He had been invalided out of the army in 1919, but someone had taken an interested note of the fact that he had a degree in history, for he was invited to become a member of the team responsible for preparing the official history of the Great War. This entailed absorbing research work, which fascinated him. The department concerned was accommodating, not minding where he was as long as he was doing what he was drawing his pay for.
As usual, he had brought a trunkful of material that would enable him to complete his current assignment by May. This was an account of the first battle of Ypres. While the weather remained warm he would be able to work outside, to do his writing by the little summer house in the garden at the rear of the hotel. Young Celeste Michel, daughter of Madame Michel, would bring him coffee or Pernod from time to time. He had acquired a taste for Pernod.
He mounted the steps to the open doors, leaving Jacques attending to his luggage. In the cool, shady lobby, with its strip of carpet leading to the stairs, a girl came from behind the little reception desk, a delighted smile on her face and her blue eyes alight.
‘Monsieur Somers! Oh, how happy I am to see you.’ And Celeste Michel, Latin-black hair bobbed, flung her arms around him in welcome. He planted a kiss on her cheek. They were old friends. He had known her for eight years. Celeste, sixteen now, was devoted. Edward was her confidant, recipient of her imaginative outpourings concerning the hotel, the village and herself.
‘Sweet soul of innocence, how you’ve grown,’ he smiled. ‘You’re up to here.’ He touched his chin.
‘But of course. Almost I’m fully grown. I’m sixteen.’ Celeste, quite without inhibitions, stood back so that he might better observe what she had accomplished since he had last seen her in April. She had put two inches on her height and acquired roundness where she most desired it. Having every French girl’s unashamed consciousness of physical development, she was extremely proud now that she had a figure. She wore a neat black dress, stylishly short, with a white collar and white cuffs. ‘I’ve left school and am now Mama’s invaluable help. I’m in charge of the reception desk, the telephone and the allocation of rooms. Do you wish me to call a number for you?’
‘I can’t think of one at the moment,’ said Edward.
‘Never mind,’ said Celeste, ‘but I’m at your service whenever you’re desperate to communicate. Did you have a good journey? The roads were not too bad for you?’
‘My journey was very good.’
Jacques entered the lobby with a trunk weighing down his shoulders.
‘To room three, Jacques,’ said Celeste.
‘I know, I know,’ said Jacques, and hefted his way through the lobby.
‘M’sieur, you have your usual ground-floor room,’ smiled Celeste, ‘and Marie has put it into perfect order for you. Oh, I’m so happy you’ve come again. Mama herself says it’s a pleasure to have you.’
She looked him over with care and affection. He was thin, of course, he was always thin, and a little hollow-chested because of his complaint. His light salt-and-pepper tweed suit was the same one he had arrived in last year, and the year before, but it was very well cut and good-tempered. His face was lean, with hollows, but he did not look ill. Indeed, the sun had touched him during his drive in the open car, and there was colour in his cheeks. With his tweed cap removed, his thick dark brown hair showed its widow’s peak. His eyes, brown, were those of a kind and amiable man. Celeste felt sad that he had no wife to look after him. She thought very little of all the unmarried Englishwomen who must know him, for not one of them, apparently, cared to take him on. Or perhaps he had not asked any of them. She had spent the last two years casting around for a suitable French lady, one who would make him an affectionate and caring wife. Her interest had pointed her in the direction of the only two ladies in La Roche who were eligible. After some consideration, she dismissed both of them. Whether either of them would have suited Monsieur Somers was not a point uppermost in her mind, for she was quite sure they did not suit her. She thought one too stupid, the other too gushing.
Celeste smiled. She accompanied him to his room on the ground floor. It was square and spacious, with a shining floor of parquet à l’anglais and a colourful bedside rug. Double casement doors opened out on to the well-kept garden. He always had this room, so that he did not have the stairs to negotiate. He did not mind stairs, he said, but what was the point of making him walk up and down unnecessarily? Her mother, who was fond of him, would not have that at all. Since she was a war widow, her mother could have made him a very good wife, but perhaps she was rather old at forty.
‘This is splendid, Celeste,’ said Edward, regarding the room with satisfaction. Its furniture and walls were friendly and familiar to him. Jacques had deposited the trunk and gone to fetch another.
‘It’s as you like it?’ said Celeste.
‘It always is. So is everything else, including you, my angel.’
She laughed.
‘Oh, for you, m’sieur, I will even grow wings.’
Madame Michel entered through the open door. Running to matronly fullness, she was a handsome woman, her black hair parted down the middle and braided around her head. She extended a warm hand to Edward, who took it.
‘I am happy of your arrival, Monsieur Somers,’ she said in English. She was proud of her English, though not always accurate with it. ‘It is most of a pleasure to see you again. How well you are looking, but you must take care when the evenings become cold. You need not say when you are needing to be on fire. Marie will light it each evening from next month.’
‘Ah, my very good Madame Michel,’ said Edward gravely,‘I’m in contented expectation that all will be taken care of, including when I’m needing to be on fire.’
Madame Michel smiled.
‘M’sieur, I’ll bring you tea,’ said Celeste, ‘and then Marie will fill the bath for you.’
She knew he liked to take baths. Celeste was satisfied to soak herself once a week, as was her mother, but many visitors had acquired the habit of bathing every day. There were sixteen guest rooms, and when the hotel was full a glut of daily bathers put a great strain on the old boiler. During the winter season, however, when the hotel averaged only half the number of summer guests, the boiler made few complaints.
Celeste lingered after her mother departed. Jacques brought the second trunk and Edward tipped him. Celeste still lingered.
‘M’sieur – ’
‘Tea,’ said Edward.
‘Oh, yes, at once.’ She sped away. In a little while she took the tray to him, in the garden, where he sat relaxing at a table near the summer house. Blooms festooned the poinsettia bushes with colour, and the afternoon was still warm and sunny, though the evening might bring a touch of coolness when it arrived.
‘Thank you, Celeste.’
‘You will inspect the pot?’ she invited, lifting the lid. He peered. The tea leaves swam in the steaming water.
‘I think it’ll do,’ he said.
‘It would be calamitous if it did not do,’ said Celeste, very aware that Edward was as critical as all English people about the quality of a pot of tea. ‘May I pour, m’sieur?’
‘Please do, my infant.’
Celeste poured.
‘Oh, m’sieur, what do you think? I am now friends with Madame. You remember her?’
‘I remember you telling me of her. I remember you were very inquisitive.’
‘No, no, interested, that’s all,’ she protested. ‘You aren’t too tired to talk?’
‘I’m not too tired to listen. I feel you’ve got a thousand words on your tongue. If you’re not too busy, entertain me, Celeste. I made my journey in wise stages, and have only motored a hundred miles today. I’m ready to be entertained.’
‘It’s always been so intriguing,’ said Celeste.
‘My motoring?’
‘No, m’sieur, the mystery of Madame, who came to live at the Villa d’Azur two years ago and hid herself behind its walls, even though she was so beautif
ul. I saw her only twice, each time through the pylône grille.’ That was the wrought-iron gate that fronted the road at the beginning of the villa’s drive. ‘She smiled at me. But three months ago, you see, the little green gate in the wall overlooking the sea was open. I couldn’t resist peeping, and there she was, m’sieur, gathering flowers from her garden.’
Chapter Three
She looked up and saw the young girl, black-haired, pretty and blue-eyed, standing just inside the green wooden gate.
‘Child, what are you doing there?’ Her French had what Celeste thought must be the attractive accent of a well-educated citizen of Paris.
‘Oh, nothing at all, madame, nothing at all.’
‘You’re just looking?’ She smiled, and Celeste was entranced.
‘Many pardons, madame. Please forgive me.’
The woman hesitated, casting a glance over her shoulder. The wide garden was a picture of lushness and colour. It was also quiet and empty. No voices, no people, no children. So very empty. And here was a child, here was a child who looked sweet and delicious, a young girl with blue eyes.
‘What is your name, child?’
‘Celeste, madame, but I’m almost sixteen.’
The woman smiled again.
‘Oh, many many years ago I too was sixteen,’ she said.
‘Many years ago, madame, many?’ said Celeste in wonder.
‘Many years, Celeste.’ The clear grey eyes reflected memories of joys and innocence. ‘Where are you from?’
‘The hotel. It’s owned by my mother. I’m Celeste Michel, you see. Goodbye, madame. I’m sorry to have been so inquisitive.’
Again the woman hesitated, then said, ‘Would you like some lemonade? Yes, you would. In summer, there’s never too much lemonade when one is sixteen, do you agree?’
‘I’m always avid for lemonade, madame,’ said Celeste earnestly.
‘Come,’ said Madame. ‘Please close the gate first, and bolt it. Thank you. Come.’ Carrying a trug filled with blooms, she walked along the garden path with Celeste, her white dress waisted by a narrow belt of black velvet, the skirt slightly flared, so that it whisked and whispered, flirting with the shrubs.
Celeste felt excited and enchanted. As far as she knew, no one in the area of La Roche had ever been inside the high walls of the Villa d’Azur. The extensive garden, with its lawn still green after the protracted heat of summer, was beautiful. The villa rose a pale, washed pink above the terrace.
Madame, with Celeste beside her, crossed the lawn towards the terrace steps. She had the grace of a woman and a natural vitality. There was a little air of defiance about her, as if she was ready to meet any challenge to her wisdom. Celeste sensed it. She knew it was to do with herself and her presence here.
The terrace was magnificent with its colourful tiles, its steps and its walls, its flowers and its hanging baskets. It looked out over the lawn and the deep blue of the sun-kissed Mediterranean. The vista was a grandeur, an unparalleled gift of nature. Man’s handiwork in all its genius could never match such splendour.
The dry warmth pervaded the terrace, and the shutters of the villa’s windows were closed to resist the infiltration of heat. The large French windows were open, however.
‘Please sit down, Celeste,’ said Madame. Celeste slipped into a seat beside a white ornate garden table, above which was a huge umbrella. Madame put her trug down and clapped her hands. ‘Anna?’ A servant appeared at the French windows. She was a stout woman with a broad homely face. Madame said something to her in a language foreign to Celeste. The servant disappeared.
‘Madame, it’s beautiful, your villa,’ said Celeste.
‘Thank you, child.’ Madame’s smile was warm, if a little strange and wistful. ‘I shall now pray that the lemonade is not less than perfect. It wouldn’t do to serve indifferent lemonade to a guest who considers my residence beautiful.’
‘Oh, but—’
‘Ah, you see, when I was sixteen and indifferent lemonade was served, we did not send it back, of course. Papa wouldn’t have allowed us to. But the disappointment could be quite tragic.’
Celeste laughed. Madame’s eyes sparkled. She saw the quick, vivid eagerness for life in the girl, the responsiveness. She removed her wide-brimmed hat, and the mass of looped auburn hair took on tints of fire in the sunlight. That light made the grey eyes so bright that there was a hint of palest blue in them. She sat down with Celeste and under the shade of the umbrella the fiery tints died and the hair softly shone.
‘Madame – oh, such beautiful hair,’ said Celeste, who was neither shy nor inarticulate. ‘Truthfully, I’d give my fortune to have hair so lovely.’
‘You have a fortune, child?’ said Madame, smiling.
‘I have forty francs, I think,’ said Celeste.
‘Yes, that’s a fortune without doubt to one who is only sixteen,’ said Madame. ‘I had no money at all to speak of when I was your age. That is, I was never aware of having any. It seemed not to matter. I’m very aware now that money is of no consequence whatever to people who have always had too much, and that it’s only the poor who are honest enough not to despise it. Ah, here is Anna with our lemonade.’
It came in a tall jug, with two glasses. Anna, clad in her black-and-white servant’s habit, stood with her hands clasped in front of her as Madame poured the liquid. Slices of lemon floated. Celeste tasted the drink. It was cool and sweet, yet contained the little bite of the fruit that lingered on the palate. Madame smilingly awaited her comment.
‘Oh, it’s quite perfect,’ said Celeste.
Madame’s grey eyes again sparkled in evidence of her participation in the girl’s enjoyment of life.
‘You are sure, Celeste?’
‘But yes, madame.’
Madame spoke to her servant, again in the language foreign to Celeste. Anna said something in return, then smiled cautiously at the girl and retired.
‘Anna agrees that there are always times when the lemonade should be just right,’ said Madame.
‘I must confess, madame,’ said Celeste ingenuously, ‘that until now I’ve always thought lemonade was only lemonade.’
‘What a discussion we’re having about it,’ said Madame, eyes dancing. ‘But it’s true, lemonade is only lemonade on ordinary occasions. It becomes memorable only when the occasion is memorable. I must tell you, Celeste, that the summers in my country aren’t what they were. When I was young, the summers were such that every day was memorable, and therefore so was the lemonade – except when it was indifferent.’
Celeste laughed. Madame smiled.
‘You aren’t French?’ said Celeste in interested enquiry.
‘It isn’t important, child. After all, I live in France now and am grateful—’ Madame checked herself. ‘It’s beautiful here in the Riviera, and you are a dear girl to sit and talk with me.’
‘Oh, I’m happy to have met you, madame. I’ve often wondered what you were like.’ Celeste was not given to the art of dissembling. She still had some way to go before she was a woman. ‘You’ve lived here two years and no one—’ She stopped. One could not be inquisitive to the point of impertinence.
Madame’s expression was a little rueful.
‘Everyone is curious about me?’ she said.
‘A hundred pardons, madame. I didn’t mean to—’
‘No, no, it’s perfectly natural,’ said Madame gently. ‘But I have to live a quiet life. I cannot entertain, for I’ve little money and I also suffer with my heart.’
Celeste found it difficult to believe that anyone who lived in such a beautiful villa could be short of money. Nor was it easy to accept that any lady with so creamy a skin and such an air of vitality could have a weak heart. But it was possible, of course.
‘Madame, how sorry I am,’ she said, and Madame let her lashes fall.
‘It’s difficult, you see, Celeste, to live as other people do, to bustle about, to entertain and participate in excitements. One must do as one’s doctor advises or
become a victim of one’s foolishness.’
‘Oh, that’s what Monsieur Somers says.’
‘Who, pray, is Monsieur Somers?’ asked Madame.
‘An English guest of ours,’ said Celeste. ‘He was gassed in the war, madame, and his lungs don’t permit him to endure winters in England, so he spends them with us. Mama allows him favourable terms, of course.’
‘Ah, during the war I worked in a hospital, and it was so sad to see—’ Again Madame checked herself. ‘Continue, child.’
‘He’s a deserving man, madame, and very charming and kind. It’s a worry, yes, that he has no wife to look after him, although he’s told me he would be more of an affliction than a husband.’ Celeste smiled reminiscently.
‘That’s very wry in a man who has breathed in poison gas, isn’t it? To make jokes of that kind about himself? Men with a sense of humour are the most tolerable ones, aren’t they? It’s always good to laugh, Celeste, even in the company of a man with crippled lungs. He’s a better man for making his jokes.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Celeste with feeling.
‘And you have other guests who are interesting?’
Celeste, who enjoyed observing people and talking about them, said, ‘Well, there are often some ladies and gentlemen who are unattached, and one cannot help noticing how the ladies become more ladylike and how the gentlemen gradually become trapped. One follows developments as closely as one can, for it’s always terribly interesting, isn’t it, to watch and to wonder? One can find oneself most interested in a certain lady and a particular gentleman, and wonder if they’re falling in love.’
Madame’s laugh was rich with amusement.
‘You are incurably romantic, dear child, as most of us are,’ she said. ‘We weave our dreams about those we observe. Do you dream, perhaps, about your charming Monsieur Somers?’
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