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THIS YEAR HAS NOT STARTED well and the Hugo family is in mourning for poor Emily de Putron who has succumbed to the tuberculosis. Young Victor is devastated and plans to leave Guernsey for good, so he has told his father. M’sieur is to give the oration at the funeral and I and other members of the household will attend at the Cimetière des Indépendants in Town.
...She was like a joyful flower strewn in the house. From the cradle she was surrounded by every tenderness; she grew up happily and, receiving happiness, returned it; loved, she loved...
She has left, youth journeying to eternity; beauty to perfection; hope to certainty...
As I listened to these beautiful words I wondered if M’sieur Hugo also thought then of his own lost daughter, Léopoldine. He looked so sad, and no wonder. His family have suffered many blows. His son took ship yesterday and missed the funeral, heading for Brussels and plans to stay abroad for some time, I believe. His mother is shortly to follow him. M’sieur Hugo has responded to his loss by closing the billiard room.
M’dame Drouet has taken on the role of de facto housekeeper at Hauteville House now that m’sieur has been left alone. She returns to her own house each evening and I spend time with her as before. He has thrown himself into work and the poems are now published while he continues writing what I consider to be his most extraordinary book to date. He calls it Les Traveilleurs de la Mer (Toilers of the Sea) and is full of giant creatures and super-human beings like a fairy tale, but is set here in Guernsey.
Today I asked him about his inspiration for the story as he produced more pages to copy.
‘Coming by ship in exile to these islands was the first time I had been at sea and it had, and continues to have, a profound effect on me. You will have noticed, ma petite, how much time I spend gazing out from my lookout, observing the sea in all its many variations. Also, I have spent many hours talking to the good fishermen and sailors at the harbour and have listened mesmerised to their tales of life at sea.’ He paced about, stroking his beard, his eyes bright with passion. ‘I have wanted to dedicate a volume to these brave men and to the islanders who have given me such refuge over these many years and this work is my homage to them all.’ He stopped, pointing at the papers on the table, and said, ‘And what is your opinion, ma petite? Do you think I have done them justice?’
‘Oh, indeed you have. The poor, brave Gilliatt, undertaking so much for the young woman, Déruchette, is a fine example of the local fishermen who brave the dangerous waters to provide us with fish. And from your detailed descriptions of what it’s like to sail a boat in these waters, no-one would guess you had never done this yourself.’
He beamed at me.
‘You are most kind, and I am particularly pleased with those passages. It remains to be seen what the public’s views will be.’
‘Will you include your illustrations, m’sieur? They are quite some of your best, I feel.’ He had the habit of including little drawings in the margins of the manuscripts and also sketching larger versions, such as that of the pieuvre, a sea monster like an octopus.
‘I will consider it, yes. Now, I must return to my desk – ah, that reminds me. Do you have a desk for your correspondence at home?’
‘No, m’sieur, I use my dining table.’
‘Ah, that is what M’dame Drouet thought. We were inspecting the latest items in Mr Symes’s shop in Mansell Street when we saw the most splendid French ladies desk. I immediately thought of you and asked her if she thought you might like it and she said yes. So, I have reserved it and it is yours if you so desire,’ he said, smiling broadly.
I was so astonished my mouth fell open. He had given me numerous small presents over the years, but a desk!
‘I...I do not know what to say. What have I done to deserve such a gift, m’sieur?’
He took my hand and looked earnestly at me.
‘You have worked tirelessly for me for more than three years, ma petite, and have become a friend to us both. Your presence has helped me to deal with the sad loss of my daughters, as even Adèle is lost to me these past two years.’ He sighed, and I saw the sadness in his eyes and wished I could comfort him. He continued, ‘It would give me pleasure if you were to accept this desk as a token of my affection and gratitude.’
A lump formed in my throat and I struggled to reply.
‘In that case, m’sieur, I would be honoured to accept, however unworthy I am to receive such a gift.’
‘Splendid! I will have it sent to you directly. But now we both have work to do, n’est ce pas?’ He released my hand and strode off, leaving me trembling with shock and...what? Feelings I could not admit to, made even more powerful by his generosity. I had to pace around the salon a few times, emulating m’sieur’s habit, before I was able to focus on my work. By the time I finished some hours later I was calmer and hurried home wondering when the desk would arrive.
‘Oh, m’dame! You’ll never guess what’s been delivered barely ten minutes ago!’ Sophie was wringing her hands with excitement as she met me at the door. Striving to appear more serene than I felt I allowed her to drag me into the parlour where m’sieur’s gift now had pride of place near the window.
‘Isn’t it beautiful, m’dame? I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it afore. Is it a present? Looks very expensive.’ Sophie gabbled on while I examined the exquisite inlaid desk with a drop-down top hiding drawers and cubbyholes. Unmistakably French, and as Sophie said, expensive. Even my beloved Arnaud had never spent so much on a gift for me and I was quite overcome. Telling her I was ready for my lunch, I shooed her downstairs to the kitchen while I stood admiring the workmanship a little longer, tears sliding down my cheeks. The first letter I would write would be one of thanks to M’sieur Hugo and Sophie can deliver it after lunch. I will treasure this desk to my dying day.
October 1865
At last M’sieur Hugo and M’dame Drouet have returned! They have also brought the welcome news that Charles has married a young French woman, Alice Lehaene, with good connections. This talk of a marriage has prompted M’dame Drouet to again raise the question of my remarrying, but, as I told her previously, I am not interested in finding a husband. I could not tell her the true reason, and she must have thought me odd to be so stubborn.
***
MARCH 1866
At last Les Travailleurs de la Mer is published, shortly after m’sieur’s birthday. He has written a dedication which I find quite moving –
I dedicate this book to the rock of hospitality and liberty,
That corner of old Norman soil where dwells that noble little people of the sea;
To the island of Guernsey,
Austere and yet gentle,
My present asylum, my probable tomb.
It is a time of celebration and he is particularly pleased that no less than the writer Alexandre Dumas, whose work I also admire, held a party to celebrate the publication. The novel is selling in even greater numbers than Les Misérables, m’sieur informs me, rubbing his hands together when he sought me out in the red salon.
‘I am not surprised it is proving so popular, I admired it greatly. Do you have another work in mind, m’sieur?’ Each time he finished a great work I was afraid he would decide to take a long break from writing and leave me unemployed.
‘Indeed, I have an idea for another novel and also some other projects. Don’t worry, I still need you,’ he said, smiling. Just then, Henriette burst into the room saying that Sénat, his beautiful greyhound, had run off again.
‘That dog is costing me a fortune!’ he shouted, and Henriette and I shared a smile. M’sieur was referring to the dog’s collar, engraved in a verse written by him, and considered a valuable trinket by those lucky enough to find him.
In French, it reads, ‘Je voudrais qu’au logis quelqu’un me ramenât
Mon état? Chien Mon maitre? Hugo Mon nom? Sénat’
In English: ‘I would like someone to take me home
My profession? Dog My master? Hugo My name? Sénat’
Later on M’sieur returned, in a calmer mood, and presented me with a beautifully bound and signed copy of Les Travailleurs de la Mer. I thanked him profusely, honoured again by his continuing generosity towards me.
April 1866
M’sieur has heard from his daughter Adèle’s landlady that she has left Halifax and followed the regiment to Barbados. I feel sorry for him as he paces about, hands thrust in his pockets, as he considers what, if anything, he could do. The whispers among the servants are that the family has a history of madness and that Adèle is possibly afflicted. It does fit with her odd behaviour but is no comfort to her father, alone in Guernsey while his other children and his wife stay in Brussels or Paris. At least M’dame Drouet stays by his side, ever his stalwart companion. And I like to think I play my own small part in keeping him from melancholy.
***
1868 – AUGUST
The most distressing news. M’dme Hugo has died in Brussels while the whole family – apart from Adèle, who was still away – was there. M’sieur had gone with M’dame Drouet for their usual summer trip and they were staying with Victor. When M’dame Hugo was last in Guernsey, early last year, she had seemed to be unwell and was in pain with her eyes, she told me. She and M’dame Drouet spent some time together and they became friends. For the moment m’sieur and m’dame are to remain abroad but in her letter to me, she says she will try to persuade him to return soon. His own health is suffering and he has lost weight, she says. The tragedy not only reduces me to tears but brings home to me my vulnerability and I barely leave the house now, feeling lost and alone even though I do have some friends and my faithful Sophie.
1868 October/November
M’sieur Hugo and M’dame Drouet are returned! Seeing them again in Hauteville House lifts my spirits but m’sieur has aged. He complains of rheumatic pains and heavy nose-bleeds and I know m’dame is concerned for him, as am I. The wet, cold winter weather makes it hard for anyone to shake off the doldrums, but the one ray of light at this time is the child, Georges, born to Alice and Charles some months before and adored by both his grandfather and M’dame Drouet, who, I think, sees herself as a surrogate grandmother. I am happy for them both, after all they have endured, they deserve some joy. I know it must seem contrary that I wish m’dame joy with M’sieur Hugo, given my own feelings for him, but she has been his rock, his muse, and his faithful lover for so long that she surely has the greater claim. My love pales in comparison, though is no less real and causes me some pain, knowing it will never be returned. This I must endure if it means I can remain by his side.
This adored grandchild did, however, put m’dame in mind of my own situation as she has again raised the subject of my future.
‘You know how much we both care for you, my dear, you are as a daughter to us. We wish to be assured you are settled now there is a chance we will be returning to France in the not too distant future.’ She poured the coffee as we sat in her drawing room and I felt the fear clutch at my heart. I had known, since the change in the political atmosphere in Paris, that the way might open for them to return, but had tried not to dwell on it.
She passed me my coffee, and I noted the dark shadows around her eyes as she attempted a smile.
‘I am aware of your aversion to marriage, but if there was a gentleman who is known to and approved of by M’sieur Hugo and myself, would you not at least consider meeting him to see if you found him agreeable?’
I took a sip of my coffee to give myself time to think. Now twenty-five years of age, I had matured from the young and naïve girl of nineteen and was aware life could be very difficult for a woman on her own. I owned my house, but my income was solely from my work as m’sieur’s copyist. If he were to leave the island, then I would lose my income as well as enduring a broken-heart. The spectre of Adèle, made mad with unrequited love living in a strange country alone, loomed large in my mind and gave me cause to consider my choices. If I was going to lose m’sieur anyway, and, in truth, he had never been mine, then would it be so awful to contemplate someone who might be a companion and provider? If I were to fall pregnant, then was there any reason I would lose the child as before? The thoughts tumbled through my mind while m’dame sat in silence, as if knowing I had much to consider. I took a deep breath.
‘I’m grateful for your affection for me and concern for my happiness. Is...is there a particular gentleman you have in mind?’ My hand shook as I gripped the cup.
She smiled and reached out to pat my hand.
‘Yes, my dear, there is. You have met the French teacher, Paul Stapfer, at Hauteville House, have you not?’ I nodded, he was a regular visitor and lived in upper Hauteville. ‘Well, he has a friend, a fellow teacher at Elizabeth College, to whom we were introduced some months ago, Pierre Blondel, a widower. Paul has intimated that his friend wishes to remarry and, having seen you and knowing a little of your circumstances, Paul asked if his friend could meet you. M’sieur Hugo is quite taken with the man, finding him a gentleman and excellent company and is happy to arrange such a meeting if you are willing to consider it.’ Tilting her head to one side, she added, ‘We only have your best interests at heart, my dear, and you are free to say no.’
It seemed churlish to refuse as I have free will and if I do not like the look of the man, then that is the end of the matter.
‘Then I agree to meet him if this will be in company.’
‘We thought a little supper at Hauteville House, with both M’sieur Stapfer and M’sieur Blondel invited. Oh, I do hope you like each other, as I find him quite charming and he is very personable.’
I admit I was intrigued and m’dame said she would advise me when a date and time were arranged.
When I went to work today, m’sieur arrived with pages of his new project; his novel, L’Homme qui rit finished yesterday and off to the publishers. He made no mention of Pierre Blondel and I understood that he wanted it to appear, for the sake of propriety, as if any arrangements were made by m’dame and not himself.
I have received a note from m’dame asking if I am free to attend a supper party on the following Friday evening and I duly replied that I was. To my surprise I felt some excitement at the prospect of meeting this ‘charming’ man at last.
Friday
I have taken great care over my toilette this evening. My choice of gowns used to be limited, but m’dame has been kind enough to give me, some weeks ago, one of her beautiful silk gowns which no longer fitted and which she asked her dressmaker to alter for me. She has expensive taste, both in clothes and jewellery, and is fortunate that M’sieur Hugo is happy to indulge her. The dress is deep blue with exquisite embroidery around the neckline and on the sleeves and I have never possessed anything as lovely. As I stood in front of the bedroom mirror I hardly recognised myself in the elegant young woman staring back at me. Sophie has styled my hair in soft ringlets instead of my usual neat bun. Unbidden, an image of myself in my widow’s garb came into my mind and I gasped. ‘Forgive me, Arnaud, please forgive me.’ I brushed away an errant tear before picking up my cloak and going downstairs.
‘You look ever so lovely, m’dame. That blue suits you, it does. I’m sure the gentleman will be smitten,’ Sophie grinned as she helped me on with my cloak. I felt my face redden and mumbled something about not needing to wait up for me. The night was fine, though crisp, and I pulled my cloak around me as I walked the few yards to Hauteville House. It was strange to be dressed in finery and to be arriving as a guest rather than an employee and I had to take deep breaths to steady my nerves. I had barely knocked when the door was opened by the maid, Henriette.
‘Ooh, m’dame, you look beautiful. Let me take your cloak. They’re gathered in the lower drawing room, if you’ll follow me.’ She led the way to what I thought of as the tapestries room, beyond the billiard room, and announced me, giggling, before leaving with my cloak.
M’dame Drouet, who had been talking to a man I didn’t recognise, turned and came to me arms outstretched and kissed my cheek, whispering in my ear, ‘Vous êtes belle.’
‘Ma chère! I’m so glad you could join us. Come and meet our other guests.’ She took my arm and led me to two men, M’sieur Stapfer and the stranger. M’sieur Hugo, sitting in an armchair, rose and came to greet me, a broad smile lifting the corners of his moustache.
‘Messieurs, may I present our dear friend, M’dame Sarchet. M’sieur Stapfer, you have met, and this is M’sieur Blondel, a fellow teacher at the College.’ The gentlemen bowed and I dropped a curtsy. M’sieur Blondel was of medium height and build, with dark, waved hair and small dark eyes and was clean-shaven. I thought I detected an approving glint in his eyes as he kissed my hand.
‘Enchanté, m’dame,’ he murmured, his voice deep and warm.
‘M’sieur,’ I nodded.
‘Would you like some wine, my dear?’ M’dame asked, steering me to the side table where various bottles and glasses were arranged. I chose red wine and she filled my glass, whispering, ‘What do you think? He is handsome, is he not?’ I nodded, not daring to speak, and took a swallow of wine to calm myself.
M’sieur Hugo then began a conversation about the social inequality in the island and what he felt should be done about it. It was one of his favourite topics and no doubt the gentlemen had heard it before, and soon they were joining in with their thoughts. I was asked my opinion and, somewhat shyly, agreed with M’sieur Hugo’s views. We were then called to dine by young Henriette and M’sieur Blondel offered his arm to lead me down the hall to the dining room. I had not been in such close proximity to a man since my dear Arnaud was alive and felt unsure how to respond. He made idle conversation as we found our seats at the dining table; he was on one side of me and M’sieur Hugo on the other and opposite were M’dame Drouet and M’sieur Stapfer. Marie Sixty and Henriette began bringing in the food and conversation slowed. I recognised the soup of yellow peas and sausages as being one of m’dame’s own recipes and it was delicious, served with fresh baked bread.
‘You are a widow, m’dame, I understand?’ M’sieur Blondel said, after we had all been served.
‘Yes, it’s been nearly seven years since my husband drowned. And you, m’sieur? How long since you lost your wife?’
He paused, his spoon poised over the bowl.
‘Not quite two years. Sadly, she died giving birth to our child, who also died.’ His face was sombre and I was touched by his double loss.
‘I’m sorry to hear that. I also lost our child soon after my husband’s death so we have that in common.’
‘Indeed we do. Let us hope we have more pleasant things in common, also. Would you mind telling me a little of your background? I know you are French, but not how you came to be here.’
I told him about my family and why I came to Guernsey and met my husband while we continued eating our soup. We talked over the courses, which seemed to go on forever and included fish, roasted chicken with vegetables, followed by an English dish, beef Wellington, which was beef encased in pastry and served with gravy. I was astonished by the amount of food, and the copious bottles of wine being served and could only eat small amounts from each course, unlike M’sieur Hugo who ate like a true gourmet and gourmand. M’dame ate and drank in moderation while the two gentlemen guests vied with their host. After a salad, a dessert of chocolate mousse with brandy sauce was served and I ate only a token spoonful.
My fellow diners kept up a conversation, with m’dame dividing her time between m’sieur and Paul Stapfer. It seemed to me that they deliberately left the way clear for M’sieur Blondel and me to converse as few questions came our way. I learnt that he, like me, was an orphan, and his father had been a shopkeeper but realising his son had intelligence and ambition, saved to send him to university to become a teacher. His mother had died when he was a child and it sounded as if his life had been hard, as it is for many.
When the meal was finished and the table cleared, bottles of port and brandy were placed on the table and the conversation became more animated, focusing on the situation in France and whether or not Napoleon III would stay in power much longer. M’sieur Hugo had always said he wouldn’t return to France until there was real freedom under a new republic. The combination of an excess of food and wine made me drowsy and I had to hide the occasional yawn. M’dame must have noticed and whispered to me, ‘Do you wish to leave?’ I nodded.
‘Messieurs, our young friend requests your permission to leave us. Would you be kind enough to escort her home, M’sieur Blondel? You’re welcome to return and continue your evening, if you wish,’ she said, smiling at him.
‘Of course, I will be honoured, m’dame.’ M’sieur Blondel rose and bowed to me, offering me his hand. I thanked my hosts for their hospitality and Messrs Hugo and Stapfer stood and bowed as I curtsied and left. Henriette, sleepy-headed, handed me my cloak and M’sieur Blondel settled it around my shoulders as she opened the door. The night air was keen and I shivered.
‘You are cold? Would you like my coat?’ He went to take it off, but I shook my head.
‘It’s only a short walk, thank you.’ We walked in silence down the street and all I could think of was how I longed for my bed instead of what I thought about my escort. My head swam from too much wine and the mix of emotions brought on by being seated between the man I loved, who could soon be out of my life, and this man who had wanted to meet me with a view to marriage. Despair, loss, fatigue, grief and fear mixed with anticipation all sought to take precedence and I was overwhelmed.
We arrived at my door and M’sieur Blondel kissed my gloved hand as we said our goodnights. I unlocked the door and slipped inside as he turned to leave and I walked upstairs in a daze. Once undressed and in bed I was soon asleep.