OME, come, Cristina, the young girl is hungry! It will not take you a moment to boil an egg.”
“The fire is out.”
“That does not matter; you may use my little English stove—it will not take many drops of wood spirit to boil an egg.”
And then Lily heard the Countess add in a low, meaning tone: “Remember that we are receiving with her a hundred and twenty-five francs a week. If she is not satisfied she will go. Also, as the Count said only the other day, she may be useful to us in other ways.”
The unwilling listener felt desperately uncomfortable. She began moving towards the door, but just at that moment the Countess, turning, saw that Lily must have overheard what had been said. Her already dusky face darkened. She looked excessively annoyed—a vindictive look came into her oddly coloured eyes. She evidently thought the English girl had been eavesdropping. But with an obvious effort she recovered her composure.
She motioned Lily farther into the darkened room and shut the door—this time making sure that it was shut.
“I desire to tell you one or two things,” she said slowly. “You are going to be a member of our household for, I hope, a long time, dear child—so it is better to cross the t's and to dot the i's, as they say in France. Cristina is not only an old and faithful servant—she was my husband's foster-sister. You know what that means?”
Lily nodded.
“Thus we do not really regard her as a servant,” went on the Countess. “We are both very fond of her. She is an excellent creature, but she is not very amiable. I had to tell her that you were coming as a paying guest”—the Countess made a slight grimace. “Cristina is an old woman, and I hope you will not be offended with me when I say that I shall be glad if you will help a little in the work of the house.”
“I shall be delighted to do anything I can, Aunt Cosy,” said Lily eagerly. “A home was started in Epsom for the Belgian refugees, and the ladies of the place took it in turns to go in and do the housework.”
“You have relieved my mind! As I said just now to Cristina, I'm sure you will make yourself useful to us, as a dear, cherished little daughter might do. How sorry the Count will be that he was not at home to welcome you!”
Lily suddenly felt happier. It was nice of Aunt Cosy to have spoken to her so frankly.
“Do let me go into the kitchen and boil an egg for myself,” she exclaimed.
“Very well,” smiled the Countess. She preceded the girl till they came to a narrow passage, cut like a slit in the wall, to the right of the corridor. It led into the queerest little kitchen Lily had ever seen, and was not much bigger than an English bathroom. The stove—if you could call it a stove—was one for the exclusive use of charcoal. What light there was came from a far from clean skylight. On the distempered green walls hung various mysterious-looking copper pots and pans, the quaintest being a little roasting-machine in which could be cooked a tiny joint, or chicken. On the table was an old-fashioned methylated spirit lamp, on which there was now poised an enamelled saucepan full of water in which was an egg.
“Unfortunately La Solitude was built against the side of the mountain,” said the Countess, “so both the kitchen and the dining-room are lit from the sky. But from the front of the house we enjoy a view into three countries! We are not many yards from the frontier—the frontier which divides Monaco from France; and straight over the sea is Corsica, the cradle of the great Napoleon! To the left, of course, is Italy, my beloved country, though I count myself English, as you know. And now,” she concluded, “I will leave you in the good care of our excellent Cristina. I have some work to finish before to-morrow.”
When the Countess had gone the old servant laid a clean, unbleached napkin across the end of the kitchen table. She put out a plate, an egg-cup, salt and pepper, and half a long loaf. Then she turned, with a look of apology, to Lily.
“The dining-room is already prepared for dinner,” she said, in her soft, refined voice. “I fear I must ask you. Mademoiselle, to eat your egg here.”
“Of course I will,” exclaimed Lily. “And, Cristina, I hope you will allow me to help you a little in the housework?”
A curious look—was it of surprise or gratitude?—perhaps something of both—quivered for a moment over Cristina's pale face. “You are very good,” she said quietly. “There is a good deal of work sometimes—when we have visitors.”