Emergency in the Pyrenees

by Ann Bridge

  They were only fifteen minutes late for lunch—long enough to cause Lord Heriot to grumble, but not to spoil the food. While they were having coffee the telephone rang—Nick answered it. ‘Yes—yes—good; yes, of course. Yes, one of us will meet you. Yes, we went this morning—that’s all fixed. Oh yes, definitely better already, thank you. Goodbye.’

  ‘What was all that?’ Lord Heriot asked, rather irritably—he always preferred to take telephone calls himself, to know what was going on; but he could no longer get out of a chair as quickly as his sons.

  ‘Mr. Julia. He’s coming down on the night train, and he wanted Mrs. Julia to be told.’

  ‘But you said we’d meet him. That infernal train gets in now at a quarter to six!—I can’t have Pierre turned out at that hour.’

  ‘I said one of us would meet him’ Nick repeated, patiently. ‘That means me or Dick, not Pierre.’

  ‘And what’s this about something being “fixed”? I suppose you mean arranged—can’t think why you can’t talk English!’

  ‘Dearest, he said that to muddle the French, in case they were listening-in’ Lady Heriot intervened.

  ‘Yes, but what has been arranged, or fixed?’ the old gentleman asked crossly. ‘I hate this being kept in the dark! You haven’t told me why you went to Tardets this morning, Eleanor. Were you “fixing” something?—and if so, what?’

  The twins, simultaneously, burst into uncontrollable laughter; but Nick gave a questioning glance at his Mother—she nodded, almost imperceptibly.

  ‘Dearest, if I tell you, you must promise to be very discreet’ she said gently. ‘You see this is all to do with the Secret Service, so one has to be very careful.’

  ‘Can’t imagine what you can do for the Secret Service’ her husband replied, sourly.

  ‘She did what no one else could have done, this very morning’ Nick snapped.

  ‘Darling! Do leave it to me’ his Mother said reprovingly. She turned to her old husband, and laid her hand on his arm. ‘Dearest, Colonel Jamieson simply must see our nice Bonnecourt; he had disappeared, so I went to Tardets to find out where he was. That’s all.’

  ‘Oh. Did you find him?’

  ‘Yes—but I shan’t tell even you where!’

  ‘Did you see Pauline? Pretty girl, that.’

  ‘Yes. She wanted to be remembered to you—I’m sure she’d have sent her love, if she’d dared!’

  Somewhat pacified, Lord Heriot presently went off to play golf, and Nick immediately rang up Mme. Pontarlet. Planning his call, as he waited to be connected, it suddenly struck him how odd it was that he had no idea of the hunter’s Christian name—to them he had always simply been Bonnecourt. But he didn’t wish to say ‘Your brother’ on the telephone; that might not be wise. When at last he got Pauline herself he said—‘Here Nicolas. I speak for Lady Heriot; I have a message for the person about whom she made enquiries of you this morning. Will you write it down?’ Mme. Pontarlet was audibly flustered, but eventually pronounced that she had a pencil and paper—‘Mais soyez prudent!’ she added anxiously.

  ‘I am. Write this: “The formalities will be completed tomorrow at 6.30 hours.” Repeat it, will you?’

  Poor Pauline repeated the words. ‘But will he understand this?’

  ‘Yes. Write it down, and then read it over to me.’ After a pause, Mme. Pontarlet read out the message, adding—‘It sounds most strange.’

  ‘Never mind. How soon can you get it to him?’

  ‘I send a boy at once—on a bicycle, with a parcel; he will have it within half-an-hour.’

  ‘Fine; thank you.’ Certainly there were no flies on Pauline!—an admirable idea to send a parcel of groceries as cover for the message.

  Luzia was waiting in the hall when he came out of the study after telephoning.

  ‘I think I go to see Julia, and tell her that Philip returns tomorrow.’

  ‘Good idea. Is Dick taking you?’

  ‘No—he took his Father to le golf. But I can walk.’

  ‘I’ll take you’ Nick said. ‘I rather want to see what the agent situation is at the Victoire, anyhow.’

  ‘Do not wait for me’ the Portuguese girl said when Nick set her down at the clinic. ‘They may not let me see her at once, if she is resting. I can walk back.’

  ‘We’ll see’ Nick replied. While he definitely regarded Luzia as ‘booked’ to his brother, he very much enjoyed her company himself.

  In fact what with Lady Heriot’s late return to luncheon from Tardets, and then Nick’s telephoning, it was nearly a quarter to four when Luzia walked into the clinic, and the ‘period of repose’ was well over—she was shown into Julia’s room at once.

  ‘The milk’s come!’ that young woman pronounced triumphantly. ‘He’s had two terrific feeds—one at half-past one, and another just now. The Professor says the natural milk is far the best thing for him, and I seem to have gallons! But he can’t be moved for two months, not even as far as Larége—so as soon as I can move I must shift to the Victoire; there’s always a terrific demand for beds here.’

  ‘Shall you take the baby to the Victoire?’ Luzia asked, sitting down.

  ‘No—while he’s so tiny he’ll stay here; I can walk round and feed him. They’ll bottle him at night, so that I can get some sleep. But I wondered, as Philip’s in Paris, if you could go and book me a room? And what about you, darling? Won’t your Father be wanting you back, now that there’s no more cooking and housework to be done? What an angel you’ve been!’

  ‘Yes, I think I should soon return to Papa. But Lady Heriot—what a sensible, good person this is!—has already planned that I should go up to Larége and pack all your things, and mine, and bring them down, and shut up the house. Philip comes back tomorrow; there was a call from Paris. So now we can get his consent.’ (Portuguese women have an almost Mahommedan attitude towards their menfolk, perhaps because of the long Moorish occupation of their country.)

  ‘Philip comes back tomorrow?’ Julia exclaimed.

  ‘Yes; at some terrible time, just before six in the morning! I came to tell you this, but then we spoke of other things.’

  ‘Well I hope he’ll like the baby’s names! However, it’s done now’ Julia said cheerfully, ‘so let’s go on talking of other things. Where’s Bonnecourt? Did he get to Pamplona all right?’

  ‘No.’ On the way to the clinic Nick had primed Luzia about his Mother’s activities that morning. ‘He simply stayed in Tardets, too lazy to move himself!’ the girl said indignantly; ‘and also worrying about his terrible old motor-car.’

  ‘Well when is he going to clear off?’ Julia asked, rather anxiously.

  ‘Since he did not go, now he waits to see Philip, who has plans for him; Lady Heriot made him promise this. She is formidable, this lady!’ Luzia said admiringly. ‘Her husband, her sons, her friends—for all she arranges everything, and all love her in spite of it. Generally, people hate those who seek to arrange things for them.’

  ‘Yes’ Julia said, thoughtfully and slowly, staring at a place above the door where the plaster was peeling off the wall. Marriage was hitting her too, as it had hit Philip in the train the night before; probably it would be several years before her extremely small son started hating her because she ‘arranged things’ for him, but in time he would—meanwhile she had a husband who was wholly accustomed to arranging things for himself. Dashing off to Paris without a word to her! And more than half his time spent in remote places overseas. Still staring at the peeling plaster, her mind turned to her former pupil and dear friend; she would have her marriage problems too, especially if she took a young Heriot for her husband, with their Low-Church Scottish outlook.

  ‘Yes—Lady Heriot has made a splendid job of her marriage’ she said. ‘Not always an easy thing to do. Luzia, don’t answer if you don’t want to, but what goes on between you and Dick?’

  Luzia was quite untroubled.

  ‘He goes on proposing, and I go on saying that I have not made up my mind,’ she said bl
ithely.

  ‘Do you like him? Could you marry him?’

  ‘I think so, in time; but not till I am sure. I will not be hurried! I should wish Papa to meet him and like him, also; it would be rather cruel to marry against Papa’s wishes, since I am his only child.’

  This sage, considerate continental view of marriage—as a family concern, not just a matter of one’s individual preferences or passions, struck Julia forcibly. There would be fewer divorces and ‘broken homes’ in England and America, she reflected, if it prevailed in those countries too. She had thought a good deal about Dick and Luzia, and about the old Duque, to whom she was much attached; after all, she was responsible for bringing the two together, however involuntarily. Now—

  ‘Would your Father mind your marrying a Protestant very much?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh no—why should he? I am a Catholic, so my children will be brought up as Catholics, whoever I marry’ Luzia said. There was a joyful certainty, a serene assumption of something unbreakable in the girl’s voice, as well as her words, which again struck Julia with great force.

  ‘Do you think the Heriots would mind their grandchildren being Catholics?’

  Again Luzia was perfectly calm and clear.

  ‘She. no; she is without such prejudices. The old Lord—probably yes; but in the end he agrees to what she wishes, and she will wish what her sons wish.’

  ‘Have you talked to her about it?’ Julia asked, surprised by this certainty.

  ‘Merciful God no! But I stay there now some days, and I have come to know them.’

  Julia’s real preoccupation was still with her dear pupil’s happiness, and whether Dick Heriot, amiable and well-bred as he was, would be an adequate partner for someone of Luzia’s intelligence and subtlety. But that could not be approached directly.

  ‘Where should you live?’ she asked.

  ‘If Dick should get this appointment that he so much wants at Lacq, I suppose partly here; but if he and Papa got on well, and he came to like Portugal, I think later we should have to live there. Someone must look after Gralheira; it is a big estate, and the peasants must be watched over, and their interests safeguarded. I could learn to do this, of course, but it would involve being there a great deal of the time. And one cannot have a good marriage if the husband works in one country, and the wife in another!’

  You’re telling me! Julia thought; but all she said was—

  ‘No; it is rather complicated.’ Again the girl’s sense of duty and responsibility impressed her. This was the old Europe, where property-owners expected to make personal sacrifices to ‘safeguard the interests’ of their tenants—a very far cry from the world of slum-landlords and take-over bids.

  Luzia had been reflecting too.

  ‘Yes. It is complicated. I do not see it clearly yet, Miss Probyn.’ (Julia was touched by the old familiar form of address, reflecting such a basic part of their relationship.) ‘Nor am I sure in my mind. If I become sure, Dick must come and meet Papa, and see Gralheira, and all there is to do there.’

  The old sage-femme came in at this point to say that Madame ought to rest; the baby must shortly be fed again. As they kissed one another Goodbye Julia said—‘Bless you. dear child. Take your time! And you’ll go and book me a room at the Victoire, a week from tomorrow, won’t you? I’m sorry you should have the bother of packing my things and shutting-up Larége, but that will be a great help, too. There are no bills except at the farm for the milk, and at Barraterre’s for the bread. You’ll have to get the money from Philip—how lovely that he’ll be back tomorrow.’

  ‘I do all this. I like to do something for you, who hare done so much for me, and been so patient when I was a silly child.’

  * * *

  When Luzia left the clinic she found Nick and the Dauphine outside. ‘I said you should not wait’ she remarked, as she got into it.

  ‘Well, I did wait. The agent has cleared off from the Victoire—Colin’s car is empty. Full marks to Jamieson’ Nick said approvingly, starting his engine.

  ‘Oh, but now we go to the Victoire’ Luzia said, as the young man set off in the opposite direction.

  ‘Why?’ He pulled up, and turned carefully in the stream of traffic on the Route de Toulouse.

  ‘I must book a room for Mme. Jamieson—in a week she leaves the Clinique, and stays there to feed the baby, till it can be taken home.’

  The room booked, Nick drove Luzia back; his parents were having a rather late tea.

  ‘Mrs. J. all right?’ Lord Heriot asked.

  ‘Yes—the milk has come, and now she nourishes the child’ Luzia said, with continental frankness. ‘Lady Heriot, I am so sorry that we are late, but I went to take a room for her at this little hotel.’

  ‘Why doesn’t she come and stay here?’ Lord Heriot grunted—he liked Julia, and could never have too much company.

  ‘I think it would be rather far—the infant remains in the Clinique, and must be fed every two hours; from the Victoire she can walk round in exactly one minute.’

  ‘Good God!’ This astonishing arrangement silenced Lord Heriot. ‘Every two hours!’ they heard him mutter, as he stumped off to his study.

  Later Luzia succeeded in getting her hostess to herself, and explained that Julia agreed to her going up to Larége to pack, close up the house, and pay the remaining bills. ‘It may take more than one day, but I could stay at Barraterres.’

  ‘Certainly not. If you stay anywhere it must be with the Monniers. But I see no need for you to stay at all; Dick can drive you up and down—he has nothing in the world to do, and I expect he would like to.’ Like Julia, Lady Heriot rather wanted to know how things stood between her Dick and the Portuguese heiress, but she did not attempt a direct approach. ‘And he’s quite useful about things like switching off the water and the electricity’ she added. ‘Of course you’ll have to do that when you’ve finished in the house. Who is the key to be left with? Oh, we can ask Colonel Jamieson when he gets back. All right—you and Dick had better go up first thing tomorrow. It’s Sunday, but you can get on with the packing—Dick can go to Evensong when you come home. I will have some sandwiches got ready.’

  ‘How kind you are!’ Luzia said. ‘But dear Lady Heriot, there is one other point. As soon as I can, I should return to Papa; only I would rather see Julia safely into the hotel before I go, and do her unpacking and all this for her. But she only leaves the Clinique after another week—would it be inconvenient if I stay so long? Please be frank.’

  ‘My dear child, the longer you stay the better I, and my husband, and most of the members of my family will be pleased!’ Lady Heriot said briskly. She realised, with a certain approval, that she would get nothing out of Luzia about Dick; the girl was keeping her own counsel. If she spoke to anyone it would be, quite rightly, to Mrs. Jamieson, the friend of her childhood.

  Luzia and Dick set off for Larége soon after eight. Colonel Jamieson had been collected off the night train at that unearthly hour by Nick; Dick went to his room and ascertained that the key of the house, if they finished in one day, should be left with Madame Barraterre. Luzia had decided to go to 10.30 Mass up at Larége; they unlocked the house, and she directed Dick to clean out the frig while she was at Church—‘Throw away all, and empty the poubelle; switch off first, and then wash out the dishes of food, and the ice-trays, and wipe down the inside with warm water.’ She hurried off to Mass, passing the tomb of the first Mrs. Bonnecourt in the Churchyard.

  To Luzia the packing-up and clearing away was all rather sad. She had loved Larége, and been happy there with her dear Julia—as they ate their sandwiches by the spring she looked with genuine regret across and up the valley at the silver saw of peaks enclosing it. They were drinking some of the country wine which the twins had helped them to buy down in the plain only a few weeks before, and this brought her back to a practical matter—Luzia was never far from the practical.

  ‘All this wine, which you and Nick bottled for us! Now what do we do with it?’
<
br />   ‘Leave it here. I’m sure the Stansteds will take it off Philip; it’s much better than anything they ever buy.’

  ‘No—let us take some down for Julia. She enjoys a little wine.’

  They finished all the packing, and Dick carried the suit-cases and several bottles along the path to the car; but when he came back, and made to turn off the water and electricity, she stopped him.

  ‘No! The house is not clean; one cannot leave it so. The floors must be washed, and the stairs also—for this one must have hot water. Oh, how strange that no one in this place will work!’

  ‘Well we can’t get it done now,’ Dick said.

  ‘No. We come back, and I do it. But let us go and settle these accounts—that will leave us free tomorrow.’

  Dick was slightly appalled at the idea of Luzia scrubbing floors, and resolved mentally to bring up a maid from Pau next day; but he was also impressed. It would be something to have a wife who knew about houses being clean—it had never struck him that this one was not.

  Luzia had borrowed some money from Lady Heriot, who had replenished her purse since Nick emptied it. After paying Madame Barraterre—who was full of eager enquiries for Madame Jimmison, and rejoiced at the birth of a son—they left the car in the Place, and went on to settle the milk bill at the farm above Bonnecourt’s house. There was rather a long pause here, while the good woman did sums with a stub of pencil; Dick and Luzia perched on the stone wall outside the farm, looking down onto the dam, and the pool where de Lassalle had sunk his explosives and his time-clock. While she was showing Dick the very clump of rushes by which she had identified the spot for Colin, the door of Bonnecourt’s house opened; the blonde woman came out and walked rather hesitantly up the field towards them.

  ‘Ah, it is La Comtesse!’ she began—but just then the farmer’s wife came and said that she was owed 16 francs; Luzia paid her and thanked her—yes, they were leaving, and would require no more milk. When the farmer’s wife had gone back into the house she turned to Mme. Bonnecourt. Between Nick and Dick, Luzia had been slightly informed as to the hunter’s movements, and expected an anxious enquiry about them; she was greatly surprised when Mme. Bonnecourt addressed herself to Dick, opened her purse, and handed him 4000 francs in notes.