Book #1: Suzy's Dream (Chapter 6 - Part 1)

Chapter 6

This time, unlike her arrival, Suzy did not linger, and she quickly descended the stairs. A fiery flame flushed her cheeks, so fierce that the cold air striking her face, when she found herself in the Avenue du Bois, was powerless to calm the burning. An indignation bubbled up within her, and she shivered, diminishing the irrational sensation that pursued her upon leaving Madame de Vricourt's house.

Feverishly she began to walk straight ahead, without even thinking where she was going, so absorbed was she by the memory of the interview she had just endured.

“Oh, never! I will never repeat such an ordeal!” she murmured passionately, her lips trembling, her soul bruised. “Never again! It's too terrible!”

With a gesture of anguish, she twisted her slender fingers that had just played Chopin's Preludes with such talent. 

“It’s terrible,” she repeated, as if these words summed up all her thoughts on the matter.

Inside herself, Suzy experienced an urgent need for happiness. Because she was very lively in her feelings and very loving, the slightest friction made her suffer. She was too young to have already learned to despise others, and to forgive too.

Without noticing where her step landed, she walked down the Avenue du Bois. In the distance, blurred by the mist, stood the tawny silhouettes of spindly trees. Dominating and crushing them with its majestic stature, appeared the gray mass of the Arc de Triomphe. At times, the low clouds seemed to brush up against it.

On the avenue, numerous carriages traveled up towards the Bois. Suzy caught glimpses of female faces behind the glass, in the half-shadow of the coupés, their forms chillily buried in furs. Alongside them, little children's heads were lost under hats of incredible size.

On foot, around Suzy, walkers also passed by. Some turned to look at her again, as pretty as she was, animated by the feverish agitation that gave her a strange glow. Appearing so young, and protected only by her air of refinement, which had taken on something very proud. She walked distractedly, without really seeing anything.

Yet, as her gaze wandered, her eyes suddenly fell upon two poor beings stopped at the edge of the pavement, two humble people whom no passer-by heeded: a tall, thin old man in clothes of an undiscernible color, bent over a little, crying girl.

The little girl was very small. The poor child’s pale face, momentarily reddened with tears, contracted in a strange, yet touching expression of distress. A plaintive pout pressed against her mouth. No doubt she had just fallen, for her dress was stained with mud. The frail bouquets of violets had already been returned to her basket, only a little crumpled and the green of their leaves speckled with mud in places.

The old man bent over her, and, with trembling and tender gestures, he made an effort to repair the disorder of the little girl's clothes by straightening her shawl and the wide-brimmed hat, much as a woman would have done. No longer crying, the little girl watched his movements, with an attentive and grave countenance, her little thin hand smoothing the hair of the old man bent over her.

Suzy inadvertently stopped to look at them. Great pity for their loneliness and misery seized her, gripping her with the thought that these two poor beings had suffered much. They pressed against each other, the old man very tender, and the little one, confident.

And in the breath of compassion that passed over her soul, Suzy's irritation disappeared.

Suddenly, she understood that no one can escape their share of hardship. It was not for her alone that life was difficult. There were others who had a much harder task than hers. What was the use of revolting, of being without courage. Why did she refuse to fulfill her duty because the form it came in was painful?

“Madame, buy some of my violets,” said the little girl, raising her sickly face to Suzy.

Since she could do no more for these poor people who stirred such pity in her, Suzy bought the flowers. She resumed her walk, now in a serious manner. No indignation upset her any longer. She thought only of her mother's disappointment when she would inform her failure with Madame de Vricourt; also, to all sorts of serious questions of the future which never, until then, had troubled her mind as a happy little girl.

Oh, Maman, what can I possibly do for you? I would accept anything to be useful to you, but what can I do?

In an answer to her anguished question, the memory of Lady Graham of whom Mrs. Arnay had come to speak to Suzy’s mother a few days before, arose in Suzy’s mind.

No, not that! I can't go so far away all alone! You don't want me to, do you, Maman?

Was it really Madame Douvry who refused her consent? Wasn't it rather Suzy who had rejected her aunt's proposal? No doubt, and above all because the separation terrified her, but also a little because she didn't want to owe anything to Gladys Tuffton's sister.

I will give lessons! But she had come to understand how difficult it was to find them. How could she have known?

My God! Will I have to agree to go to Cannes? And if Lady Graham resembles Madame de Vricourt? Oh! How could I bear to live with her for five months, away from Maman? She shuddered at the thought. She would have forgotten the very existence of Lady Graham, but her memory hounded her with an obsessive persistence.

Little by little Suzy felt her resistance wane. A great desire took possession of her to devote herself, to give, as far as her limited means permitted, a little security to her mother. All the passionate tenderness Suzy carried for her mother now sustained her. She summoned all her will.

If Lady Graham is still in Paris, if she will take me away, I will go. I hope she’ll be unlike Mme. de Vricourt. Aunt Arnay will tell me if there is still time. I must see to it at once, or it may be too late.

Le rêve de Suzy is in the public domain. All original additions, including translations, illustrations and chapter summaries, are copyright © 2025 by Marriah K. Nissen and may not be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. All rights reserved.