The House in Paris by Elizabeth Bowen Read Free Book Online

sighed, shifted on his elbow and looked away.
    Miss Fisher had forgotten her handbag. Set on driving Henrietta upstairs, she had forgotten the rubbed black morocco bag sitting there by the apple. Leopold's eye lit on it with the immediate thought that inside there might be letters about him. Focusing on the handbag, he listened sharply. There was no movement upstairs. Leopold left the sofa, fingered the steel clasp, then opened the bag collectedly. The thing, with its sad grey lining, gave out a musky smell. From between two handkerchiefs and a notecase, Leopold, with the nimbleness of a squirrel, pulled out three envelopes. The other papers — lists in French and a telegram confirming the hour of Henrietta's arrival — were not interesting. Leopold went through everything else twice, to delay for some nervous reason a second glance at the letters. To eavesdrop is an ordeal. Then he shut the bag and put it back by the apple. You could have sworn by its look it had not been touched.
    The first envelope bore the Mentone postmark and would be of interest only to Henrietta. He put it aside. The second — light grey Villa Fioretta note-paper — showed the well-known writing of his Aunt Marian. The third, dead white and square, with a Berlin postmark, was addressed in that hand at once dynamic and pausing that he had learnt last week to recognize as his mother's, although she had never written to him. This envelope was thin, it was very thin: it was empty. His mother's letter was gone: Miss Fisher had done him down.
    Leopold, with his loot, knelt on the end of the sofa, unconsciously holding his head high. He thought: It was Berlin then — she's in Paris now, though. I shall see her; I don't need to know what she said. That very door will open before it's dark, before it's three o'clock, before Henrietta has got to the Trocadéro. From that door opening, I shall remember on. If I opened that door now there would be the hall wallpaper. Then when it opens there will be her face. I shall see what I cannot imagine now. Now she's in Paris somewhere because of me ...
    Then he unfolded Aunt Marian's copious letter. She wrote:
     
    My dear Miss Fisher: I have had your second letter, which is most clear, and have to thank you for writing so fully. We shall now put Leopold into the train at Genoa with every confidence. As for the next two days, we must all hope for the best. We, of course, feel bound to defer to your wish and his mother's. I know you will share our wish that Leopold should be spared any trying scene, which we naturally dread for him at his age and with his highly nervous, susceptible temperament. Leopold will arrive at the Gare de Lyon at 20.33 on Wednesday night, unless you get any telegram cancelling this. He will travel in charge of a Genoese friend of ours, Signora Bonnini, who has relations in Paris and whom we find sympathetic in every sense. You must expect, we fear, to receive a tired young traveller, for Leopold is highly excitable; I may say we dread the effect of this long trip under these agitating conditions. Please do not feed him last thing, as his digestion is delicate and mental tension always affects his stomach. A glass of milk and perrier (equal parts) should be sufficient (or perhaps a weak bouillon ), whatever he may say. We will tell him to walk right down the train and wait for you by the barrier. He will be wearing a fawn top-coat and blue sailor cap; Signora Bonnini, who says she will wear sealskin and has a slight growth of hair on the upper lip, has promised to wait by him. We are giving Signora Bonnini the photograph of yourself you thoughtfully sent, and are warning Leopold not to consult any stranger or reply to any advance. Though he speaks Italian fluently his knowledge of French is slight; we cannot interest him in it.
    We all feel from your heartfelt and most understanding letter that you will extend to Leopold thoughtful sympathy. How he has changed from the dark-eyed baby you knew. It