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“I don’t care,” I said, recklessly. “I should not mind if I slipped again.”
“Slipped!” said Clara, satirically; “that was a pretty slip, certainly. I never saw so clumsy a one, but it answered capitally.”
“What do you mean?” I said, innocently.
“Oh, of course, you don’t know, dear,” said Clara, growing more and more satirical. “But there, never mind, I have both the notes.”
“What notes?” I ejaculated, with my heart beginning to beat – oh, so fast!
“Now, don’t be a little stupid,” said Clara, “when you know all the time. The Signor dropped them into my parasol, as I held it down half shut, and there they are – for I have not dared to take them out yet.”
And there, sure enough, were two tiny brown paper squares, looking for all the world like packets of garden seeds, so as not to catch any one’s eye when they were delivered – tied up, too, with little bits of string, so as not to be in the least like what they were. Though, really, it was too bad to try and make out that the whole thing was planned, and that I had slipped on purpose. Now, was it not?
“Why, what dear, lovable ingenuity,” I could not help exclaiming. “And is one for you then, dear?”
“And why not, pray?” exclaimed Clara; “why should not I have notes as well as somebody, who has her meetings as well?”
“I’m sure I don’t,” I exclaimed. “How can you say so? Why, you know I did not meet him.”
“Not your fault, my dear,” said Clara, sarcastically. “But there, I’m not complaining; but when I am so open and confidential, I’m sure you need not be so close.”
“Now, did you not promise to forget all that?” I said.
“Well, yes, so I did,” she replied; “and I won’t say any more about it. But this was clever, wasn’t it; and I’m sure I give you every credit for managing that slip so well.”
“Indeed – indeed – indeed – indeed!” I said, “it was an accident.”
But it was no use whatever; and the more I protested, the more the tiresome thing would not believe me; till I grew so cross I could have pinched her, only that I could not afford to quarrel just then.
By means of changing parasols, I obtained possession of my note; and then, how long the time did seem before we received our orders to turn back! But I learnt, though, from Clara, that Achille had made quite a confidante of the Signor, and that they were both planning together for us to have a long meeting.
“But how do you get to know all this?” I said.
“Do you suppose, miss, that no one else but you can manage to pass and receive notes so cleverly?” she replied.
I could not make any answer, for somehow or another Clara generally managed to get the better of me.
What would I not have given to have been alone for one five minutes beneath the deep green shady trees, for it seemed ages since I had had a letter from Achille. But it was of no use to wish; and I’m sure that it was quite three-quarters of an hour before Clara and I were up in our bedroom together, trying to get rid of Patty Smith.
She was such a stupid girl, and the more you gave her hints to go the more she would persist in stopping, for she was as obstinate as she was stupid; and I’m sure, if that’s true about the metempsychosis, Patty Smith, in time to come, will turn into a lady donkey, like those grey ones that are led round Chester Square of a morning, and are owned by one of the purveyors of asses’ milk. We tried all we could to get rid of her, but it was of no use; and at last, when we were ready to cry with vexation, and about to give it up and go down to dinner without reading our notes, some one called out —
“A letter for Miss Smith.”
And then away ran the tiresome thing, and we were quite alone.
Chapter Ten.
Memory the Tenth – The Language of Love
The first thing that Clara and I did was to tear up the brown paper wrappers into tiny little bits, all but where the directions were written, and those we chewed up quite small, to throw out of the window with the other pieces. And oh, how nasty brown paper is to chew! – all tarry and bitter, like cold sailors must be when they eat one another in those dreadful boats that have not enough provisions, and when there’s “water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink.” Then I tore open the tiny note, and Clara did the same; and I had just read two lines, when I felt that I was watched, and looking up, there stood that horrid Miss Furness, just like some basilisk, or gorgon, or cockatrice, or dreadful thing of that kind.
Of course Miss Furness couldn’t have been a cockatrice, but we were so badly taught at that wretched Mrs Blunt’s, that I have not the most remote idea what is the feminine of the extinct fabulous creature, and henatrice sounds so horribly-absurd. Anyhow, she was a wretch – a nasty despicable, hateful, horrible wretch, whom it could not be a sin to hate.
“The bell has rung for dinner, young ladies,” she said, with her eyes devouring my note.
How I did tremble! but I knew that if I was not careful I should betray poor Achille; while, fortunately, Clara had been sitting so that she was not visible from the door, and had time to slip her note into her pocket, while she pretended to have one of her boots off.
For a moment or two I was so scared that I did not know what to do. If I tried to hide the note, I knew that she would suspect that there was something wrong, while she would have been well aware whether there was a letter for me from home, since she always had the opening of the bag. What could I do? For a moment, I was about to crumple the paper up in my hand; but fortunately I restrained myself, and holding the paper boldly in my hand, I pretended that I had been writing out the aliquot parts of a shilling; and, as I doubled the note up slowly, I went on saying, —
“Coming directly, ma’am – one farthing is one forty-eighth; one halfpenny is one twenty-some-thingth – oh, fourth. Oh, dear! oh, dear! how hard it is, to be sure.”
“You seem to have grown very industrious, Miss Bozerne,” said Miss Furness, looking very doubtfully at the paper; and I was afraid that she would smell it, for it was quite strong of that same scent that Achille always used.
“Yes, isn’t she?” said Clara, coming to the rescue; “but I do not think it will last, ma’am.”
I could have hugged her for that; for I knew that the tiresome old thing suspected something to be wrong, and was mixing it up with the morning’s adventure. But nothing more was said, and we descended to dinner, and there I was with that note burning in my pocket, and not a chance could I get to read it; for so sure as I tried to be alone, go where I would, there was that Miss Furness’s favourite, Celia Blang, after me to see what I was doing.
At last, during the afternoon lessons, I could bear it no longer; so I went and sat down by the side of Clara.
“What does he say, dear?” I whispered.
“Wants me to meet him to-night,” she wrote on her slate, and rubbed it out directly. For we actually used common slates – noughts-and-crosses slates – just like charity-school children. But I had my revenge, for I dropped and cracked no less than ten of the nasty things, though I am afraid papa had to pay.
And then again she wrote, “What does he say, dear?”
“I have not had a chance to see yet,” I dolefully replied. “There’s the raging Furnace watching me, so pray don’t look up. She suspects something, and I can’t move without being spied.”
“Poor old darling!” wrote Clara on her slate.
“I’m going to trust you, my dear,” I said. “When I push my Nugent’s Dictionary over to you, take it quietly, for my note will be inside. And I want you to take it, and go away somewhere and read it, and then come and tell me what he says; for the old thing is so suspicious, and keeps looking in my direction – and I dare not attempt it myself.”
So I managed to pass the note to Clara, who left the room; and then I wrote down the aliquot parts of a pound, and folded it ready so as to pull out next time. I saw Miss Furness watching me; and there I sat, with my cheeks burning, and wondering what was in my note, and whether, after all, I had done foolishly. For was Clara to be trusted?
“But she is so mixed up with it herself,” I thought, “she dare not play me false.”
So there I sat on and on, pretending to be studious, and wondering what kept Clara so long, would have gone after her, only I knew that Miss Furness was keeping an eye upon me; and sometimes I half thought that she must know something about the night when I went down to the elms; but directly after I felt that she did not, or she would have told my Lady Blunt directly. But the fact of the matter was, she felt suspicious about the note, and all because I was so clumsy in trying to throw dust in her eyes.
Five minutes – ten minutes – a quarter of an hour had passed, and still no Clara. Then another quarter of an hour, and still she did not come. “Whatever shall I do?” I thought to myself – “surely she is not deceiving me?” And then, just as my spirits were regularly boiling over, heated as they were by impatience and vexation, in she came, with the note in her hand; and I saw her laugh maliciously, and cross over to Patty Smith.
“Oh,” I said to myself, “I shall die of shame.”
And I’m sure no one can tell what agony I suffered while the creature was reading something to Patty, when they both had a hearty laugh; after which Clara began to double the note up, as, with eyes flashing fire, I sat watching that deceitful creature, not daring to move from my seat.
“Miss Fitzacre, bring me that piece of paper you have in your hand,” squeaked Miss Furness, who had been watching her like a cat does a mouse.
Oh, if I could but have screamed out, or fainted, or seized the paper, and fled away! But I could not move, only sit suffering – suffering horribly, while Clara gave me another of her malicious smiles, as she crossed sulkily over to Miss Griffin’s table, drew the paper from her pocket, laid it down, and then our chère institutrice laid a paper-weight upon it, for she had a soul far above curiosity, while Clara came and sat down by me – poor me, who trembled so with fear and rage that my teeth almost chattered; for I could think of nothing else but Mrs Blunt and the Furness reading poor Achille’s note.
I did not know how to be angry enough with myself, for being so simple as to trust Clara; and I’m sure I should not, only I fancied her truthful and worthy; but now, I could have killed her – I could, I was so enraged.
“You horribly treacherous, deceitful thing!” I whispered; “when, too, I trusted you so fully.”
“Why, what is the matter?” she said, quite innocently.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I whispered. “How could you be so false?”
“Oh, that’s what you mean, is it?” she said. “Serve you right for not trusting me fully from the first, as I did you.”
“Worthy of trust, are you not?” I said angrily.
“Will you be quite open with me for the future, then?” she said.
“Open!” I hissed back. “I’ll go to Mrs Blunt, and tell everything, I will – everything; and won’t spare myself a bit, so that you may be punished, you wicked, good-for-nothing, bad-behaved, deceitful and treacherous thing, you!”
“Take breath now, my darling,” she said, tauntingly.
“Breath,” I said – “I wish I had none. I wish I was dead, I do.” And I could not help a bit of a sob coming.
“Poor Achille!” she whispered. “What would he do then?”
“Oh, don’t talk to me – don’t,” I said, bending down my burning face over a book, not a word in which could I see.
“It did tease you, then, did it?” said Clara, laughing.
“Tease me, you heartless thing you,” I said. “Hold your tongue, do! I’ll never forgive you – never, Clara!”
“Less talking there,” said Miss Furness – the Griffin.
“Ugh! you nasty old claw-puss,” said Clara, in an undertone.
After a few minutes’ silence, I began again. “I did not give you credit for it, Clara,” I said. “Thought you were not going to speak to me any more,” she said.
“Oh, it’s too bad,” I whispered; “but you will be sorry for it some day.”
“No, I sha’n’t, you little goose you. It was not your note at all,” she said. “I only did it to tease you, and serve you out for trying to deceive me, who have always tried to be a friend to you from the very first.”
“Oh, my own, dear, darling Clara,” I cried, in a whisper, “is this true? Then I’ll never, never do anything without you again, and tell you everything; and am not cross a bit.”
“But I am,” she cried; “see what names you have been calling me.”
“Ah, but see how agonising it was, dear,” I whispered. “Only think of what you made me suffer. I declare I shall burst out into a fit of hysterical crying directly.”
“No, no, don’t do that,” said Clara. “Then make haste, and tell me what he said, so as to change my thoughts.”
“Guess,” said Clara, sliding my own dear little note into my hand once again.
“Oh, pray, pray tell me,” I whispered. “Don’t, whatever you do, don’t tease me any more. I shall die if you do.”
“No, don’t,” she said, mockingly, “for poor Achille’s sake.”
“I would not serve you so, Clara,” I said, humbly, the tears the while gathering in my eyes.
And then she began to tell me that the note was very long, and stated how he had been interrupted by the policeman, and had not ventured since; but that he and the Signor had arranged to come that night, and they would be under the end of the conservatory at eleven, if we could contrive to meet them there.
“And of course we can,” said Clara. “How they must have been plotting together!”
“But we never can manage it,” I whispered, with a strange fluttering coming over my heart.
“I can, I can,” whispered Clara, squeezing my hand; “but be careful, for here comes the Griffin, and she’s as suspicious as can be.”
We were supposed to be busy preparing lessons all this time; for this was one of the afternoons devoted to private study, two of which we had every week, instead of what Mrs Blunt called the vulgar institution of half-holidays.
“If I have to speak again about this incessant talking, Miss Fitzacre, your conduct will be reported to the lady principal,” said Miss Furness. “And as for you, Miss Bozerne, be kind enough to take a seat in another part of the room. There is a chair vacant by Miss Blang.”
Miss Furness did not hear what Clara said in an undertone, or she would have hurried off posthaste to make her report. But as she did not, she returned to her seat, and soon after we were summoned to our tea – I mean anti-nervous infusion.
Chapter Eleven.
Memory the Eleventh – A Catastrophe
I used to get quite vexed with the tiresome old place, even if it was pretty, and you could sit at your open window and hear the nightingales singing; and even though some other bird had made me hear its singing, too, and found its way right to my poor heart. There was so much tiresome formality and niggling; and if one spoke in a way not according to rule, there was a fine or imposition, or something of that kind. We never went to bed, we never got up – we retired to rest, and arose from slumber; we were summoned to our lessons, dinner was always announced, we pursued or resumed our studies, we promenaded daily, or else took recreation in the garden; and did everything, in short, in such a horrible, stiff, starchy way, that we all seemed to be in a constant state of crackle; and every variation was looked upon as so much rumpling, while I’m sure our lady principal could not have been more vulgar if she had tried.
The meeting appointed in the last chapter was repeated again and again at the end of the conservatory; for we had only to slip down into the drawing-room quietly, open the shutters, pass through the French window in among the geraniums, draw the shutters after us or not, and then raise one of the sash windows at the end, where we could stand and talk. For the gentlemen never once came in, for fear that their footsteps should show upon the beautiful, clean, white stones. One meeting was so much like another, that it is hardly worth while to describe them; while no incident worthy of notice occurred until one night. And oh! how well can I recall everything in connection with that disastrous occasion!
We had been for a walk that evening, and I had been most terribly scandalised by the encounter we had had with a policeman. We were just outside the town, when all at once I felt my cheeks flush, as they always do now at the sight of a constable; for there was one coming along the road in front, and something seemed to whisper that we had met before. It was misery and ruin to be recognised, and I set my teeth hard, and tried not to see him; but do what I would, my eyes seemed determined to turn towards the wretch; and they did, too, just as we were passing, and it was he – and the odious creature knew me directly, and pushed his tongue into his cheek in the most vulgar way imaginable. Clara saw it, and gave me a push with her elbow; but, fortunately, I do not think any one else saw the dreadful fellow.
We had to hurry back, too, for a storm came on, and the big drops were plashing heavily upon our parasols before we reached the Cedars; while just as we were safely housed, the lightning flashed and the thunder rolled incessantly.
I was not afraid of the storm, for I was humming over the “Tempest of the Heart,” and wondering whether it would be over soon enough to allow of our assignation being kept; while I grew quite nervous and fidgety as the evening wore on. However, the rain ceased at last, and the thunder only muttered in the distance, where the pale summer lightning was glancing; and when at last we retired to our rooms, and looked out of the open window, the fresh scent which came up from the garden was delicious. The moon shone, but with a pale, misty, and sobered light; while the distant lightning, which played fitfully at intervals, seem to make the scene quite sublime.
After sitting looking out for a while, we closed the windows with a sigh, for we knew we should be reported to Mrs Blunt if our lights were not out; and then, as we had often done before, we pretended to undress, listening all the while to the senseless prattle of Patty Smith, which seemed to us quite childish and nonsensical.
“I wonder your mars,” she said, “don’t send you each a cake sometimes. It would be so nice if they did; and I always do give you a piece of mine.”
“There, don’t talk so, pray, Patty,” I said, after listening to her hungry chatter for ever so long.
“Pray be quiet, and I will give you a shilling to buy a cake.”
“No, you won’t,” said Patty. “Yes, I will indeed,” I said, “if you will be a good girl, and go to sleep.”
“Give it me now, then,” said the stupid thing. And I did give her one, and if she did not actually take it, though I believe she was quite as old as Clara or I; but all the while so dreadfully childish, anyone, from her ways, would have taken her for nine or ten – that is, if they could have shut their eyes to her size. However, at last she fell asleep, and we sat waiting for the trysting-hour, “Do you know,” said Clara, in a whisper, “I begin to get tired of spoiling one’s night’s rest for the sake of meeting them. It was all very well at first, but it’s only the same thing over and over again. I know all about beautiful Italy now, and its lakes and vineyards, and the old tyrant Austrian days, and the Pope, and patriotism, and prisons, and all that sort of thing; while he seems to like to talk about that more than about you know what, and one can’t help getting a little too much of it sometimes.”
“Oh, for shame, Clara!” I said; “how can you talk so? It is not loyal. What would some one say if he knew?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t – ”
“Oh, hush! you sha’n’t say so,” I exclaimed; “for you do care – you know you do.”
And then I sat silent and thinking for some time; for it was as though something began to ask me whether I also was not a little tired of hearing about “ma patrie” and “la belle France” and whether I liked a man any the better for being a patriot, and mixed up with plots for restoring the Orleans family, and who made a vow to spit —cracher– on Gambetta’s grave.
I should not have thought anything of the kind if it had not been for those words of Clara, and I soon crushed it down; for I was not going to harbour any such cruel, faithless thoughts as that I had told Achille again and again that I loved him very dearly; and of course I did, and there was an end of it. But still, though I bit my lips very hard, and tried not to think of such things, it did seem tiresome, I must own, to have to sit up waiting so long; and, like Clara, I did begin to long for a change. If we could have met pleasantly by day, or had a quiet evening walk, and all on like that, it would have been different; but, after the first flush of the excitement and romance, it began to grow a little tame.
“Heigh – ho! – ha! – hum!” said Clara, interrupting my reverie by a terrible yawn, so that had it been daylight I’m sure any one might have seen down her throat, for she never attempted to put her hand before her mouth.
But I could not tell her of it; since I had only the minute before been yawning so terribly myself that I was quite ashamed. For really there seemed to be so little romance about it.
“Let’s go to bed in real earnest,” said Clara. “I’m sure I will, if you’ll agree.”
“For shame!” I exclaimed. “What would they say?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Clara; “they’ve disappointed us before now.”
“But then they could not help it,” I replied.
“No, nor I can’t help it now,” said Clara; “for I’m so sleepy.”
“But it would look so,” I said, repressing another yawn; for I, too, was dreadfully tired.
“I don’t care,” said Clara. “I don’t want to hear about the revolution to-night, and what Garibaldi once did. I don’t care. Red shirts are becoming, but one gets tired of hearing about them. It is such dull work, all four of us being together, and watching every movement. It isn’t as if we were alone.”
“I do declare I’m quite ashamed of you,” I said. “Why, it would not be prudent for us to go alone.”
“Oh, no, of course not,” said Clara, mockingly. “Nobody you know ever went down to the elms all alone by herself.”
“But you knew of it,” I said.
“No thanks to you, miss, if I did; so come, now,” replied Clara.
I saw that it was of no use to dispute with her, so I let the matter drop; and then, opening the window, I leaned out, when I heard voices whispering in what seemed to be the shrubbery, just beyond the conservatory cistern; and, withdrawing my head, I hastily told Clara.
“Why, they are soon to-night,” she whispered, as, carefully closing the window, I then opened the door, and we stood at the top of the great staircase, after going on tiptoe past the Fraülein’s room.
We listened patiently for some time, as we stood hand in hand; while neither of us now seemed disposed to yawn. Then we quickly and quietly descended; but before we reached the bottom I recollected that I had left our door open, and it would be a great chance if some one did not hear Patty snoring.
“Go back and shut it, there’s a dear,” I said, in a whisper.
“No, you go, dear,” said Clara. “I’ll wait for you.”
But I did not like going alone; neither did she. So we went together and shut it; and at last we stood listening at the foot of the stairs, for I half fancied I heard the click of a door-handle. But it was not repeated; and feeling sure that it was only fancy, we quietly unlocked the drawing-room door, glided in, closed it after us, and then unfastened the shutters of the French window, when we stood in the conservatory, at the end of which was the sash, giving, as Achille called it, upon the rain water tank – whose very broad edge was covered with ivy, upon which they used to climb from the low terrace wall that ran down to the little fountain of which I have spoken before, and then stand in the empty cistern.
“I always put on my old sings when I come, chère Laure,” poor Achille used to say to me, which of course was not very complimentary; but, then, all his estates had been confiscated, and my Lady Blunt was too fond of money to part with much for her teachers.
When we peeped out of our window there was no one there; so we pulled up the sash very gently, and stood waiting till, in each of our cases, Romeo came.
It had turned out a lovely night, rather dark, for the moon had sunk into a bank of vapour in the far west, while the varied scents of nature seemed sweeter than ever; but one could not help thinking how wet the gentlemen would get amongst the ivy, and I quite shivered as I thought about the great cistern being quite full with the heavy rain. For if they did not recollect this, as they had generally stood upon the lead bottom, how shocking would be the result!
Once again I fancied that I heard a slight noise; but this time it was from the leads by the back staircase window; and upon whispering to Clara, she called me a stupid, nervous thing, and I heard it no more; but directly after, the rustling we heard told who were coming.
Five minutes passed and there was more rustling amongst the leaves – an ejaculation in French – an expression in Italian – and a loud splash, as if a leg had fallen into the water; while directly after we could see them quite plainly, crawling along like two great tom-cats upon the edge of the lead cistern, till they were close under the window, in dreadfully awkward positions; for the big cistern had never had water in before all through the summer, on account of a little leak, and now – though, doubtless, the great place would be quite empty next day, it was brimful in consequence of the storm.
Yes, I remember perfectly fancying that they looked like cats, and I felt ashamed of myself for thinking so disrespectfully of them, and determined to be extra kind to Achille so as to mentally apologise – poor fellow! Of course they could not stand up to their waistcoats in soft water, so they had to stay on the edge, and, as we found out afterwards, they did come off so black – oh, so terribly black! – upon us, just as if we had had visits from the sweeps.
It was poor Achille who put his leg in the tank; and every time he moved I could hear the water make such a funny noise in his boot, just as if it was half full; and, oh, poor fellow, he was obliged to move every minute, and hold on by the window-sill as he knelt there, or else he would have had to stand up, and, being so much higher than where we where, I should have had to talk to his knees. It was just as bad for the poor Signor and Clara; and I certainly should have been imprudent enough to have asked them in, if I had not known how Achille would have dripped on the stones, and so betrayed us.
I could not help thinking about what Clara had said that evening, and it really did seem so tiresome; for there we all four were, if anything more close together than ever, and it grew thoroughly puzzling sometimes to know who was meant when Pazzoletto whispered “Cava mia,” or “Bellissima,” or “Fanciullina,” or “Carissima;” or Achille murmured “Mon amie,” “Ma petite,” or “Beaux yeux;” and I often started, and so did Clara, at such times.
But there, who could expect to enjoy the roses of love without the thorns? And yet, I don’t know how it was, there seemed to be something wrong altogether that night; for I heard Clara gape twice, and I had to cover my mouth to stay more than one yawn, while I’m sure the gentlemen both wanted to go; though, of course, I could make plenty of excuses for poor Achille – he must have been so wet and uncomfortable – though I did offer to lend him my handkerchief to wipe away some of the water.
I should think that we had been carrying on a whispered conversation for about a quarter of an hour, when all at once I exclaimed in a deep whisper —
“Hush! – what was that?” We all started; for as I spoke, startled by the click as of a window fastening, there was the sound of an opening sash. A light flashed out above our heads, and shone upon the skylight, the leads, and the back staircase window, when if there, quite plain, was not a policeman standing by a figure at the latter. Then there was a hurrying scramble, and the shutting of a sash; and we could hear voices, while we all stood in the shade, silent as mice, and trembling so that the gentlemen had to hold us tightly.
“Von sbirro veseet de maiden,” said the Signor, in a whisper.
“Oh! what shall we do?” gasped Clara.
“Taisez!” hissed Achille, who seemed to come out nobly in the great trouble – “taisez, and all shall be well; my faith, yes – it is so.”
“They will us not see,” whispered the Signor.
“Mais non!” ejaculated Achille. “But that police? What of him? We must wait.”
“Oh, yes,” I said, “pray do not move. It is one of the servants who has been discovered. I am sure that we shall be safe if we keep quite still.”
But the words were no sooner out of my mouth than there was a burst of light through the half-closed shutters behind us, a buzz of voices, and Lady Blunt, the four teachers, and several of the pupils, hurried into the drawing-room; and then, seeing the partly closed shutters, stood for a moment as if afraid to come any further.
I darted from pauvre Achille, giving him a sharp jerk at the same moment; and, as my elbow crashed through a pane of glass, and I slipped behind the great green blind in the corner, I heard an exclamation in French. There was a great splash, followed by a noise as of some large body snorting and floundering in the great tank; and my blood ran cold, as I wanted to run out, but felt chained to the spot where I was concealed.
“I have murdered him, I know!” I gasped.
At the very same moment there was a fearful scream from poor Clara, as the light of half-a-dozen candles shone upon her smutty face, where there was the mark of a hand all down one cheek. And, frightened though I was, I seemed to notice everything, as if my senses were all sharpened; and, at one and the same time, I saw my own trouble, Clara, and my poor Achille drowning in the great tank.
Poor Clara covered her face in an instant, and a loud rustling of the ivy on the edge of the cistern, the sound of a body falling, and then came retreating feet along the gravel.
