Je suis
Tu et
Il est
Elle est
Millie chants the words, enjoys how they twist her mouth into strange shapes and chime in her ears. She repeats after her governess. She traces her finger along the lines of her books and translates letters she has never seen together before into sweet sounds and secret meanings. French is her favourite subject. On French mornings she must call Miss Swanson Mademoiselle and, although Mademoiselle will not play along, she pretends that her own name is Adele. It is so romantic.
'Encore une fois,' Mademoiselle says, again, again.
Millie nods seriously, practising her Adele face which she has copied from a photograph she saw in one of Mama's ballet programmes. She remembers the big eyes, the smooth cheeks, the slightly pursed lips, the way her face floated off the page and tugged at Millie's heart.
On Friday evenings, when she is allowed to sit up to dinner with her parents, she tries out specially learned phrases.
'C'etait delicieux.'
Her parents do not correct her as Mademoiselle does, but smile at each other across the candlesticks.
'Les candélabres,' Millie whispers, watching the flames flicker across her father's face.
'Sit up straight darling.' Millie smiles her tranquil Adele smile. Everything is easier in French, she thinks. Everything is more beautiful.
There are so many things that she wants to say, so many feelings that she cannot express. Millie learns as fast as she can but lessons only last a few hours and French mornings are only twice a week. In between, the words, the beautiful magical words are kept locked up inside Miss Swanson's thick, navy Dictionnaire Français. One Friday night, she lies awake, wrestling with a new phrase Daddy had said to Mama at dinner.
'What a beautiful shade that is on you. It matches your eyes.' It was a beautiful compliment and Millie is sure it would be even more gorgeous in her precious language. When she hears the hall clock strike midnight she kicks off her covers. She will go down to the school-room and steal the Dictionnaire. She cannot bear this any more.
Her bare feet barely whisper on the carpeted stairs. The school-room door is open a crack so she doesn't need to worry about the handle squeaking. She slides her fingers around the edge of it and is about to push when she hears a noise inside. A muffled, shuffling, gasping sort of noise. Mice? Burglars? Millie puts her eye to the gap. Not mice, people. Not burglars. Daddy. Mademoiselle. Millie knows the word for what they are doing because she looked it up once, sneakily. Embrasser.
Il embrasse.
Elle embrasse.
She cannot remember the rest of the verb table. Il embrasse. Elle embrasse. Their faces swim in and out of the faint moonlight. Il. Elle.
She wants to scream. Arêtte-tu. No, that's not right. Arrêtez-vous. Arrêtez-vous maintenant.
But her fingers curl around the edge of the door and tug it closed. She leaves them in the dark.
