by Allan Massie
Lannes lifted his glass.
‘That sounds all right. Your health.’
Edmond turned away. With his back to Lannes, he said, ‘How’s my Jewish stepmother?’
‘Safe, I hope. And in return as it were, how did the boy look when you saw him in Paris?’
‘How did he look? Just my friend Chardy’s type, I’d say. What Chardy would call “a juicy little piece”. His novels are thin stuff, but he wrote some intelligent essays for my magazine. How long ago that seems.’
‘Like everything pre-war,’ Lannes said, and got up to take his leave. ‘One other thing, however. Is your friend, nephew or whatever, Sigi, in Bordeaux?’
‘No, he’s in Paris. Why do you ask?’
‘Tell him to stay there. There’s a man in Bordeaux who is threatening to kill him. It probably doesn’t mean much, but you never know. The man’s a Russian émigré, a veteran of the Legion.’
‘And do you suppose the threat is serious?’
‘How should I know? It’s only words, only words, but … ’
* * *
The light was fading as he turned away from that house which old Marthe had told him was full of evil, but his spirits lifted. He remembered that exchange in the Vicomte which now, in middle age, was his favourite Dumas novel; how d’Artagnan’s servant Planchet had said he was a man whom God had so formed that he found everything good that accompanied his season on earth, and how d’Artagnan, sitting by the window, had found that the old man’s philosophy had seemed solid to him. Well, there were moments he could persuade himself it was true. Léon was in Paris, safe for the moment, and so he might allow himself to hope that Alain was safe too. And Félix was dead, executed, to everyone’s satisfaction, by the Resistance.
He came to the river. The sun was declining in the west and there was a red glow rippling on the water.
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