Виктория Холт: It began in Vauxhall Gardens

The Englishman gave no sign that he resented Armand's not-very-clever insinuations. He went on nodding, drinking his wine, now and then adding a word in his schoolroom French.

Melisande now walked at the head of the procession with the sisters; the other children were watching her, so she must pretend not to be afraid. She was not afraid of anything, she insisted to herself; she was only afraid of being afraid.

She would not think now of the punishment which would surely be hers; she would continue to enjoy the adventure a little longer. There was at least five minutes of sunshine left to her before they went through the gates. She remembered the story of the girl who, it was said, had been walled in when the Convent was built. That was in the chapel and, at dusk, Melisande believed that her ghost haunted the place. She had never seen the ghost; but she fancied she had sensed its presence. She believed that the ghost said to her: "Be happy. Enjoy everything as I did before they walled me in." But that may have been because Melisande was inclined to believe what she wanted to believe. She wanted to be happy; she intended to enjoy as much of life as she could; it was pleasant therefore to believe that the supernatural presence advised her to do exactly what she wanted to do.

She thought of the nun who had had a lover. One of the elder children had told her the story long ago. The nun and her lover had been discovered. The lover was killed; but she, her judges said, had been more wicked because she was a nun and the bride of Christ. She had been unfaithful to Christ. That was a terrible sin, and to punish her, a wall had been built round her and above her, shutting out the light and air; and there she had been left to die.

Melisande had been thinking of the nun when she had dropped her sabot. She had known it was wrong to take off her sabots, just as the nun had known it was wrong to have a lover. But sometimes sins were irresistible. She had wanted so much to speak to the Englishman. She was fully aware that he watched her. People did look at her. When she passed the bakery the baker used to come out and give her a cake until Sister Emilie had seen and forbidden it. "I am so sorry if I have offended," the baker had said. "Such a pretty child ... such a charming girl." Others smiled at her, so she was not surprised by the Englishman's attention. She herself was very interested in him, because he was tall and handsome and wore such beautiful clothes. Such a contrast had been that blue coat, that embroidered waistcoat, that wonderful frothy cravat compared with the clothes of Monsieur Lefevre—slovenly, torn and spotted with food and wine.

Melisande smoothed down her own black garments with distaste. They were too big for her. "Leave room for growing," said old Therese. "It is better to have your gown too big than too small. It is better to have too much than too little of the good things of life." Melisande had answered: "But it is better to have a little of the bad things of life than too much, and perhaps this black gown is not one of the good things but one of the bad." Sister Therese had clicked her tongue at that. "Ungrateful child!" she had cried. "Why?" Melisande had asked, for she could never, as Sister Emilie had pointed out, leave well alone. "The stuff of my gown is rough. It scratches me. Should I be grateful for a hair-shirt... which is what my gown resembles?"

Her clothes were ugly and she longed to wear clothes made of beautiful cloth such as those worn by the Englishman. He had smiled and seemed pleased because she had dropped her sabot. His eyes were of a grey-brown shade as the river was after a great deal of rain when parts of the banks had been washed away; he looked as though he rarely smiled; yet he had smiled for her. She would remember that when she was being punished.

They had turned in through the gates and were crossing the path between the well-kept lawns. How cold it was inside the Convent! The bell was ringing. It was time for dejeuner. Melisande's heart beat very fast, for it had occurred to her that the punishment might result in her missing dejeuner, and she was very hungry. She was often hungry, but hungrier at this time of day than at any other. Petit dejeuner —bitter coffee and a twist of bread—was scarcely adequate, and it seemed hours since she had had it. But whatever the punishment is, she told herself, I shall think of the way he smiled at me and that he does not smile for everyone. She wondered what the young nun had thought when she was in the darkness with wall all about her—her cold dark tomb.

Sister Eugenie was beside her. "After dejeuner you will go to the sewing room and there Sister Emilie will tell you what your punishment will be."

After dejeuner I Melisande was almost rapturously happy. There was plenty of time before she need think of punishment; now she could remember the smile of the Englishman while she drank her cabbage soup and ate her piece of bread. She stood at the table, palms pressed together while Sister Therese said grace, and her eyes and thoughts were now on the steaming bowl before her. As they all took their seats she glanced quickly at Sister Therese at the top of the table and Sister Eugenie at the foot, and quickly looked away for fear they should see the triumph in her flashing green eyes.

The meal was over all too soon. Dumplings, which she loved, followed the cabbage soup; and it was only when she was eating her last mouthful that her fears returned.

Sister Therese was watching her. "Do not forget. To the sewing room."

She hated the sewing room and, as she went, she thought of the tedious hours, of fingers sore through sewing rough garments for children like herself, and shirts to be sold in the market square. On a dais was a large table where was laid out that altar cloth on which only the best needlewomen were allowed to work. It was an honour to sit at the table and work in gold and scarlet thread, instead of at the benches stitching ugly garments.

Sister Emilie said that to work on the dais was to work for God and the saints, but to work at the table was to work for mankind.

Melisande had shocked her once by saying that she would rather work for neither; although she loved the bright colours on the altar cloth she would like to wear dresses embroidered with them rather than have to sew for God and the saints.

"Sometimes," Sister Emilie had said, "I think you must be a very foolish or a very wicked girl."

"Perhaps I am both," was Melisande's ready answer, "for la Mere says that we are all wicked and all foolish ... all miserable sinners ... even the sisters and la Mere herself. ..."

Sister Emilie had been at a loss for words, as her fellow sisters often were with Melisande. "Don't you want to sit on the dais and work on the beautiful altar cloth?" she had asked.

"The needles prick my fingers just the same," Melisande had replied.

But now there would be no question of working on the altar cloth.

There would be some hideous task; and she would have to sit at the table and work and work until her back ached and her fingers were sore, to make up for breaking away from the crocodile and speaking to the Englishman.

"Come here," said Sister Emilie.

Melisande obeyed. Her eyes were lowered. It was no use smiling at Sister Emilie.

"You have misbehaved once more, I am sad to hear," she said. "Now you will sit at that table. Take the top shirt from the pile. You will remain there till you have finished it."

Melisande took the shirt. It was of the stiff stuff that she hated. She sat sewing; her stitches were big and uneven. There was blood on the shirt, for she had, of course, pricked her fingers. She carried out her plan and went over the delicious episode again and again.

Soon she was speaking her thoughts aloud. "At least it is not as bad as being walled up in the chapel."