They sat over new whiskies and coffees to accustom themselves to the faint glimmer of stars. Occasional fireflies snatched in the deep grass of the lawns which that year had not been mowed. The faint wind had turned a point or two northwards and brought with it a welcome and refreshing chill which towards dawn would cause (Felix noted this) a heavy dew upon the leaves and window-panes. “It’s beautiful,” said Lord Galen with an unwonted warmth of feeling as he gestured towards the star-scattered darkness where the dense mists turned and shifted, now hiding, now revealing the vibrating depths of the Provençal night sky. They heard Max yawning his violet yawns within as he disencumbered the table; each time he passed the stricken Wombat it snapped blindly at his ankles.
Lord Galen contemplated the long empty reaches of insomnia which awaited him as a condemned man might think of an age of servitude ahead. He had started taking sleeping pills which guaranteed him some rest but was depressed to notice that he needed increased doses to maintain the equilibrium. It was the time of night when the thought of his daughter echoed and ached within him with a dull neuralgic insistence, poisoning his peace of mind. Sometimes after midnight he rang for his secretary and bade him produce the chessmen. They would sit silently hunched over a game until the first pale streaks of dawn woke the birds in the park. Sometimes he took a stroll in the icy dew, his footfalls silenced by the deep grass. It was rare that he could return to his bed on such occasions. He hung around until five-thirty when he heard the alarm go off in Max’s room. Pretty soon the yawning black man would come and give him breakfast in the kitchen – waffles and maple syrup. Galen ate hungrily. By then he had already despatched his yawning secretary to his room. Soon it would be time to dip down the dusty hill into the town and watch the first passenger train set off for Paris.…
Rehearsing all this in his mind he felt the weariness and spleen assail him anew. “I suppose you all want to go to bed,” he said at last, rather bitterly. “I can see you yawning and stretching, Felix – not very polite.” Felix sprang to attention, metaphorically speaking, and blushed his apologies. He too was quailing at the thought of the night which confronted him; this temporary sleepiness would serve to get him to bed all right, but after an hour or two he would find himself switched on like a light and unable to prevent himself rising to make coffee, and at last, to walk the silent town. They smiled now at each other but the weariness engendered by their thoughts suffused the air, and at last the Prince, fearing that people could not leave before a prince of the blood took his leave, called in soft Arabic for his landau. The tall major-domo was standing just inside the drawing-room, and relayed the message in a low voice. There was a long period of confused noise and at last the travel-apparatus of the Prince rumbled round the house and came to rest before the flight of marble stairs where the restless horses struck sparks from the cobbles with their hooves and whinnied softly. Noblesse oblige.
The Prince accepted his fez and fly-whisk from the hands of his servant and then turned smiling to take his leave. “Well, if you young people will forgive me.…” he said, pressing their hands for a second in his. “I will expect you all to a drink tomorrow in my hotel at seven.” He did not wait for a formal acceptance, but turned to embrace his host in the French fashion, giving him a dab on the cheek with his lips. He smelt aromatic, he smelt of camphor like a mummy – so thought Lord Galen as he returned the accolade. Now the Prince climbed into his coach and turning back said: “Can I give anyone a lift? Surely Mr. Chatto? Quatrefages, no?” They accepted his offer in order to spare Max an extra detour. As they stepped into the landau and sat down beside the Prince he remarked rather unexpectedly: “I feel like a bit of fun tonight, to be sure.”
They rumbled off into the darkness and the Prince began a long and animated conversation with his staff in guttural Arabic. He seemed to be asking them for information about something. Then, aware perhaps that it was somewhat impolite to talk in a language the others did not understand, he ventured on an explanation directed largely at Quatrefages. “I am asking them to take us to a good house – surely there must be a nice pouf in Avignon?” Felix choked with astonishment but Quatrefages acted as if he had foreseen such a departure and chuckled as he slapped the Prince on the knee in a manner as familiar as it seemed to the dismayed consul downright vulgar. “Of course, of course,” said the clerk with a gesture towards the night sky, as if invoking all its starlit bounty upon the head of the grinning Prince.
Felix found that something distasteful had entered the expression of the Prince; those grave, sweet expressions, those silent modesties, had given place to a new set of facial looks – a trifle perky and monkey-like. He looked elated and full of zest; it seemed as if his intentions and desires had become a trifle debased, a trifle vulgar. “You aren’t taking him to a brothel?” he said sotto voce to Quatrefages, who himself had changed but in a milder degree. He looked slightly tipsy and insolent. “Indeed I am,” he said in an airy way, “the old darling is a Gypp and needs a cleanser. He will absolutely love Riquiqui. I will hand him over to old Riquiqui and see what she can provide.” Felix looked miserable and alarmed. The Prince was talking Arabic again, heedless of them. “If he catches something,” said Felix, “my uncle will never forgive you. Anyway I shan’t go; it’s too risky. If my uncle thought …” Quatrefages said simply but trenchantly “F**k your uncle.”
The advice, Felix felt, was apposite and chimed with his own feelings. But it was all too easily said. Moreover he was not at all sure how the sentiment could be implemented. It was partly his cursed uncle and partly the dignity of the Foreign Office which nagged him. He sighed under the importunity of these ideas and set his mind firmly against this frivolous excursion, stifling all his regrets. Actually he would have given anything for an evening of good fellowship and a touch of profligacy. Ah well! The coach went stumbling and swaying through the dark olive glades to where at the outer edges of the darkness the lights of the city gleamed; from the quarter of the gipsies there came a thin plume of wood-smoke. It was still early. Owls whistled in the secret trees. The faint rumour of the city gradually evolved itself from their own noise of creaking coachwork, jingling harness and clattering horseflesh. The Prince was in a great good humour as he sat with an arm thrown round the shoulders of Quatrefages. He was occasionally slipping into his elegant French now as a concession to his companion. “I have a few small oddities of conduct”, he said thoughtfully, “which are not unusual for a man of my age. Do you think they will understand?” Quatrefages gave a reassuring grin as he answered. “At Riquiqui they are used to everything, they cater for everything. And as they are frequented by the chief of police they are very much à l’abri.” Reassured, the Prince beamed and squeezed his knee.
Felix had never been to Riquiqui’s sordid establishment except with Blanford – and that for no questionable purpose. Once they had hunted for Livia during a night walk and the gipsies had directed them to try Riquiqui. The sordid surroundings and the darkness did not commend themselves to the two young men; and the personage of Riquiqui herself inspired the worst misgivings. She had opened a cautious inch in response to their tapping upon the rotten oak door. The little side street in which the house stood was pitch dark, and smelt of blocked drains and dead rats. The houses immediately to right and left of Riquiqui’s had fallen down or been knocked down; their foundations gaped. Weeds sprouted everywhere. Blanford professed to find the place sinister but romantic – but of course he was lying. Felix was plainly nervous.
Riquiqui had enormous breasts bulging out of the top of a sort of sack dress, divided at the waist by a primeval drawstring. She had a wall-eye which gave her the air of looking over your shoulder while she spoke to you – which they found disconcerting. Moreover, lupus had ravaged her impure face – a burst of purple efflorescence covered one side of it. She tried to present her clear side rather too obviously, but from time to time she was forced to turn and present the diseased profile with its great splash of suffused blood vessels turning to
crimson-lake and purple. A faint candle illumined the scene – the gaunt stairs behind her. She could give them no indication of Livia’s whereabouts though she seemed to know, from their explanations, the person they were speaking about, for she nodded a great deal and said, “Not today” repeatedly, which suggested, at any rate, Livia was in the habit of calling in at this disreputable establishment. Curiously enough the information, far from depressing Blanford, elated him; he admired the insouciant and courageous way Livia went her own way, busied herself with her own affairs, without expecting their protective company. But Felix found this attitude inconsequent, even compromising.
But tonight, he told himself, there was to be no such excursion for the consul. Pleading a slight headache he had himself dropped off at the station; there was still time to sit and relax at the buffet over a coffee – after the bustle and conversation of a party he loved to spend a few moments alone, thinking his own modest thoughts. A train had pulled out for the north; the engine gave a whiff or two, as if it were calling back over its shoulder. The little fiacres stood anchored in the monotony of their function as train-waiters. Later when he set out on his walk he might feed the horses a sugar-lump or two if he felt lonely; this would lead to a conversation with the sleepy drivers.
But for the moment he had had his fill of conversation. The Prince had rumbled off into the darkness with his coach. From the neighbouring livery-stables came the noise of horses coughing and stamping. A bell trilled and wires hummed. Avignon was beginning to settle down for the night – that long painful stretch of time which must somehow be affronted. Felix yawned – yes, it was all very well, but would it last? He paid for his coffee and sauntered across under the frowning darkness of the Porte St.-Charles. It would not take him long to return. Then he would undress and go to bed doggedly; yes, doggedly. But as he neared the villa his nerves gave a jump for there was the figure of a man sitting on his front door-step smoking and waiting for him. It was a mere silhouette; he could not at first make out his identity.
For a moment he hesitated timorously, and then, cursing himself for a coward, advanced with a deliberate sang-froid to reach the garden gate. “There you are!” cried Blanford cheerfully. “I wondered if the Prince had taken you off on a binge.” Felix recounted his journey home in the coach and Blanford chuckled. He said, “I suddenly decided not to go to bed; we got Max to drop us off and walked the quarter of a mile home – it’s not far, after all.” Felix opened the front door and entered the musty little villa. “I wondered if you would be walking tonight,” said Blanford; and suddenly Felix seemed to sense the loneliness and misgiving behind the words. “Is there anything wrong?” he asked unexpectedly and Blanford shook his head. “No, it’s just the end of this perfect holiday and one doesn’t want to waste the time on sleep. I went home dutifully with the others but couldn’t get to sleep, so I headed for town.”
Yes, there was something lame about this long explanation. Felix put a kettle to boil and prepared to make some coffee. Then the explanation of Blanford’s tone struck him forcibly and made everything clear. Livia had disappeared, and he had suddenly missed her and decided jealously to come and see if she were with Felix! It was true. Blanford could not help it – though he cursed himself roundly for butting in. He was propelled, as indeed Felix was, by a quite uncontrollable jealousy, which came and went in spasms, and which both struggled to surmount by reminding themselves that they should really be above such feelings. It was no good.
Thinking of all this, Felix poured out the dreadful Camp coffee which was made of liquid chicory and smiled acidly upon his friend as he said (unable to disguise the tone of quiet malice in his voice): “I suppose it’s Livia again?”
“Yes,” said Blanford surrendering reluctantly to the truth, “it’s Livia.”
Felix was suddenly furiously contemptuous of this spoilsport friend of his. His pent-up feelings broke loose. “And just suppose that she wanted to be alone with me, to walk with me?” Blanford nodded humbly and said: “I know. I thought of that, Felix. I am most awfully sorry. I just couldn’t resist coming here. I felt I had to find her. I am so sorry, I know you care for her too. But I have asked her to marry me later on.…” His voice trailed away into silence while his friend sat opposite trying to convey his disapproval and annoyance by small reproving gestures. As a matter of fact, at a deeper level than all this superficial annoyance, he felt a certain misgiving about Livia as a suitable person to marry. To love and if possible lie with – yes. “Marriage”, he said sharply, “is quite another affair.” Blanford detested the curate’s tone in which Felix uttered this sentiment. “Yes,” he said, becoming rather acid in his turn, “it happens to be my affair at the moment. That’s why I took the liberty of coming. But if my presence upsets you I can take myself off. You only have to say.” Felix was on the horns of a dilemma here; for if he were alone and sleepless later on he would welcome company; but if Livia was driven off by the presence of Aubrey … it would be far better if he went home now. Which solution was the better? He went into the bedroom to consult his little clock. The hour was pretty advanced now, and the likelihood of Livia coming rather remote. He returned to the disconsolate Blanford and said: “Were you thinking of a walk, then?”
Blanford shook his head and said: “Only as far as Riquiqui’s to see if I can pick up her trail. It’s a lovely night.” It was a lovely night! The words echoed in the skull of Felix as he apportioned the last of the coffee and decided that he would not go to bed, he would after all walk. Moreover he now sensed that behind Blanford’s tone of voice lurked an anxiety, a fear almost of the gloomy and ramshackle quarter of the town which he proposed to visit in search of the girl. He couldn’t resist a slight touch of malice in his own voice as he said: “I suppose you’d want to go to Riquiqui’s alone?” Blanford looked up at him and said, somewhat humbly, “On the contrary. I’d welcome company. You know that that whole section of the town scares me a bit – it’s so disreputable with its bordels and gipsies.”
This went some way towards mollifying Felix who betook himself to the bedroom where he changed out of his formal suit into something lighter, and topped it by his college blazer and a silk scarf. Through the half-open door he caught a glimpse of the glorified alcove which served as the so-called spare room where Livia sometimes lodged. The little cupboard stood there with its door ajar; he had already shown Blanford the male kit hanging up in there. He himself had never seen her in full disguise, though once or twice she had worn trousers to wander about the town. Blanford had made no comment – no comment whatsoever. What did he think? Felix could not say. For his part he found the whole question of marriage unreal – despite the magnetism of her beauty to which he was as much bound as Blanford. But there was something else which had qualified his passion. It was something he remembered with a certain shame – it was not in his nature to spy on people; yet, one evening, in a sudden fit of curiosity and without any conscious premeditation, he had walked into her room, opened the wardrobe and felt in the pockets of her brown cheap suit for all the world as if he knew that he would find something there – which indeed he did. It was a slip of paper torn from an exercise book – a love letter no less, but written in arch, lisping style, as if by an adolescent girl.
“Ma p’tite Livvie je t’aime,” and so on in this vein, but riddled with misspellings and turns of phrase which suggested an uneducated and very youthful author. Felix examined the hand with the magnifying glass which was always on his desk, and decided that it was not the writing of a gipsy but of a schoolgirl. But his investigations went no further and after a moment of hesitation he replaced the note where he had found it and went whistling light-heartedly back to his office, glad in spite of himself that his rival was being betrayed. From time to time he frowned, however, and tried to banish the uncharitable and unfriendly feeling – for he was a good-hearted boy who believed in friendship like the rest of us. Yet it kept coming back. Sometimes, walking beside Blanford he repeated the words in his m
ind, “Ma p’tite Livvie je t’aime”, almost letting them come to the surface and find utterance. It was very vicious, this sort of behaviour, and he did not approve of it; but he could not help it.
They finished their coffee and Felix put the cups and saucers into the sink in his usual somewhat fussy way. Blanford waited for him, smoking thoughtfully with an air of profound preoccupation touched with sadness. A curious polarity of feelings had beset him – somewhere in the deepest part of himself he was actually glad that Livia was going, that they were to be separated for a time. It would take a weight off his mind, as the saying goes; he had indeed become a little impatient with himself, with the extent of his complete immersion in this unexpected infatuation for a girl who, more often than not, seemed hardly to know he was there, so remotely distant did she seem from all thought of him. The force of this attachment had somewhat exhausted him, and he knew for certain that it had prevented him from enjoying Provence as deeply as he might have done. Loving – was there some sort of limitation inherent in it? This was the first time he had ever asked himself the question plainly. But the answer eluded him.
The Avignon Quintet Page 43