Emergency in the Pyrenees

by Ann Bridge

  ‘So what?’ Nick asked.

  ‘So tomorrow morning you take Her Ladyship over, and let her do the enquiring. She has a terrific memory, and I’d expect she still remembers the names and addresses of troops of his relations.’

  ‘Probably all dead by now’ Nick said, glumly. ‘Still, I agree she’s the best bet. All right—we’ll go over to Tardets tomorrow.’

  * * *

  Philip Jamieson did secure a sleeper, had a wash, aided by the contents of Nick’s plastic wallet, took off everything but his shirt, and settled down in the cool clean berth. But it was some time before he could get to sleep. As the train jolted along past Lacq—whose glaring flood-lighting and red plumes of flame, so conspicuous at night, he didn’t see because the shutters were drawn—on past Orthez and Dax, he lay thinking about Julia, so amazingly snatched from death by Bonnecourt, whom he had never met; about his minute son and his health, and all the unforeseen complications which Lady Heriot had outlined to him. Julia stuck for two more months in Pau—and he had got to go abroad again in three weeks! The gamp in London, prudently engaged by Julia for November, would have to be cancelled too; and the house at Larége dealt with, and Luzia sent home. For the first time Philip began to realise what marriage involved, and to wonder, disturbedly, whether it was really compatible with his job. It was maddening to have to leave Julia and the child just now; but Bonnecourt must be got out—that was an inescapable obligation, apart from what he had just done for them. Philip Jamieson felt almost inclined to curse his job; he wondered when, if ever, he and Julia would be able to have some real leisure together, and what sort of life he could give her? Coming home at intervals to beget another of the six children she had said she wanted, and then leaving her to face the risks of pregnancy and child-birth alone, while he went off to outwit ‘the enemy’ in unreachable places—would she accept that? He worried at the problem almost till the train reached Bordeaux; he had just got to sleep when the jerk to a stop, the clamour and shouting outside in the big station, re-awakened him. But after that he grew calmer; he would be back within two days, and they were both all right—there would be nothing to worry her. He fell asleep, and slept, at last, soundly.

  An office car met him at the station. ‘Major Monteith said you was to come to his flat for breakfast, Sir’ the chauffeur said; there, after excellent coffee they repaired to the Major’s study, where Philip posed his problem. Major Monteith remembered ‘Bernardin’s’ War record, but he knew little about his recent activities, except for this new blow-up over the disappearance of young de Lassalle.

  ‘The French are a bit upset about that’ he said—‘in fact quite nasty. They seem to have got the idea from the Police at Pau that young Monro was in some way involved, as well as this man Bonnecourt. Was he?’

  ‘Up to a point. He was actually on the frontier and saw that old man fall, and helped to carry him down to Larége, to my house. He telephoned for the doctor, and the old boy was taken to the hospital in Pau.’

  Monteith was flipping through a file. When he had received the telephoned message to say that Colonel Jamieson was coming up from Pau to Paris on the night train he had jumped to the correct conclusion as to the reason for this sudden journey, and caused a clerk to bring the relevant papers round to his flat.

  ‘Oh yes—old Maupassant. And young Monro, quite properly, made a report of the accident to the police, since he had witnessed it. But you see both these types were definitely O.A.S., which the French don’t care about at all; and according to the Sureté investigators, de Lassalle was dropped by Monro at some pub—his car’s a Rover, isn’t it?—so conspicuous in France!—and taken away by Bonnecourt afterwards. His car is pretty recognisable too—a vintage Bugatti! And young de Lassalle has never been seen since. The Sureté are convinced that Bonnecourt slipped him back the same night over the frontier, into Spain; B. is known to be a climber’s guide, and a hunter of the local chamois, or whatever it is; he knows those mountains like the inside of his pocket! So you can understand what their attitude is.’

  Philip reflected on this.

  ‘Yes, I do see’ he said at length. ‘But that’s the Sureté’s attitude. You’re in touch with the Deuxième Bureau; they must know perfectly well what Bernardin did in getting Allied airmen across the frontier in the last War—surely even the French keep records! Can’t you get someone in the D.B., on an “old-boy” basis, to tell the Sureté to lay off Bonnecourt for a bit? We owe him a lot in the past—and at the moment I owe him my wife’s life, and that of my son.’

  The Major looked embarrassed.

  ‘My dear fellow, I’m terribly sorry, but just now all the “old-boy” business is out’ he said. ‘The French are as sour as vinegar with us at present, because of our special relationship with the U.S., and the Common Market, and this and that! They simply won’t play—it would be no good my trying. Least of all’ he added, ‘when one of our people is under suspicion of having connived at the escape of an O.A.S. activiste. Most unfortunate, that. Do you know what did happen?’

  Philip knew a certain amount, but as things were he decided not to pass it on to Major Monteith.

  ‘I was barely 24 hours in Pau’ he said, ‘and most of that time I spent in seeing my wife, and getting some sleep. Thank you for making the position so clear, Monteith. Could you get the Office to book me a sleeper back to Pau tonight?’

  ‘Of course. You’ll lunch here, I hope?’

  ‘May I let you know? I have some friends I want to look up. What I should like is a bath and a shave—don’t let me delay you.’

  Armed with Nick’s wallet, Philip shaved and had a bath, while his host departed to the Office; then he sat and considered. How tiresome the elected politicians were, rotting up really serious, professional, international business with their rivalries and quarrels! His own job was of course mainly political, but its discipline ruled out quarrels or personal egotism. In spite of Monteith’s discouragement, he presently rang up a very old friend in the Deuxième Bureau, and was warmly pressed to come round and see him—‘Quelle chance de te voir, mon cher Philippe.’ With Colonel de Monceau, at least, the ‘old boy’ basis still existed. Philip explained his presence in France by the birth of his son—Frenchly, his old colleague was delighted; he got up and embraced Philip. Then Jamieson went on to try to smooth things over for both Bonnecourt and Colin. Jean de Monceau was of an age to remember ‘Bernardin’s’ war-time record himself —‘un type magnifique’ he said. He was shocked to learn that his old friend Jimmison had had to leave his hotel in Pau on foot because an agent was sitting in Colin’s car. ‘But they do not derange Madame?’

  ‘I think they may, at any moment—that is partly why I want you to help, Jean. They are pestering the Heriots, too; hanging about the house night and day. and worrying their old chauffeur to death.’

  ‘But why to the Sureté occupy themselves with this wonderful old Milord Écossais? For three generations his family have lived there, really creating Pau as a tourist centre.’

  Philip was carefully vague.

  ‘I wasn’t there, so I am not perfectly clear as to what happened. But after Bonnecourt drove my wife down from Larége to Professor Martin’s clinique—which saved her life, and the boy’s!—Colin followed them; and it seems the police were on his track, because they suspected him of complicity in the escape of this young O.A.S. man, de Lassalle.’

  Colonel de Monceau became very alert—he rang a bell on his desk; when a clerk entered he told him to bring the de Lassalle file—‘or of de Maupassant.’ Then he turned to Philip.

  ‘Was this young Monro implicated?’

  ‘Very little, I think; he happened to be up on the frontier when old Maupassant fell, and naturally helped to get him down and to the hospital—and then made the constat to the police. But that was enough for them to record his name and his car, and track him round from the clinique to Lord Heriot’s house—where he went to ring up the Office in London, to let me know that the child was coming premature
ly. Actually they drove there in Bonnecourt’s car, and the agents came and interviewed Bonnecourt in the middle of a ball the Heriots were giving. It was rather disagreeable.’

  ‘Most unfortunate—a great lack of tact,’ de Monceau said. At that moment the clerk brought in a file—excusing himself, the Frenchman studied it with accomplished speed.

  ‘It seems that “Bernardin” disappeared while Lord Heriot was speaking with the police, and has not been seen since—nor his car. Do you know where he is now?’

  ‘In Pamplona, I hope’ Jamieson said, with a frank grin.

  ‘How did he get away?’

  ‘Well, strictly between ourselves, Jean, one of the Heriot twins hid him in the garden, and later the other drove him off on the floor of the car, under a rug, to a place near the frontier—still while the ball was going on!’

  ‘Ah, ces jumeaux! I met them two years ago, when I was en vacances in Pau; so intelligent, so gay—and Madame their Mother is a lady in a thousand!’ He turned to the file again. ‘But young Monro—where is he?’

  ‘I sent him to Pamplona in my car, to find out if Bonnecourt had turned up, and told him to stay there to—keep on reporting’ Philip said prudently. ‘But look, Jean, can’t you get the Sureté to lay off all this nonsense? You know that we’re on your side about Lacq—that’s what we sent Monro over there for. It’s too silly to have an agent sitting in his car all the time, and troops of others hanging about the Heriot’s house.’ He went on to repeat, indignantly, Luzia’s report of the visit of the Sureté to Julia at Larége—‘The young Comtesse is convinced that their behaviour had something to do with bringing on the fausse couche of my wife.’

  ‘This shall have immediate attention’ Monceau said. ‘I am distressed; I call Pau at once. Mon ami, will you lunch with me? We meet too seldom! 12.30, at the Bouteille d’ Or on the Rive Gauche? I do not ask you to the house—my wife is away, and our present cook is very indifferent. Yes? Perfect!’

  * * *

  But while Philip was dealing with the Deuxième Bureau in Paris—very successfully, as it proved—all sorts of things were going on in Pau. The twins got hold of their Mother early, and explained that she must go over to Tardets, ‘to find out what Bonnecourt’s up to,’ Dick said. ‘Nick will take you in the Dauphine—we don’t want the Humber barging through those road-blocks again. I’ll stay here, in case anything happens.’

  ‘Take Luzia round to the Clinique, perhaps’ Nick observed ironically. ‘There’s that note from Colonel Julia to be dropped, anyhow.’

  ‘Oh, what fun,’ Lady Heriot said. ‘Yes, of course—Bonnecourt’s old Aunt runs that rather dreary little hotel, and then there’s his charming sister, Madame Pontarlet, who keeps the épicerie. I’d love to see them again. But how long will it take? If I’m not back, you must give your Father his lunch, Dick.’ Lord Heriot, like many old men, had managed to create the tradition that he could not really be nourished without the presence of some member of his family when he ate his meals.

  ‘I’ll see to feeding His Lordship. You get dressed and breeze off to Tardets, Maman’ Dick replied.

  But long before Dick and Luzia set out for the clinic Julia, quiet in her bed, was suddenly confronted with a quite unexpected problem. The old Professor came in to see her, pronounced her condition excellent, and then said—‘But today Madame must register the birth of the child, with its names.’

  ‘Oh. Where does one do that?’

  ‘At the Mairie.’

  ‘But I can’t go to the Mairie’ Julia protested.

  ‘No—let the husband of Madame go and make the registration.’

  ‘Oh, fine. He’s at the Victoire; be an angel, Professor, and get someone to ring him up and ask him to come round.’

  But when telephoned to, the Victoire stated firmly that M. le Colonel was not there; he had not slept there; he had gone out for a walk after the dinner, and had never returned—he had asked to see the railway time-table, but had not said where he was going.

  Julia was quite aghast when the Professor passed this information on to her.

  ‘But he wouldn’t go back to London without telling me! Did he take his luggage?’

  ‘They did not say—I will ascertain.’ He opened the door, called for a nurse, and told her to enquire about the Colonel’s luggage; then he came back to the bed-side. ‘Meanwhile, let Madame address herself to the matter of registering the birth of the child, since her husband is absent. What names?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ Julia exclaimed wretchedly. ‘We hadn’t settled anything—it’s come so early; and we couldn’t know if it would be a boy or a girl.’

  ‘Well, Madame must now decide on the names.’

  ‘Why must it be done today?’ Julia asked, impatiently.

  ‘A child must be registered within three clear days of the birth. Your son was delivered yesterday, in the early hours; but today is Saturday, and the Mairie closes at noon. So the registration must be made today.’

  ‘Bloody old loi de France again!’ Julia muttered to herself.

  ‘Plait-il?’ the Professor asked—fortunately he was too deaf to hear her words.

  ‘Nothing. Professor, do please ring up the Heriots’ house; they may know where my husband is. This is all too frightful.’

  ‘Calm yourself, Madame! If you get sur-excitée, it will be bad for the milk, which is all-important for the child.’

  But the call to the Heriots was not any more helpful than that to the Victoire. No, the Colonel Jimmison was not there. But the Comtesse de Ericeira was coming round at once to see Madame, bringing a note from M. le Colonel. And in barely five minutes Luzia walked in, cool and beautiful, bringing Philip’s note, which Julia read with the greedy eagerness of a young wife in love.

  ‘Oh, he’s gone to Paris!’ She looked at the letter again. ‘But he doesn’t give the telephone number, so we can’t ring him up. Oh dear!’

  ‘Why do you want to ring him up?’

  ‘The baby’s names must be registered today, and we hadn’t settled on anything.’

  ‘Then you must decide yourself. Philip will agree to whatever you say’ the young girl affirmed. ‘Just reflect quietly.’

  Julia did reflect. One of the names must be Philip; but she wanted also to commemorate Bonnecourt, to whom her and Philip’s son owed his life. And there flashed into her mind a recollection of something the hunter had said on that nightmare drive down from Larége barely 36 hours before. To keep her from worrying—she recognised his thoughtfulness and tact with gratitude, now—he had made conversation, and at one point mentioned that he had worked in the past for British Intelligence; Colin had already told her this, and rather clumsily, in her distracted state, she said so.

  ‘Ah, but did he tell you the name I worked under?’

  ‘No; do say——’ Julia, belatedly remembering her manners, had asked.

  ‘Bernardin. Down here, we all had names from the Chanson de Roland— it is so close to Roncevalles.’ And then he had startled her by quoting—

  ‘And Roland brave, and Olivier,

  And many a paladin and peer

  On Roncesvalles died.’

  Even at that difficult and anxious moment, she found it remarkable to hear Marmion quoted by a Pyrenean mountaineer—now in this fresh anxiety, she found the name she needed.

  ‘I want him to be called Philip Bernard,’ she said.

  ‘I tell Dick. Do you think he might come in?’

  ‘Ask the old sage-femme.’

  Dick was allowed in. Julia explained the position—‘And it must be done before noon, Professor Martin says.’

  Dick looked at his watch; it was 11.30.

  ‘Not much time to spare—and they’re madly tough about closing dead on time at the Mairie. I think I’ll try to lay His Lordship on; he can usually quell them.’ He went and telephoned. ‘He’s coming round at once’ he reported. ‘Better get the names written down, and the hour of birth—and of course your home address in England; then it will be all re
ady.’

  Luzia, unasked, gave Julia her despatch case; the young woman took out a sheet of her Gray’s Inn writing-paper, and wrote on it her and Philip’s names, and the date and hour of the child’s birth—she added in French: ‘It is our desire that the child be called Philip Bernard,’ and signed it. ‘Will that do?’ she asked Dick, handing the piece of paper to him.

  They’ll want to know your husband’s occupation’ he said.

  ‘I think “Colonel” is enough for them’ Julia said firmly. ‘They should be able to guess from that that he’s a soldier by profession.’ The young man grinned.

  A few moments later the old sage-femme ushered in Lord Heriot. ‘There are too many persons in Madame’s room’ she said brusquely, and brushed Dick and Luzia out.

  ‘You look very well’ Lord Heriot said. ‘Now, this registration—have you got the names written down?’

  ‘Yes.’ She gave him the sheet of paper; he put on his glasses and studied it.

  ‘Yes, that’s clear enough. Is Bernard a family name?’ he asked.

  ‘No’ Julia said flatly. He looked her straight in the eye; then he smiled. ‘Oh, I see. Very nice—very graceful. Well, I’d better be off and get this job done; very tiresome, these petits fonctionnaires.’

  ‘You are kind!’ Julia said, as he went out.

  Lord Heriot arrived at the Mairie at five minutes to twelve; he was told that the registrar had already left. The old man was calm, but extremely firm. ‘Registrations take place until noon, to which it lacks five minutes. Let him be fetched, or let someone else act for him. Otherwise I telephone to the Préfêt.’ In fact the registrar was still in the building, having a wash-and-brush-up before going out to lunch; after some agitated toings-and-froings he appeared—Lord Heriot gave him Julia’s paper, and said that he wished to register the birth of this child.

  ‘Milord comes rather late’ the official said, glancing at the clock.