# Elizabeth's Pretenders/Part 2/Chapter 2

CHAPTER II.
This evening Elizabeth stayed a short time in the salon after dinner. With the closing of the door behind her, when she sought her own room, she left her character to be fought over, much as a bone is disputed by hungry dogs. The young student had slipped away. Alaric Baring took up the Moniteur du Soir and read, or affected to read, in the fading light at the window. His sister was knitting; but she joined in the general tournament of talk, without relaxing for an instant the clocklike movement of her fingers.
Morin (as soon as the door is shut, rubbing his hands). "She is less sauvage to-night. We shall tame her in time!"
Mdme. Martineau. "She is English. You must make allowances."
Miss Baring. "And she is very young. She has a striking face. Don't you think so, Monsieur Genron?"
Genron (laughing sarcastically). "Striking, mademoiselle? She looks as if she would not be content to strike—as if she would run you through the body!"
Mdme. de Belcour. " C'est qu'elle pose en Jeanne d'Arc."
Doucet (twirling his moustache). "When she has known ​what love is, she will be handsome. She has fine eyes. She only wants the torch to be lighted."
Mdme. M. (shaking her finger to Monsieur D.). "Ah! Monsienr Doucet, prenez garde! You must not be playing with fire in my house!"
Doucet (with a fatuous smile). "I never play with it, madame. If the lightning strikes me———"
Morin (laughing loudly). "And as Mademoiselle Shaw is all thundercloud at present, he feels sure the lightning will strike him! Poor Doucet! Shall get you a lightning-conductor, mon ami?"
Miss Baring (with a smile). "Let Monsieur Doucet be reassured. Miss Shaw's is only summer-lightning. It does not kill."
Narishkine. "Elle a l'air très rébarbatif."
Mdme. Clinchaut (shaking her head). "C'est vrai. Elle n'est pas avenante—allez! Elle ne rit même pas."
Morin. "Ah! she does not understand."
Mdme. de B. "She understands enough to find the professor's stories and yours, doctor, very shocking." (Here she laughs.)
Genron. "The Mees Anglaise finds everything shocking!"
Baring (looking up from the "Moniteur" in good serviceable French, without much accent). "Does the French girl find nothing shocking, professor?"
(The American so seldom speaks, that the room is startled.)
Genron (grinning). "The conversation in convents is said sometimes to be very enlightening. Unfortunately, I never heard it. When she leaves the convent, the ​French girl marries. If she does not, and if she frequents pensions, she is not scandalized at a little mot pour rire."
Miss Baring (without looking up from her knitting). "I am many years older than this young lady, and I am a better French scholar, but I don't understand half your jokes, so certainly she does not; but I am sure you are too chivalrous—all Frenchmen are chivalrous, are they not?—to say what would make us feel uncomfortable, especially this young girl, if we understood it."
Mdme. M. (quickly). "That is quite right, mademoiselle—quite right. Madame Clinchaut and I are old women, and Madame de Belcour is a widow. With us it does not signify; but I am sure the professor and the doctor will understand that they must not frighten away la petite Anglaise."
Mdme. de B. "Especially as she can afford to take two rooms."
Narishkine. "Ah! all the English are rich. Blessed country!"
Genron. "Which offers a refuge to Nihilists and Anarchists. You know it, monsieur?"
Narishkine. "Every enlightened man knows it, monsieur—except Frenchmen, who are ignorant of everything out of their own country."
Mdme. M. (throwing herself into the breach, before it widens). "Ah! it is that channel! If it were not for that channel, even I—moi qui vous parle—would have paid a visit to a dear friend of mine, some years ago, who inhabited le Can—Can—how do you say?—le Cantorbury?"
​Mdme. de B. (with an evil twinkle). "You wished to worship at the shrine of St. Thomas?"
Morin. "Madame Martinean wisely decided in favour of French sinners against the English saint."
Genron. "The English saint seems to have come here instead, and your conversation will have to be apostolic. Monsieur le Docteur, henceforward—hein?"
Morin. "Mine? Ah! par exemple! It is rather your tongue that must be held in leash, Monsieur le Professeur!"
Mdme. M. (once more flinging herself between the combatants). "Mees Shaw has splendid eyes—and what hair!"
Doucet. "It is like the clouds of night, swept away by the daybreak."
Mdme. de B. (with her keepsake air). "How poetical! Yes, she has fine hair. Seulement—si mal coiffée."
Genron. "Ah! madame, it is not given to every woman to be a barber's block. Her hair is her own. She is a child of nature."
Narishkine. "And all Parisians are children of art."
Morin. "I maintain art is preferable to nature. You are sure of it. Nature is so uncertain."
Doucet. "We love by nature, as the beasts. We love with art, as the gods."
Baring (startling the circle once more). "Some of the gods were beasts; and so is many a pagan worshipper now, whatever be his calling. Poetry, art, learning, will not save him, if the baser half of his double nature gain the predominance."
(With that he rises, touches his sister on the shoulder, ​and they leave the room together. The company look at each other. Most of them smile, and shrug their shoulders.)
Doucet (twirling his moustache). "C'est un impertinent."
Morin (laughing) "He is American, mon cher—c'est tout. All the same, I respect him. He has the courage of his opinions. He is not amusing—no. But when he does speak, he says what he thinks. It is a pity that what he thinks is stupid."
Elizabeth, meantime, is in her own room, composing a reply, which is not easy, to the letter she received two days ago from Uncle William. Here it is, a curious document, penned evidently with mental difficulty, and almost pathetic in its blind groping for something tangible which should account for Elizabeth's flight.
"My dear Girl,
"We are awfully cut up, your aunt and I, at your extraordinary conduct. We thought we were doing all we could to make you happy here. And the marriage with Colonel Wybrowe seemed the very thing to suit you. Such a good fellow, whom your aunt and I think so highly of! He is gone away, of course, very down in the mouth at your treatment of him, which he cannot make out about—I mean what he has done to offend you—a bit more than we can. I never had anything that vexed me and surprised me more. What would your poor father say, if he was alive, at your running away, in this mad manner, without letting us know? If you want to be alone, why should you not go back and live ​at your own place? Pray think better of this, and do not let the scandal get about the county that you have run off, God knows where, by yourself. Your aunt has been made quite ill by this; I never knew her so nervous and upset. Though I must say I think you have behaved very ungratefully, I remain always,
"Your affectionate uncle,
"William Shaw.
"P.S.—Pray write at once; and, if yoll will return, I will meet you anywhere, and all shall be forgotten."
This is the reply Elizabeth forces herself at last to write:—
"My dear Uncle,
"I know my conduct must appear very strange to you, and, unfortunately, I cannot explain my motives for behaving as I have done. Believe me, I am not ungrateful for all the kindness you have shown me, but there are many reasons why I desire for awhile to remain absolutely unknown; above all, that my being an heiress should not transpire. It was this, and this only, I have now positive proof, which was my only attraction in the eyes of one to whom I very nearly fell a victim. If I had been married to him, and had gained the knowledge I now have of his character, I should equally have run away. Judge, then, whether it is not better for all concerned that I did so before he and I were bound together. You will understand, of course, that my returning to Whiteburn is not compatible with my wish for obscurity. When I am of age I will ​decide whether to go back there. As the place was of my dear father's making, I should never wish to sell it, but the idea of living there is at present very distasteful to me.
"I do not expect you to understand, or to forgive me. I have behaved, apparently, very badly, my dear uncle. So you and all your friends have a right to believe. But by-and-by, when the secrets of all hearts are made known, it may be that you will not think so hardly of
"Your ever grateful and affectionate
"Elizabeth Shaw."