The Apple Tree: a short novel & several long stories

by Daphne Du Maurier

  "Vous désirez, Madame la Marquise?" he said, in answer to her unfinished words.

  He knows me, she thought in wonder, he has seen me before, but even this was not so unexpected as the quality of his voice, not rough, not harsh, not the voice of someone in a cellar under a shop, but cultivated, liquid, a voice that matched the eyes of the gazelle.

  "It was so hot up in the street," she said. "The shops were closed and I felt faint. I came down the steps. I am very sorry, it is private, of course."

  The face disappeared from the window. He opened a door somewhere that she had not seen, and suddenly she found a chair beneath her and she was sitting down, inside the doorway, and it was dark and cool inside the room, even like the cellar she had imagined, and he was giving her water from an earthenware cup.

  "Thank you," she said, "thank you very much." Looking up, she saw that he was watching her, with humility, with reverence, the pitcher of water in his hand; and he said to her in his soft, gentle voice, "Is there anything else I can get for you, Madame la Marquise?"

  She shook her head, but within her stirred the feeling she knew so well, the sense of secret pleasure that came with admiration, and, conscious of herself for the first time since he had opened the window, she drew her scarf closer about her shoulders, the gesture deliberate, and she saw the gazelle eyes fall to the rose, tucked in the bodice of her dress.

  She said, "How do you know who I am?"

  He answered, "You came into my shop three days ago. You had your children with you. You bought a film for your camera."

  She stared at him, puzzled. She remembered buying the film from the little shop that advertised Kodaks in the window, and she remembered too the ugly, shuffling, crippled woman who had served her behind the counter. The woman had walked with a limp, and afraid that the children would notice and laugh, and that she herself, from nervousness, would be betrayed to equally heartless laughter, she had ordered some things to be sent to the hotel, and then departed.

  "My sister served you," he said, in explanation. "I saw you from the inner room. I do not often go behind the counter. I take photographs of people, of the countryside, and then they are sold to the visitors who come here in the summer."

  "Yes," she said, "I see, I understand."

  And she drank again from the earthenware cup, and drank too the adoration in his eyes.

  "I have brought a film to be developed," she said. "I have it here in my bag. Would you do that for me?"

  "Of course, Madame la Marquise," he said. "I will do anything for you, whatever you ask. Since that day you came into my shop I…" Then he stopped, a flush came over his face, and he looked away from her, deeply embarrassed.

  The Marquise repressed a desire to laugh. It was quite absurd, his admiration. Yet, funny… it gave her a sense of power.

  "Since I came into your shop, what?" she asked.

  He looked at her again. " I have thought of nothing else, but nothing," he said to her, and with such intensity that it almost frightened her.

  She smiled, she handed back the cup of water. "I am quite an ordinary woman," she said. "If you knew me better, I should disappoint you." How odd it is, she thought to herself, that I am so much mistress of this situation, I am not at all outraged or shocked. Here I am, in the cellar of a shop, talking to a photographer who has just expressed his admiration for me. It is really most amusing, and yet he, poor man, is in earnest, he really means what he says.

  "Well," she said, "are you going to take my film?"

  It was as though he could not drag his eyes away from her, and boldly she stared him out of face, so that his eyes fell and he flushed again.

  "If you will go back the way you came," he said, "I will open up the shop for you." And now it was she who let her eyes linger upon him; the open vest, no shirt, the bare arms, the throat, the head of curling hair, and she said, "Why cannot I give you the film here?"

  "It would not be correct, Madame la Marquise," he said to her.

  She turned, laughing, and went back up the steps to the hot street. She stood on the pavement, she heard the rattle of the key in the door behind, she heard the door open. And then presently, in her own time, having deliberately stood outside to keep him waiting, she went into the shop which was stuffy now, and close, unlike the cool quiet cellar.

  He was behind the counter and she saw, with disappointment, that he had put on his coat, a grey cheap coat worn by any man serving in a shop, and his shirt was much too stiff, and much too blue. He was ordinary, a shopkeeper, reaching across the counter for the film.

  "When will you have them ready?" she said.

  "Tomorrow," he answered, and once again he looked at her with his dumb brown eyes. And she forgot the common coat and the blue stiff shirt, and saw the vest under the coat, and the bare arms.

  "If you are a photographer," she said, "why don't you come to the hotel and take some photographs of me and my children?"

  "You would like me to do that?" he asked.

  "Why not? " she answered.

  A secret look came into his eyes and went again, and he bent below the counter, pretending to search for string. But she thought, smiling to herself, this is exciting to him, his hands are trembling; and for the same reason her heart beat faster than before.

  "Very well, Madame la Marquise," he said, "I will come to the hotel at whatever time is convenient to you."

  "The morning, perhaps, is best," she said, "at eleven o'clock."

  Casually she strolled away. She did not even say goodbye.

  She walked across the street, and looking for nothing in the window of a shop opposite she saw, through the glass, that he had come to the door of his own shop and was watching her. He had taken off his jacket and his shirt. The shop would be closed again, the siesta was not yet over. Then she noticed, for the first time, that he too was crippled, like his sister. His right foot was encased in a high fitted boot. Yet, curiously, the sight of this did not repel her, nor bring her to nervous laughter, as it had done before when she had seen the sister. His high boot had a fascination, strange, unknown.

  The Marquise walked back to the hotel along the dusty road.

  At eleven o'clock the next morning the concierge of the hotel sent up word that Monsieur Paul, the photographer, was below in the hall, and awaited the instructions of Madame la Marquise. The instructions were sent back that Madame la Marquise would be pleased if Monsieur Paul would go upstairs to the suite. Presently she heard the knock on the door, hesitant, timid.

  "Entrez," she called, and standing, as she did, on the balcony, her arms around the two children, she made a tableau, ready set, for him to gaze upon.

  Today she was dressed in silk shantung the colour of chartreuse, and her hair was not the little girl hair of yesterday, with the ribbon, but parted in the centre and drawn back to show her ears, with the gold clips upon them.

  He stood in the entrance of the doorway, he did not move. The children, shy, gazed with wonder at the high boot, but they said nothing. Their mother had warned them not to mention it.

  "These are my babies," said the Marquise. "And now you must tell us how to pose, and where you want us placed."

  The children did not make their usual curtsey, as they did to guests. Their mother had told them it would not be necessary. Monsieur Paul was a photographer, from the shop in the little town.

  "If it would be possible, Madame la Marquise," he said, "to have one pose just as you are standing now. It is quite beautiful. So very natural, so full of grace."

  "Why, yes, if you like. Stand still, Hélène."

  "Pardon. It will take a few moments to fix the camera."

  His nervousness had gone. He was busy with the mechanical tricks of his trade. And as she watched him set up the tripod, fix the velvet cloth, make the adjustments to his camera, she noticed his hands, deft and efficient, and they were not the hands of an artisan, of a shop-keeper, but the hands of an artist.

  Her eyes fell to the boot. His limp was not so pronounce
d as the sister's, he did not walk with that lurching, jerky step that produced stifled hysteria in the watcher. His step was slow, more dragging, and the Marquise felt a kind of compassion for his deformity, for surely the misshapen foot beneath the boot must pain him constantly, and the high boot, especially in hot weather, crush and sear his flesh.

  "Now, Madame la Marquise," he said, and guiltily she raised her eyes from the boot and struck her pose, smiling gracefully, her arms embracing the children.

  "Yes," he said, "just so. It is very lovely."

  The dumb brown eyes held hers. His voice was low, gentle. The sense of pleasure came upon her just as it had done in the shop the day before. He pressed the bulb. There was a little clicking sound.

  "Once more," he said.

  She went on posing, the smile on her lips; and she knew that the reason he paused this time before pressing the bulb was not from professional necessity, because she or the children had moved, but because it delighted him to gaze upon her.

  "There," she said, and breaking the pose, and the spell, she moved towards the balcony, humming a little song.

  After half an hour the children became tired, restless.

  The Marquise apologised. "It's so very hot," she said, "you must excuse them. Céleste, Hélène, get your toys and play on the other corner of the balcony."

  They ran chattering to their own room. The Marquise turned her back upon the photographer. He was putting fresh plates into his camera.

  "You know what it is with children," she said. "For a few minutes it is a novelty, then they are sick of it, they want something else. You have been very patient, Monsieur Paul."

  She broke off a rose from the balcony, and cupping it in her hands bent her lips to it.

  "Please," he said with urgency, "if you would permit me, I scarcely like to ask you…"

  "What?" she said.

  "Would it be possible for me to take one or two photographs of you alone, without the children?"

  She laughed. She tossed the rose over the balcony to the terrace below.

  "But of course," she said, "I am at your disposal. I have nothing else to do."

  She sat down on the edge of the chaise longue, and leaning back against the cushion rested her head against her arm.

  "Like this?" she said.

  He disappeared behind the velvet cloth, and then, after an adjustment to the camera, came limping forward.

  "If you will permit me," he' said, "the hand should be raised a little, so… And the head, just slightly on one side."

  He took her hand and placed it to his liking; and then gently, with hesitation, put his hand under her chin, lifting it. She closed her eyes. He did not take his hand away. Almost imperceptibly his thumb moved, lingering, over the long line of her neck, and his fingers followed the movement of the thumb. The sensation was feather-weight, like the brushing of a bird's wing against her skin.

  "Just so," he said, "that is perfection."

  She opened her eyes. He limped back to his camera.

  The Marquise did not tire as the children had done. She permitted Monsieur Paul to take one photograph, then another, then another. The children returned, as she had bidden them, and played together at the far end of the balcony, and their chatter made a background to the business of the photography, so that, both smiling at the prattle of the children, a kind of adult intimacy developed between the Marquise and the photographer, and the atmosphere was not so tense as it had been.

  He became bolder, more confident of himself. He suggested poses and she acquiesced, and once or twice she placed herself badly and he told her of it.

  "No, Madame la Marquise. Not like that. Like this,"

  Then he would come over to the chair, kneel beside her, move her foot perhaps, or turn her shoulder, and each time he did so his touch became more certain, became stronger. Yet when she forced him to meet her eyes he looked away, humble and diffident, as though he was ashamed of what he did, and his gentle eyes, mirroring his nature, would deny the impulse of his hands. She sensed a struggle within him, and it gave her pleasure.

  At last, after he had rearranged her dress the second time, she noticed that he had gone quite white and there was perspiration on his forehead.

  "It is very hot," she said, "perhaps we have done enough for today."

  "If you please, Madame la Marquise," he answered, "it is indeed very warm. I think it is best that we should stop now."

  She rose from the chair, cool and at her ease. She was not tired, nor was she troubled. Rather was she invigorated, full of a new energy. When he had gone she would walk down to the sea and swim. It was very different for the photographer.

  She saw him wipe his face with his handkerchief, and as he packed up his camera and his tripod, and put them in the case, he looked exhausted and dragged his high boot more heavily than before.

  She made a pretence of glancing through the snap-shots he had developed for her from her own film.

  "These are very poor," she said lightly. "I don't think I handle my camera correctly. I should take lessons from you."

  "It is just a little practice that you need, Madame la Marquise," he said. "When I first started I had a camera much the same as yours. Even now, when I take exteriors, I wander out on the cliffs above the sea, with a small camera, and the effects are just as good as with the larger one."

  She put the snap-shots down on the table. He was ready to go. He carried the case in his hand.

  "You must be very busy in the season," she said. "How do you get time to take exteriors?"

  "I make time, Madame la Marquise," he said. "I prefer it, actually, to taking studio portraits. It is only occasionally that I find true satisfaction in photographing people. Like, for instance, today."

  She looked at him and she saw again the devotion, the humility, in his eyes. She stared at him until he dropped his eyes, abashed.

  "The scenery is very beautiful along the coast," he said. "You must have noticed it, when walking. Most afternoons I take my small camera and go out on to the cliffs, above the big rock that stands there so prominent, to the right of the bathing beach."

  He pointed from the balcony and she followed the direction of his hand. The green headland shimmered hazily in the intense heat.

  "It was only by chance that you found me at home yesterday," he said. "I was in the cellar, developing prints that had been promised for visitors who were to leave today. But usually I go walking on the cliffs at that time."

  "It must be very hot," she said.

  "Perhaps," he answered. "But above the sea there is a little breeze. And best of all, between one and four there are so few people. They are all taking their siesta in the afternoon. I have all that beautiful scenery to myself."

  "Yes," said the Marquise, "I understand."

  For a moment they both stood silent. It was as though something unspoken passed between them. The Marquise played with her chiffon handkerchief, then tied it loosely round her wrist, a casual, lazy gesture.

  "Some time I must try it for myself," she said at last, "walking in the heat of the day."

  Miss Clay came on to the balcony, calling the children to come and be washed before déjeuner. The photographer stepped to one side, deferential, apologising. And the Marquise, glancing at her watch, saw that it was already midi, and that the tables below on the terrace were filled with people and the usual bustle and chatter was going on, the tinkle of glasses, the rattle of plates, and she had noticed none of it.

  She turned her shoulder to the photographer, dismissing him, deliberately cool and indifferent now that the session was over and Miss Clay had come to fetch the children.

  "Thank you," she said. "I shall call in at the shop to see the proofs in a few days' time. Good-morning."

  He bowed, he went away, an employee who had fulfilled his orders.

  "I hope he has taken some good photographs," said Miss Clay. "The Marquis will be very pleased to see the results."

  The Marquise did not answer. She was t
aking off the gold clips from her ears that now, for some reason, no longer matched her mood. She would go down to déjeuner without jewellery, without rings; she felt, for today, her own beauty would suffice.

  Three days passed, and the Marquise did not once descend into the little town. The first day she swam, she watched the tennis in the afternoon. The second day she spent with the children, giving Miss Clay leave of absence to take a tour by charabanc to visit the old walled cities, further inland, along the coast. The third day, she sent Miss Clay and the children into the town to enquire for the proofs, and they returned with them wrapped in a neat package. The Marquise examined them. They were very good indeed, and the studies of herself the best she had ever had taken.

  Miss Clay was in raptures. She begged for copies to send home to England. "Who would believe it," she exclaimed, "that a little photographer, by the sea like this, could take such splendid pictures? And then you go and pay heaven knows what to real professionals in Paris."

  "They are not bad," said the Marquise, yawning. "He certainly took a lot of trouble. They are better of me than they are of the children." She folded the package and put it away in a drawer. "Did Monsieur Paul seem pleased with them himself?" she asked the governess.

  "He did not say," replied Miss Clay. "He seemed disappointed that you had not gone down for them yourself; he said they had been ready since yesterday. He asked if you were well, and the children told him maman had been swimming. They were quite friendly with him."

  "It's much too hot and dusty, down in the town," said the Marquise.

  The next afternoon, when Miss Clay and the children were resting and the hotel itself seemed asleep under the glare of the sun, the Marquise changed into a short sleeveless frock, very simple and plain, and softly, so as not to disturb the children, went downstairs, her small box camera slung over her arm, and walking through the hotel grounds on to the sands she followed a narrow path that led upwards, to the greensward above. The sun was merciless. Yet she did not mind. Here on the springing grass there was no dust, and presently, by the cliff's edge, the bracken, growing thicker, brushed her bare legs.