Day of the Arrow

by Philip Loraine

  The doctor said, ‘Now—are you going to stay awake? I’m late for my surgery as it is.’

  Françoise stood up. ‘I can manage.’

  ‘You’ll have to watch him. If he takes any more of that stuff . . .’

  ‘I won’t,’ said Lindsay, ‘now that I know what they . . . Now that I know you don’t want me to.’

  While Françoise was seeing the doctor out, he decided that he had been in bed long enough. Accordingly he threw back the bedclothes and swung his feet to the floor. A second later the crash of his falling brought her running back into the room. He was lying on his face, quite unable to get up.

  Françoise helped him onto his hands and knees, and, with her assistance, he managed to crawl between the sheets again. Lying back, exhausted by all this, he suddenly became aware of the fact that she was crying; she sat in the chair beside the bed staring at him while the tears rolled down her cheeks. He was appalled. He cried out, ‘Françoise . . . !’

  ‘I . . . was so . . . afraid,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you . . . tell me what you’re going to do?’

  A moment later she was on her knees by the bed and he had his arms round her; he was surprised to find that he felt rather like crying himself.

  Between sniffs she was saying, ‘. . . some silly story about falling off a horse . . . and then he said Dr. Chauvet was looking after you, and . . . and I came to see you, and there you were, looking as if you were dead. And Philippe said the doctor had . . . had given you a sedative and you weren’t to be disturbed. How dared he?’ She looked up, anger vanquishing tears. ‘It was only by chance I came back to see how you were, and caught that wretched Pierre slopping this stuff down you. Thank goodness, I kept my head. I didn’t let him see that I knew what he was doing. As soon as he’d gone I sent for the doctor.’

  Lindsay pulled her down against him and kissed her hair, soothing her like a child. Reason shone through the clouds that Mother Blossac’s potions had blown into his head; he understood that Françoise loved him, and this was so overwhelming that the next realization took a little while to break through. When it did, however, he found it profoundly unsettling: he understood that it was imperative for this love that Philippe de Montfaucon should live; when this shadow had passed from all their lives, he would ask her to marry him, and she would accept—he was quite sure of this now. But if Philippe were to die, the shadow of that death would fall between them and force them apart; if Philippe were to die they would come to feel that it had been their fault—that, subconsciously, they had not done all that they might have done to prevent it.

  At the knowledge of this he was filled with a kind of panic. Two things suddenly emerged from the nightmare of the previous night: one was the memory of Philippe saying, with absolute assurance, absolute acceptance, the words ‘when I am dead’; the other was the fact that for a moment, an electrifying moment, he had turned towards the idea of escape—he had admitted that his private nemesis, whatever it was, could be avoided.

  Françoise said, ‘Tell me then. Tell me what really happened.’

  He told her; but he did not, he could not, tell her everything. How was it possible to say to a woman, ‘Your husband said that he would like me to marry you’? He also left out those words of doom—‘When I am dead.’ He was too afraid of what they might mean to her and to him. He was already consumed with a desire to be on his feet again, to attack Philippe again, forcing him to see that there was, that there must be a way out.

  When he had finished speaking they stared at each other blankly, searching their minds for an answer to the questions that crowded in on them.

  Lindsay said, ‘But why did those men attack me? Admittedly I’ve been rather nosy about Philippe’s affairs, not to mention his ancestors, but why should they want me dead? If Philippe had put them up to it . . .’

  ‘No,’ she cried.

  ‘Well, of course no; he stopped them, didn’t he? He saved me from them; but if he had, I could understand it, there might be some kind of logic behind it. Oh no, they acted on their own—and yet, last night, he said, “They were trying to kill you for me.” ’ He shook his head bemusedly. ‘You don’t think . . . ? I mean he struck me as being a rather remarkable man, a good man, but you don’t think the priest . . .’

  ‘Father Dominique!’ She was horrified.

  ‘I’m sorry. But he definitely didn’t want me to visit Grandfather Edouard’s grave.’

  Françoise said, ‘He is a good man; he’s one of the few people here I’ve always been able to turn to. James, I confess to him.’

  Lindsay nodded. No Catholic himself, he remained unimpressed by the Confessional. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Why, then, was he so unwilling for me to see that grave in the forest? Because of what was written on it?’

  ‘Hardly.’

  ‘But, Françoise, what other reason could there be?’

  Thoughtfully she said, ‘He’s been upset, I know, by . . . by people like Mère Blossac. I can’t see why and I told him so. You always get that sort of thing in real country places—harmless, and useful kinds of witchcraft. Such a stupid name for it!’

  Lindsay nodded. ‘I thought about that. The doctor said that Philippe’s people had always relied on it; and I did see that girl, Odile, going into the tower with the dead bird. And there’s no doubt that he’s . . . almost worshipped here by some of the peasants . . .’

  ‘I wondered if you’d notice that.’

  ‘You can’t miss it. But witchcraft isn’t the answer; that isn’t what drives Philippe. A man who spends hours—as much as twelve hours, didn’t you say?—on his knees in front of the altar isn’t a pagan; just the opposite—he’s almost too much of a Christian.’

  Again they were both silent.

  Lindsay groaned, pressing his cheek into the pillow. ‘What drives me mad is that I know the answer; it’s here, in my head, and I can’t see it. I must know—or why this desire to keep me out of the way, drugged?’ He stared at her, arrested by a thought. ‘And anyway, Françoise, what’s behind this drugging business? It couldn’t be kept up forever, could it? Doesn’t it mean that there’s something happening now, or something just about to happen, which they’re afraid I’ll understand? Françoise, it must mean that.’ He was excited now; he sat bolt upright in bed, and the sudden movement caused his head, apparently, to float upward from his body; he lost his balance again, and flopped back onto the pillow. ‘Goddam the old bitch. What the hell’s in that muck of hers anyway?’

  ‘Poppy heads, boiled, among other things—according to Dr. Chauvet.’ She broke off, staring at him. ‘Les Treize Jours,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow.’

  Lindsay barely stopped himself sitting up abruptly again.

  ‘It must be that.’ She seized his hand and gripped it tightly.

  ‘Describe it to me. What happens? Françoise, go through it all in detail—everything.’

  She thought for a moment, and then embarked on her description; she spoke slowly, making a great effort to get the facts clear and correct and in their right order. Yet, as she progressed, both their faces became mystified, almost incredulous. There seemed to be nothing in Bellac’s day of festival that was in any way remarkable. It started with a Mass, but then they always did, and it continued by way of food and drinks and presents for the children, through an afternoon of rustic games, too much wine and speeches, to an evening of dancing, fireworks, more wine, love in the shadows, more dancing, and yet again more wine.

  There were embellishments, of course. There were processions, fancy dress, masks; the beautiful crucifix was taken from the church and carried round the village. Even Lindsay, with his slight knowledge of such things, could see that much which happened on Bellac’s day of the Thirteen Days had its roots in the religions that flourished before Christ; but then everybody knew that the early Church had been much too wise to try to eradicate the ancient beliefs, preferring to incorporate them into her own ritual. There seemed to be nothing about Les Treize Jours to make it any more or less re
markable than a doll made of cornstalks perched on top of a haystack, or the choice of December 25th as Christmas Day.

  And yet the fact remained that someone—either Philippe de Montfaucon himself or those who were willing to kill for him, but against his wishes—seemed to be determined that Lindsay should pass Les Treize Jours in a stupor.

  As if to underline this suspicion there was a tap on the door, and a maidservant came in carrying a steaming glass on a tray. Lindsay, who had been lying back on his pillows in any case, shut his eyes; but, from under lowered lids, he could see that the girl was a trifle taken aback to find her mistress in the room with him. She said, ‘Dr. Chauvet said that the gentleman should have a little hot wine at six, madame.’

  Françoise told her to put the wine on the table beside the bed. The maid seemed inclined to linger, but Françoise dismissed her. When she had gone Lindsay opened his eyes, and the two of them regarded the glass in silence.

  ‘I’m sure,’ Lindsay said at last, ‘that we’re on the right track. The idea is to keep me stoked up with Mère Blossac’s knockout mixture. It’s probably my fault for not promising your husband that I’d keep my nose out of things that don’t concern me.’

  Françoise picked up the glass, went to the window, and emptied the contents into the ivy which covered the castle wall; she stood for a moment gazing at the creeper as if expecting it to shrivel and die, but it had been there for a great many years—had probably had worse things poured on it in its time. ‘Yes,’ she said at last, ‘it’s crazy, but I think you’re right. The point is what do we do about it?’

  ‘We do nothing. I lie here and pretend to be in a coma.’

  ‘Supposing . . .’ She shuddered. ‘They tried to kill you—don’t let’s forget that.’

  ‘They won’t try again—not while I’m tucked up in bed, minding my own business.’

  ‘You seem very sure of that.’

  ‘Philippe was sure of it; I told you what he said. Don’t you worry about me. I’m in the safest possible place.’

  Yet when she had gone to say good night to her children and to dress for dinner, he felt suddenly very much alone and defenseless. The patch of sunlight on the wall turned from deep gold to a sullen red, and he found himself thinking again of the black tomb in the forest, of the bronze-green leaves chattering in the breeze and falling silent under the golden sky—of that song, disembodied, threatening, among the deepening shadows. Warm in his bed, he shuddered at the memory.

  The sleeping draught was still at work in his veins; he kept sliding towards sleep, and jerking into wakefulness again; the questions that chased themselves endlessly round his brain became involved with snatches of dreams. The characters who posed the questions performed a round dance in and out of his dreaming and his waking—hand in hand, like the figures in a mediaeval frieze: Odile, with her amber eyes, and Prince Cottanero, the shadow of a virile man, and his pretty mistress Natasha, who did not in some way ring true. Hand in hand they passed, dancing: the boy, Christian, with his bow and arrow; the handsome, fleshy Abbé Luchard and his arrogant secretary; Père Dominique leading Philippe de Montfaucon in the dance; and always, among them or passing them, or waiting in the distance like background figures in a Breughel painting, the brown people of Bellac.

  The waking moments brought odd flashes of intelligence. He thought suddenly that amid all this gallimaufrey of sleeping potions and dead white doves and old women who spat upon one in the road, it was strange that the name Cottanero should appear: cotta nero, the black surplice . . .

  He struggled out of sleep to find two pink, solemn faces gazing into his own. After a moment he decided that they were not part of another dream. He heard Françoise say, ‘They refused to go to bed until they’d seen you.’

  Gilles and Antoinette nodded, round-eyed. Antoinette said, ‘You hurt your forehead awfully, did you know?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Gilles said, ‘I fell off yesterday, too.’

  ‘Were you jumping?’ inquired the small girl. ‘Jumping is rather difficult.’

  Her mother said, ‘I told you, darling; Uncle James’s horse stumbled. Well, you’ve seen him. Now, how about bed?’

  Gilles, ignoring this, sat down and peered earnestly into Lindsay’s eyes. ‘Was there much blood?’

  ‘Masses.’

  ‘Did you pass out?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s passing out like? Like having your tonsils out?’

  Françoise said, ‘That’s quite enough. Uncle James isn’t feeling at all well.’

  Antoinette kissed him and Gilles shook hands with formality.

  ‘Go on,’ said Françoise. ‘I’ll come in a minute.’

  The children trailed away, unwillingly. Something in the warm, nursery smell of them, the soft feel of their pajamas, had been very touching.

  ‘They like you,’ said Françoise. ‘Isn’t that a good thing?’

  But before he could ask her what exactly she meant by this remark—and if, indeed, she meant what he hoped she did—she went on. ‘James, they’ll bring up some food presently; pretend to be asleep, don’t eat it.’

  ‘That’s a bit hard—I’m ravenous.’

  ‘I’ll bring you something myself, later.’ She hesitated, looking at him doubtfully. ‘I hate leaving you all alone up here. Would you like old Rosalie, my maid, to sit with you?’

  ‘I’d love it, but . . . Well, if anyone wants to give me some more of Mother Blossac’s mixture they’ve got to be able to—without suspecting anything.’

  ‘You won’t swallow it?’

  ‘Not if I can help it. I’ll fool them somehow.’

  And yet, when the moment came, he found that it was easier said than done to fool them.

  He had been dozing, only lightly, it seemed, because a faint rattle of the door handle woke him up. Some time before, he had turned on the light beside the bed, so that he was able to see the broad shoulders of Philippe’s manservant as he turned from shutting the door—and, Lindsay suspected, locking it. The man was carrying a tray on which was a bowl of soup, bread, wine and fruit; but, by the way he put the tray down on the dressing table and not beside the bed, Lindsay guessed that food was not the main reason for his visit. He was lying on his side, face away from the light, and was thus able to watch all that happened without appearing to be awake.

  The man took a bottle out of his pocket and poured the contents of it into the wineglass; he then brought the whole tray to the bed. He said, quite loud, ‘Your supper, monsieur.’

  Lindsay continued to breathe heavily.

  Louder: ‘Your supper, monsieur.’

  Since even this produced no response he bent over and tweaked Lindsay’s ear. Lindsay continued to breathe sterto-rously, and curbed a desire to punch the man on the nose.

  He now seemed to be satisfied that his patient was still comatose from the last dose. He rolled Lindsay onto his back and, using a large hand that smelled rather unpleasantly of Caporal cigarettes and garlic, forced his mouth open. Lindsay made the sort of noises that he imagined drugged sleepers made when subjected to such treatment; he only just had time to seal his throat, by contracting the muscles, before he felt the liquid splashing onto his tongue. Luckily there was not more than a couple of tablespoonfuls, and he could close his mouth on it with ease. He gave an imitation gulp and was relieved to find that only a trickle of the stuff got past his constricted throat; it tasted absolutely filthy, and he immediately recognized it as the same concoction which the old woman had given him the previous night.

  The man seemed to take an age unlocking the door and leaving the room. As soon as he had gone, Lindsay spat the mixture back into the glass, and then poured it into the carafe of wine; he hoped that the man himself might drink it when the tray finally found its way back to the kitchen quarters. He wondered what would have happened if he had been awake. A taste of the soup gave him the answer; they were certainly taking no chances.

  Now, lying in the silent room, he could hear the
sounds of voices and laughter from the terrace. He remembered that Françoise had said that there would be a large party on the eve of Les Treize Jours; he tried to imagine what other, even more curious guests might have joined those he already knew, but this flight of the imagination led him again into sleep.

  This must have been the deep slumber of exhaustion, his system beginning to escape from the drug, for when Françoise finally came to him with her maid and a tray of food, he refused it and turned over to sleep again. She kissed him and withdrew.

  Later still, other figures moved in the shadows of the room. Old Mère Blossac crept forward to listen to his breathing, to put one wise finger, light as a dry, dead leaf, on the pulse in his wrist. After she had gone Philippe de Montfaucon stood beside the bed for a long time, looking down at the sleeping face with affection and compassion. He only moved when Father Dominique joined him, touching him lightly on the shoulder.

  When Lindsay finally awoke, he found that his head was clear; he found also that Françoise was standing by the bed in a dressing gown. The look on her face, revealed by the first chill light of dawn, made him sit up with a gasp of fear, sleep falling from him with the bedclothes.

  He said, ‘Françoise! For God’s sake . . .’

  She put her hands—those long delicate hands—over her face. ‘It’s Gilles,’ she said. ‘My baby.’

  ‘What . . . ?’

  She removed the hands, and stared at him. He was out of bed by now, putting on his dressing gown, only a little surprised to find that he was hardly dizzy at all. He took her by the shoulders, holding her firmly, and at his touch she seemed to grow calmer.

  ‘I don’t know why I woke up,’ she said. ‘Mothers do have this sort of . . . intuition. I went straight to the nursery, but I . . . It sounds impossible, but I knew, James, before I got there. He wasn’t in his bed.’

  ‘I’ll get dressed; we’ll look for him.’

  He had already turned towards his clothes before she said, ‘No. I know where he is.’