“Well, he was the French Emperor before the war, wasn’t he?”

“Exactly. It is a great mistake for people to have responsibility simply because they are related to the great. There was only one Napoleon. We did not need a second or a third.”

“I suppose it is their name,” I said. “And they have a right to it.”

“His father was Louis Bonaparte, King of Holland, brother of the first Napoleon, and his mother Hortense de Beauharnais, Napoleon the First’s stepdaughter,” said Miss Brown, who could never resist turning any conversation into a lesson. “From an early age he wanted to follow in his uncle’s footsteps.”

“So he succeeded in becoming Emperor,” said my grandmother.

“And his early career was one disaster after another,” continued my grandfather who was as interested in history as Miss Brown. “His vainglorious attempts to call attention to himself resulted in a term of imprisonment. First he was shipped to the United States and then he came here to England where he was for a while, but he saw his chance with the outbreak of the revolution in ’48, returned to France, acquired a seat in the National Assembly, and started to work for the imperial title.”

“Well, he succeeded in getting it, apparently,” said my grandmother.

“Yes, for a time.”

“Quite a long time, I believe,” she replied.

“He wanted a name to compare with that of his uncle. But he hadn’t the same genius.”

“And where did Napoleon’s genius lead him?” demanded my grandmother.

“Elba and St. Helena,” I cut in, eager to show them that I knew something of what they were talking about.

Miss Brown threw me a glance of approval.

“All might have been well,” continued my grandfather, “if he had not become jealous of the growing power of Prussia, and underestimated it. He provoked war with Prussia. He thought he could defeat them easily and win glory for himself. He reckoned without the discipline of the Prussians. He must have known his fate was sealed at Sedan.”

“And then the Bourdons decided to get away,” I said, trying to turn the conversation to a subject of more immediate concern to us.

“Very far-seeing indeed,” said my grandfather. “Revolution in Paris … disaster for Napoleon III. And as a consequence we have the Empress and her son at Camden House in Chislehurst … and the Emperor has now joined her … no longer a prisoner … but an exile from his country.”

“Like the Bourdons,” I said.

My grandmother smiled at me. “You should never let your grandfather get on to history,” she said. “There is no stopping him once he gets started.”

“A fascinating subject,” said Miss Brown with a smile.

Just as we were leaving the dining room, one of the grooms came in with a note for my grandmother.

The Bourdons were all delighted to accept her kind invitation to luncheon.

They came as arranged and it was a very interesting meeting.

Monsieur and Madame Bourdon were, as my grandmother commented afterwards, typically French. He had a trim pointed beard, crisp dark hair and a very gallant manner. He kissed hands … even mine … and the look he gave my grandmother was clearly one of admiration. Madame was a good-looking woman and her vivacity and charm made her seem ten or fifteen years younger than she must have been. She was inclined to be plump; her hair was faultlessly dressed and her large brown eyes gave the impression that she missed little. Their English was barely adequate, but I found that quaint and charming.

The son and daughter were like their parents and I detected similar qualities. The young man’s gallantry and awareness of feminine society for instance; the girl’s svelte appearance.

They admired Cador’s impressiveness and antiquity; and my grandmother said she would show them the house after luncheon if they wished to see it. Monsieur Bourdon said it would be a great pleasure, Madame declared it would give her immense delight, and the son and daughter echoed their parents’ words.

Over lunch they talked of the terrible events in their country which had led to their exile.

I gathered that Madame Bourdon was acquainted with the Empress Eugenie and that Monsieur Bourdon had, on several occasions, been admitted to the society of Napoleon III.

“Now that our Emperor and Empress are in England … we feel that we must be with them,” said Monsieur Bourdon haltingly.

My grandmother asked them how much they liked High Tor.

“Very well … very well,” was their reply.

“Do you think you will return to France?” asked my grandfather.

Monsieur Bourdon put the palms of his hands together and shook his head from side to side, shrugging his shoulders at the same time.

“It could be … yes. It could be … no. La République.” He grimaced. “If the Emperor returns …”

“I should hardly think he would do that for a very long time,” said my grandfather.

“And in the meantime he lives in exile,” added my grandmother. “I wonder how they feel about that. It must be strange to go from all the pomp and ceremony of the French Court to quiet Chislehurst.”

“Perhaps he is happy to escape to that quiet spot.”

I noticed that Jean Pascal was watching Jenny, the parlormaid who was serving at table. Their eyes met as she held a dish of vegetables for him. She was flushed. Jenny was interested in young men, I knew. I promised myself that I would try to find out what she thought of this one.

When the meal was over we showed them over Cador.

I was with them. I liked to hear my grandfather explain the history of the place. He loved the topic so much and spoke so enthusiastically that my grandmother gently put an end to his discourse which she feared might be boring to the guests.

We were in the gallery in which were displayed some old tapestries, some in the region of five hundred years old, when Madame Bourdon became very excited.

“Cette tapisserie … it is … how you say? … er … made right?”

“Repaired? Oh yes. We had to have it done. I think it was mended rather well.”

“But … it is very good.”

“You noticed.”

“My wife … she is very interested,” explained Monsieur Bourdon. “We have some tapisserie … very good … very old … Gobelins … You understand?”

“Indeed yes,” said my grandmother. “That must be wonderful.”

Jean Pascal, who was more fluent in our language than his parents were, said that they had brought some of their most valuable tapestry with them. They had been going to have it repaired in France, but if there was someone who could repair it as well as ours had been done, perhaps it would be possible for theirs to be done here.

“It was a young girl living quite near here who restored these two years ago,” said my grandmother. “She is very clever with her needle, as you see. She is a professional seamstress and does embroidery on garments and such things which are sold in the shops in Plymouth … at quite high prices I imagine.”

Madame Bourdon became very excited.

“If you could tell my mother where to find this embroiderer, she would be very grateful to you,” said Jean Pascal.

My grandmother was thoughtful. She glanced at my grandfather. “It’s Leah,” she said, “and that makes it a little awkward. You know how Mrs. Polhenny was about letting Leah come up here.”

She turned to our guests. “I will speak to the girl’s mother and ask her if she will allow the girl to go to High Tor. You see, her mother likes her to work at home.”

“We will pay well …” began Jean Pascal.

“Leave it to me. I will do what I can.”

We left it at that and there was a great deal of talk about tapestry. Apparently the Bourdons had some priceless pieces in their collection—one from the Chateau of Blois and another which had been in Chambord.

“It was risk bringing them over,” said Jean Pascal, “but my mother could not bear to leave them behind, and some of them did get a little damaged in transport.”

When they left, my grandmother assured them that the next day she would go to the Polhenny cottage and would let them know the result immediately.

The next afternoon my grandmother said she was going to beard Mrs. Polhenny in her den and would I care to accompany her? I said I would.

We walked into the town, talking about the Bourdons and the possibility of Mrs. Polhenny’s allowing Leah to go up to High Tor to do the work.

“It would mean she would have to stay up there for several weeks, I expect.”

“Why should she not go each day?”

“Well, I think she needs the very best light to do the work. She might get there and find the light no longer any good. I think she would have to be on the spot.”

“Why shouldn’t Mrs. Polhenny want her to stay there?”

“Mrs. Polhenny sees evil all around her … even where it doesn’t exist … and she expects the worst. She wants Leah to live in the shelter of her own home where a watchful eye can be kept on her.”

We reached the cottage. The windows gleamed, the pebbles on the path looked as though they had been freshly polished, the porch steps had been recently scrubbed. We knocked at the door.

There was a long pause. We listened and thought we could hear a movement within. My grandmother called out: “It’s Mrs. Hanson and Rebecca. Is that you, Leah?”

The door opened and there was Leah. She looked flushed, uncertain and very pretty.

“My mother is not in,” she said. “She was called up to Egham Farm. Mrs. Masters has started.”

“Oh,” said my grandmother, and then: “May we come in for a moment?”

“Oh, yes … of course. Please do,” replied Leah.

We were taken into the parlor. I noticed that the brass ornaments had been polished to a dazzling brilliance. There was a sofa with two cushions placed at symmetrical angles; the antimacassars on the backs of the chairs were spotless and there were arm covers on the chairs to prevent contamination from those who sat in them.

We scarcely dared sit.

“Shall I ask Mother to come and see you when she returns? I don’t know when it will be. You can never be sure with babies.”

“Well, this actually concerns you, Leah,” said my grandmother. Leah must be about eighteen years old after all. It was an age to make one’s own decisions. But she was clearly a meek girl and Mrs. Polhenny was a formidable parent. “You know the French people?”

“Those at High Tor,” said Leah.

My grandmother nodded. “They took luncheon with us yesterday and while they were there they saw the work you had done on the tapestries.”

“Oh, I loved doing that, Mrs. Hanson.”

“I know you did. It was a change, wasn’t it? Well, apparently they have some fine tapestries up there. They mentioned Gobelins. You know of them, Leah? Of course you do. They are some of the finest in the world. They are very ancient and in need of repair. Having seen what you did to ours …”

Leah looked excited.

“In fact, they would like to talk to you about repairing theirs.”

“Oh, I should love to do that. I get a little tired of working rosebuds and butterflies on ladies’ petticoats.”

“This would be different, wouldn’t it? And fancy … they have been worked by people hundreds of years ago.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You would be expected to stay up there while you did the work. You would need the best of light and the journey to and fro would be a little too long … there and back.”

She nodded. Then she said: “My mother did not like my being away from home … even with you.”

“Well, that is what I came to discuss. I promised Monsieur and Madame Bourdon that I would ask you. They would pay you very well. I imagine you could name your price.”

I studied her. She was very pretty; and now that she was excited, this was more obvious.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked.

“That would be very acceptable,” replied my grandmother.

She left us. We looked round the little room and I knew what my grandmother was thinking. It had an unlived-in look. I could not imagine that this was a very happy home. There would be too much striving after what was right and proper in the eyes of that martinet Mrs. Polhenny—and little thought of pleasure.

While we were drinking tea and nibbling homemade biscuits that lady herself came in.

She came straight into the parlor. She was surprised. Her eyes rested momentarily on me and I wondered if I was doing something I should not and perhaps spoiling the perfection of her brown velvet-covered armchair.