The Song of the Siren

As we were about to step into our carriage a woman came up to us. I recognised her at once as the elegant Madame de Partiere who had spoken to me in the Oeil de Boeuf.

She was clearly in some distress.

“Madame ... I wonder if you would help me. I must get to Paris without delay. Are you going back there now?”

“Yes,” I answered.

She said: “It is most unfortunate. The wheel of my carriage is broken. ...” She lifted her shoulders. “I do not understand. ... But my coachman tells me that it will take some hours to put right ... even if he can get it done this day. I must return to Paris.” She looked very apologetic. “I was wondering if ... if you would take me there with you.”

Hessenfield had come up. She explained to him. “I saw you in the Oeil de Boeuf. I noticed Madame ... who would not notice Madame? I spoke to her ... I could not restrain myself. Now ... I am asking this favour of you. If you could let me travel with you to Paris.”

Madame de Partiere’s eyes filled with tears. “It is such a relief to me,” she said.

So we travelled back to Paris with our new acquaintance. She had a house in the rue St. Antoine, and she was very unhappy at the moment.

I said to Hessenfield: “Her husband was killed at Blenheim.”

“Madame, my condolences,” said Hessenfield.

“You are too kind.” She turned away and wiped her eyes.

After a while she went on: “So kind ... and so brave. I know that you came over here ... exiles from your country ... fighting for a cause. That is noble.”

“Madame,” said Hessenfield, “you speak such good English.”

“Oh, but there is the accent, eh ... the intonation.... It is amazing how the French can never truly master the English tongue.”

“Nor the English the French,” said I.

“There is always something to betray it,” said Hessenfield.

“My mother was English. Her people had been over here during the days of Cromwell. She was a little girl then but her family met my grandfather’s family. The two young people fell in lo\e and married and after the Restoration she stayed in France. Their daughter, my mother, was taught English ... by her mother and I was taught by my mother... . That is why I have known ledge of your English.

But I am afraid it is not always as good as it should be.”

“Are you living in Paris?”

“For the time. The death of my husband has ... how do you say it? ... stunned me.

I am at this time a little uncertain.”

“Have you any children?”

She was silent and turned her head away.

“I have a son,” she said.

“And shall you live with him?”

“He is dead,” she said.

I said I was sorry and realised that we had been asking too many questions.

We talked then about Versailles and the wonders of the palace and the gardens, the groves and the waterfalls and the bronze statues.

Had we seen the basin of Apollo, she wanted to know, with the god represented in his chariot drawn by four horses and the water spouting from the fountains?

We had, we told her.

“How I should love to see one of the displays on water,” she said. “I have heard that that is like a visit to another world.”

“I have seen it,” said Hessenfield. “With the Venetian gondolas all decked out with flowers, it is quite fantastic, particularly at night, when there is a display of fireworks.”

Then Hessenfield discussed the merits of the Orangery, the Rockery and the waterfall.

He was much more knowledgeable about Versailles than we were.

“I feel,” said Madame de Partiere, “that I have been given not only a ride home but a tour of the palace.”

She turned to me and picked up one of my gloves which was lying on the seat beside me.

“I cannot but admire it,” she said. “What exquisite embroidery and this delicate tracing of tiny pearls. It is so beautiful. Tell me, where do you get your gloves?”

“I have an excellent couturiere,” I said. “She scarcely allows me to choose anything myself. She brought these gloves in the other day and said that she thought they would be suitable for this occasion.”

“How right she was. I am interested because I congratulate myself that I have one of the best glove makers in Paris. It is true it is a small shop. It is in the carrefour near the Chatelet. A very small shop, but the owner is an artist. He has four or five girls stitching and embroidering for him but the design is his. It is that which counts, of course, and he is a master. This, though, equals what I have had from him.”

She smoothed the glove and replaced it on the seat.

So passed the time until we reached Paris.

Hessenfield said that we should take Madame de Partiere to her house and then we should go home. When we reached the rue St. Antoine, Hessenfield alighted from the coach to help her out and as she was about to step down she gave a cry of dismay.

She stooped and picked up something. It was my glove which had been lying on the seat. She had swept it to the floor as she rose and had stepped on it.

I thought she was going to burst into tears as she picked it up and gazed at it.

There was a dirty mark on the embroidery and some of the pearls had broken away.

“Oh, what have I done!” she cried.