before, although Arnaud had insisted we have our photograph taken when we married.
Once the picnic of pies, cold meats and salads was laid out m’sieur joined us, pouring the wine and helping to pass around the food. He then read to us from one of his poems and, to our amusement, a cow in the nearby field came up to the hedge and leaned over, as if it were listening to his words. When he stopped reading, the cow moved away, but returned once he resumed. It made us all laugh. Once we had cleared away, m’dame and I went for a stroll along the cliff while m’sieur returned to his sketching, this time focusing on the islands. We were not allowed to see his earlier picture as he wanted to finish it off later, he said, waving us away. M’dame graciously offered me her arm as we walked and it was as if I was taking the air with my own dear mother again. She was as warm to me as any mother could be and I think she had taken on that role almost from our first meeting. The thought that I was soon to be without her took away some of the joy of this special time together. How was I going to bear it?