Flowers Stained With Moonlight (18 page)

We all smiled.

‘Yet he was very good, more than good; one of the great geniuses,’ said Mr Korneck. ‘It proves something, does it not? A man’s satisfaction does not depend upon his abilities or accomplishments.’

‘So how did the story end?’ I wondered.

‘After Kummer’s letter was read, Lamé understood instantly that he had made an error. Cauchy continued stubbornly for several more months to insist on his success, publishing further morsels, but finally, under the guise of new interests, and without ever making a public retraction, he turned to other topics.

‘This story represents the final flare of the history of Fermat’s last theorem. Since Kummer’s devastating result, no one has dared make another attempt at solving it.’

Mr Korneck fell silent and looked at us expectantly.

‘It reminds me of the three-body problem,’ I said doubtfully. ‘These mathematical competitions really seem to do more harm than good. Did anybody ever win the prize?’

‘Ten years later, Cauchy recommended that it be attributed to Kummer himself, for his remarkable discovery,’ he responded. ‘It was the closest he ever came to admitting he had made a mistake.’

‘So Kummer won the prize for proving that it couldn’t be done – more like the three-body problem than ever!’

‘No, no, do not say that,’ he answered, his heavy-featured face animated with passion. ‘Kummer did not show that it could not be done, on the contrary; he showed that it
could
be done for regular primes, and developed a new and extraordinary notion in mathematics, even while explaining that the road adopted by Cauchy and Lamé was a bad one for the irregular primes. But it can be done in general, I am convinced of it – it can be done, and Fermat surely did it! My dream is to rediscover what he did. And I hope it is more than a dream.’

I glanced at Charles and Arthur, but they wore studied looks of expressionlessness. We followed the hallway to the main door and emerged once again into the glare of sunlight beating down on the stone buildings.

‘Enough of mathematics for today,’ said Mr Korneck kindly, but with a trace of wistfulness, ‘let us now follow the traces of kings and queens. I shall take you to visit the Louvre.’ And we spent the remainder of the afternoon and evening exploring and admiring many astonishing sights, with oases during which he guided us to his favourite restaurants, in which we tasted various dishes interestingly smothered in sauce. In the evening he took his leave of us (to return, no doubt, to a place of superior comfort and beauty), and we wandered back together along the quays, the river twinkling and purling below us, reflecting back the many lights which shone upon its wrinkled surface. Arthur and I soon fell behind the others, to offer ourselves the dreamy pleasure of walking hand in hand in the fresh evening air, and for a brief moment, I thought I was in heaven.

It has been a magical day. But tomorrow I must return to my business, and force myself to recall things which would be, perhaps, better forgotten …

Your loving sister,

Vanessa

My dearest Dora,

I have been very active, and I shall take advantage of writing to you to give a complete description of all that I have seen and done. To begin with, the day before yesterday, I left a small note with the concierge of Mrs Clemming’s luxurious
immeuble
, whose address I was able to locate in the post office (there was no possibility of error, as there are no other Clemmings in Paris). You must imagine a solid and imposing, but most refined building made of heavy stone blocks,
pierre de taille
as they are called, with a giant wrought-iron and glass door leading into an imposing tiled hallway, and a wide crimson-carpeted staircase leading upwards. The only room opening into this entrance belongs to the concierge, who peers out a little window to examine all comers and goers. She accepted my note together with the gift of a coin and grumbled something in French which I did not understand, but optimistically took to mean that the note would be duly delivered to ‘
Madame Clemming, la dame anglaise
’ as I assiduously explained.

It must have succeeded, for the very next day I received a reply, in the form of a card printed with her name and
the legend
At Home Wednesdays 4:30
in both French and English; underneath, she had written by hand ‘Please do come and visit’.

Although I had mentioned my travelling comrades in my note to her, the card was addressed to me alone, so that I had not the reassurance of bringing them with me. However, I imagined that this British lady would have many English speakers amongst her guests, and this, together with the idea that it was extremely likely that they should have encountered Sylvia during her winter visit, and could perhaps even share a great deal of information on her score, sufficed to put me into a state of great excitement. By three o’clock, I was already hovering over the clothes laid out upon my bed, hesitating because nothing seemed quite elegant enough for the occasion. Annabel watched me a little wistfully.

‘I do wish you were coming with me!’ I exclaimed warmly.

‘Oh, it doesn’t matter,’ she said, smiling. ‘I won’t miss it. I am not so used to social occasions. After all, I am merely a governess.’

I glanced up in surprise. I had never thought that Annabel felt resentment about her place in society. On the contrary, since I had met her four years ago, I had frequently heard her express the sincerest gratitude towards Mrs Burke-Jones for having offered to a penniless orphan whose only accomplishment was an excellent education in a French convent, a position which in spite of being nominally inferior had all the charms of an authentic family life. As far as I could observe, Annabel had been treated
with kindness and respect; on occasion, she was even invited to join Mrs Burke-Jones’ guests for supper, to even out the numbers. It is true, I suppose, that there is no real equality in all of this, but I had never thought that Annabel felt it as a sting.

‘You
were
a governess,’ I observed, ‘now you are a schoolteacher, exactly as I am. I really see no difference, apart from the fact that you cannot claim the acquaintance of Mrs Bryce-Fortescue. But that means nothing.’

‘Oh,’ she answered, jumping up vigorously. ‘I really didn’t mean to hint that I wasn’t invited because of my station; I just meant that I was used to missing out on social things because of it. But I don’t care about
them
– not at all!’

‘Well,’ I said stoutly, ‘as far as I am concerned, I’m proud of working for my living, and I love the work, and I’m proud of all the ideas I’ve had for it over these last years, and how well it is turning out. And so should you be! And to the D with high society!’

‘Oh, I know you’re right,’ she sighed.

‘But you are dreaming of something, nevertheless?’ I looked at her closely, and a memory of something she had said recently came back to me, but I dared not mention it.

‘Everybody dreams,’ she said, and rising, she came to look at the clothes piled on my bed. Unhesitatingly she picked out a pretty afternoon dress in a deep grey shade and held it up against herself. ‘Wear this one, it’s lovely.’

‘Everything looks lovely on you,’ I said a little enviously, admiring the contrast between the shadowy hues of the dress and her thick fair hair with its golden reflections in
the light, the fairness of her slender arm and the delicacy of her wrists as she turned the dress about to examine it. It struck me again, as it has occasionally over the last few years, what a lovely young woman she really is. Why is she still single, I wonder – can it really be due to her position in life? Is her position really inferior to mine? It doesn’t feel so, and yet perhaps it is because of it that she meets few people other than those who come to Mrs Burke-Jones’ house, and those are of a social class which … I thought of Arthur, and wondered if he would consider marrying a girl like Annabel. The thought was unexpectedly painful, but at the same time, it seemed clear to me that he would not hesitate if he loved her. But then, Arthur is in a special situation; he lost his parents young and has neither family nor fortune, so that there is no one who could really object to any idea of marriage he might have. Whereas most of the young men, mathematicians generally, who circulate around Charles in the home where Annabel lives are not likely to be equally free.

I was staring at her, lost in these thoughts, whilst she turned over my few things and looked amongst her own as well, choosing accessories, when a smart knock came upon the door, and I jumped.

‘Yes?’ I said, and almost immediately, the door opened and Charles thrust his friendly head inside.

‘Are you girls almost ready?’ he said cheerfully. ‘It’s past three-thirty now; if we’re going to walk you down there, Vanessa, and then visit a museum as we said, we should be leaving fairly soon.’

‘In just a few minutes,’ said Annabel, thrusting the dress and shawl into my arms. ‘Here, you should wear this pearl brooch with it, it’s the only one light enough to stand out.’

Charles’ head disappeared, and I put on the dress and allowed Annabel to arrange my jewellery, hat and wrap in ways that I should not have thought of myself. She did not take any trouble to prepare herself, and indeed there was no need for her to do so; again I was struck by admiration of her fresh, neat looks and natural grace, and prettily flushed cheeks as we emerged from our room and joined Charles in the foyer.

‘We really must go,’ she said, looking about. ‘Where is Arthur?’

‘He’s not coming,’ said Charles a little too quickly, and then added lamely, ‘What happened is, he suddenly had a good idea, and went rushing off to the Academy to look up a book there; he – he sends his excuses.’

Annabel’s colour deepened and she looked confused. She glanced at me and said nothing. Charles looked straight ahead, and held the door for us as we stepped out of the hotel into the street. We set off in the direction of the great boulevards where Mrs Clemming resides, and both Annabel and Charles chatted to me quite intensively about the coming visit, so that it took me several minutes to notice – obtuse me – that they never addressed a single word to each other!

Ah, how foolish I have been, how blind. Oh dear, oh dear, I see now what I did not see before. Annabel’s feelings have become as clear to me as if a radiant light were lit within her very soul.

But what about Charles? Thinking back over his remarkably frequent presence in the nursery, I wonder if he did not pack Arthur off to the Academy quite on purpose. I recall his words and tone on many occasions, but I cannot read in a man’s mind as I can understand a young woman of my own age – I cannot guess what his feelings are. Oh, I do feel worried for Annabel.

Something of this was running through my mind already as we walked, but I put all such notions out of my head as soon as we reached the imposing building where Mrs Clemming resides, and taking leave of my companions, I entered alone, climbed the stairs to her door and rang timidly. A muffled murmur of guests reached me through the burnished wood, which was soon opened by a charming creature in black-and-white, who ushered me within and directed me towards the lady of the house, who was receiving in her vast parlour.

She sat enthroned in a large armchair, surrounded by tables loaded with
objets d’art
and tea things, and chairs and sofas upon which various ladies and gentlemen were perched, leaning towards her in animated discussion. Clearly I had entered a familiar little society in which friendliness reigned and from which the coldness or pomposity engendered by shyness was banished. Mrs Clemming raised her eyebrows upon seeing an unknown face, and then smiled.

‘Ah, you must be Eleanor’s young friend, Vanessa Duncan, is that it?’ she said loudly but kindly. ‘Well, I do hope you’re enjoying your visit to Paris. Staying in a hotel,
are you? Well, it’s very kind of you to come and visit an old lady like me.’

‘It’s very kind of you to have me,’ I smiled. ‘I don’t know anyone in Paris, except for the friends who are here with me.’

‘Well, I hope you won’t desert me as that little chit of a Sylvia did,’ she said with a sniff. ‘She came here just twice, with that tall silent friend of hers, and after that I didn’t see hide nor hair of them for the whole two months they were here. They found other entertainment, so I heard, or Sylvia did, at least.’

‘I imagine they must have made a great many friends after a while,’ I said soothingly but secretly most interested.

‘Indeed—’ and Mrs Clemming glanced at the guests around her, who, interrupted in the conversation they had been having, were leaning forward and listening to ours with avid curiosity.

‘Shocking, the way she went about alone, or worse than alone,’ sniffed one British lady pointedly. ‘My sister-in-law Victoire – my husband’s sister, that is – and her husband saw her in the casino in Deauville with some gentleman, gambling and dancing until three o’clock in the morning!’

‘My goodness, how fast,’ I laughed. ‘But she wasn’t actually alone, was she? I mean, wasn’t she with Camilla?’

‘Camilla nothing!’ interrupted Mrs Clemming with disapproval. ‘Those girls have changed since I first met them four years ago at Sylvia’s coming out. She was a dull little thing then, and Camilla was the strong, handsome one. Now here’s Camilla still single, and never saying a word – even
when she visited here she was off in the corner talking about fusty history with Gérard the whole time. And Sylvia behaved quite shockingly according to what I heard, and now she’s a widow, and with a scandal, too.’

‘A mystery more than a scandal,’ I said, ‘there is no shadow of any scandal associated with Sylvia.’

‘Well, then she was better behaved in England than she was here, or took more trouble to cover her traces!’ said the sniffy lady sharply. ‘Out at all hours, Camilla nowhere to be seen – and appearing no better than she should be – dancing with the same gentleman all night, and wearing rouge, too – all in full view of everyone! If she’d done that kind of thing in England, she’d be in far worse trouble than she is now!’

‘Perhaps Camilla was there and your sister-in-law didn’t see her,’ I said.

‘Certainly not, Victoire asked after her particularly,’ was the reply. ‘Sylvia said that Camilla felt ill at the last moment and stayed in Paris. Do you know what I think, Alice?’ she added thoughtfully. ‘I think Camilla saw the way her friend was behaving, couldn’t stop her, and decided to have no part in it.’

‘Who was the man that Sylvia danced with all evening?’ I asked lightly, but my heart thumped queerly. ‘Did your sister-in-law know him?’

‘Yes, who
was
it? Who could it have been, indeed?’ interposed Alice Clemming. ‘How shocking – what can she have been thinking of? You didn’t tell me at the time, Jane, I would have written to her mother at once!’

‘Victoire only mentioned it to me a little while ago,’
replied Jane. ‘She was in Deauville recently and it came back to her. I must ask her more about the young man. I believe she said she didn’t know him, but saw Sylvia with him more than once. Disgusting.’

‘Now, here you are standing while we talk about Sylvia,’ said Mrs Clemming to me, unfortunately interrupting what I considered a most fascinating conversation. ‘We must get you some tea. Gérard, Gérard, come and take care of Miss Duncan, do,’ she called, turning and beckoning vigorously to an elderly gentleman who had been occupied all by himself in absorbing a pile of small iced cakes on a willow-pattern dish which he held in his hand.

‘
Oui, oui, ma chérie,
’ he said to her indulgently, pattering forward and peering at me through thick spectacles.

‘This is Professeur Antugnac,’ she told me, sitting solidly in her armchair and performing the necessary introductory gestures with her arms, while a plate remained balanced on her knee and a teacup on the fragile little table next to her. ‘Miss Duncan from England, Gérard, a friend of Eleanor’s. Like the two other girls who were here in the winter, remember? Find her a cup of something, will you?’

‘Miss Duncan, ees it? A pleasure, a pleasure. I give you a cup of tea, yes?’ He pottered cheerfully to the large silver urn and poured me out a cup, while still chattering vaguely. I glanced at the other occupants of the room; the guests were a mixture of English and French, mostly of an age with Mrs Clemming. The Professor appeared to enjoy a privileged position as ‘special friend’, almost even a secondary host to Mrs Clemming.

‘You do not know anyone here?’ he asked worriedly, wrinkling his forehead. ‘You have just arrived? You seek friends, yes?’

‘Well, one is always delighted to meet new friends,’ I smiled.

‘There are no young people here,’ he said, ‘you will find it very boring, perhaps.’

‘Why, no, of course not – I don’t talk only to young people, you know! Quite the contrary; if anything, I think older people are much more interesting. They
know
so much more.’

‘Know, know, it is perhaps the only thing which remains,’ he said with a smile which was both sad and enchanting. I felt very fond of him, and as he seemed disposed to accept me into his solitary corner, and Mrs Clemming had returned to the animated conversation she had been having before I arrived, I felt inclined to follow him there. I thought that he was very probably the fusty historian who had so interested Camilla, and decided to sound him out.