‘I’d never been in Darbisson before, and I haven’t been since, so I don’t know the map of the village very well. But the place isn’t very big, and the house at which we stopped in twenty minutes or so is probably there yet. It had a large double door – a double door in two senses, for it was a big porte-cochère with a smaller door inside it, and an iron grille shutting in the whole. The gentle-voiced old lady had already taken a key from her reticule and was thanking us again for the little service of the handkerchief; then, with the little gesture one makes when one has found oneself on the point of omitting a courtesy, she gave a little musical laugh.
‘ “But,” she said with a little movement of invitation, “one sees so few compatriots here – if you have the time to come in and smoke a cigarette . . . also the cigarette,” she added, with another rippling laugh, “for we have few callers, and live alone – ”
‘Hastily as I was about to accept, Carroll was before me, professing a nostalgia for the sound of the English tongue that made his recent protestations about Provençal a shameless hypocrisy. Persuasive young rascal, Carroll was – poor chap . . . So the elder lady opened the grille and the wooden door beyond it, and we entered.
‘By the light of the candle which the younger lady took from a bracket just within the door we saw that we were in a handsome hall or vestibule; and my wonder that Rangon had made no mention of what was apparently a considerable establishment was increased by the fact that its tenants must be known to be English and could be seen to be entirely charming. I couldn’t understand it, and I’m afraid hypotheses rushed into my head that cast doubts on the Rangons – you know – whether they were all right. We knew nothing about our young planter, you see . . .
‘I looked about me. There were tubs here and there against the walls, gaily painted, with glossy-leaved aloes and palms in them – one of the aloes, I remember, was flowering; a little fountain in the middle made a tinkling noise; we put our caps on a carved and gilt console table; and before us rose a broad staircase with shallow steps of spotless stone and a beautiful wrought-iron handrail. At the top of the staircase were more palms and aloes, and double doors painted in a clear grey.
‘We followed our hostesses up the staircase. I can hear yet the sharp clean click our boots made on that hard shiny stone – see the lights of the candle gleaming on the handrail . . . The young girl – she was not much more than a girl – pushed at the doors, and we went in.
‘The room we entered was all of a piece with the rest for rather old-fashioned fineness. It was large, lofty, beautifully kept. Carroll went round for Miss . . . whatever her name was . . . lighting candles in sconces; and as the flames crept up they glimmered on a beautifully polished floor, which was bare except for an Eastern rug here and there. The elder lady had sat down in a gilt chair, Louis Fourteenth I should say, with a striped rep of the colour of a petunia; and I really don’t know – don’t smile, Smith – what induced me to lead her to it by the finger-tips, bending over her hand for a moment as she sat down. There was an old tambour-frame behind her chair, I remember, and a vast oval mirror with clustered candle-brackets filled the greater part of the farther wall, the brightest and clearest glass I’ve ever seen . . . ’
He paused, looking at my cigarette case, which he had taken into his hand again. He smiled at some recollection or other, and it was a minute or so before he continued.
‘I must admit that I found it a little annoying, after what we’d been talking about at dinner an hour before, that Rangon wasn’t with us. I still couldn’t understand how he could have neighbours so charming without knowing about them, but I didn’t care to insist on this to the old lady, who for all I knew might have her own reasons for keeping to herself. And, after all, it was our place to return Rangon’s hospitality in London if he ever came there, not, so to speak, on his own doorstep . . . So presently I forgot all about Rangon, and I’m pretty sure that Carroll, who was talking to his companion of some Félibrige junketing or other and having the air of Gounod’s Mireille hummed softly over to him, didn’t waste a thought on him either. Soon Carroll – you remember what a pretty crooning, humming voice he had – soon Carroll was murmuring what they call “seconds”, but so low that the sound hardly came across the room; and I came in with a soft bass note from time to time. No instrument, you know; just an unaccompanied murmur no louder than an Aeolian harp; and it sounded infinitely sweet and plaintive and – what shall I say? – weak – attenuated – faint – “pale” you might almost say – in that formal, rather old-fashioned salon, with that great clear oval mirror throwing back the still flames of the candles in the sconces on the walls. Outside the wind had now fallen completely; all was very quiet; and suddenly in a voice not much louder than a sigh, Carroll’s companion was singing Oft in the Stilly Night – you know it . . . ’
He broke off again to murmur the beginning of the air. Then, with a little laugh for which we saw no reason, he went on again.
‘Well, I’m not going to try to convince you of such a special and delicate thing as the charm of that hour – it wasn’t more than an hour – it would be all about an hour we stayed. Things like that just have to be said and left; you destroy them the moment you begin to insist on them; we’ve every one of us had experiences like that, and don’t say much about them. I was as much in love with my old lady as Carroll evidently was with his young one – I can’t tell you why – being in love has just to be taken for granted too, I suppose . . . Marsham understands . . . We smoked our cigarettes, and sang again, once more filling that clear-painted, quiet apartment with a murmuring no louder than if a light breeze found that the bells of a bed of flowers were really bells and played on ’em. The old lady moved her fingers gently on the round table by the side of her chair . . . oh, infinitely pretty it was . . . Then Carroll wandered off into the Qué Cantes – awfully pretty – “It is not for myself I sing, but for my friend who is near me” – and I can’t tell you how like four old friends we were, those two so oddly met ladies and Carroll and myself . . . And so to Oft in the Stilly Night again . . .
‘But for all the sweetness and the glamour of it, we couldn’t stay on indefinitely, and I wondered what time it was, but didn’t ask – anything to do with clocks and watches would have seemed a cold and mechanical sort of thing just then . . . And when presently we both got up neither Carroll nor I asked to be allowed to call again in the morning to thank them for a charming hour . . . And they seemed to feel the same as we did about it. There was no “hoping that we should meet again in London” – neither an au revoir nor a goodbye – just a tacit understanding that that hour should remain isolated, accepted like a good gift without looking the gift-horse in the mouth, single, unattached to any hours before or after – I don’t know whether you see what I mean . . . Give me a match somebody . . .
‘And so we left, with no more than looks exchanged and finger-tips resting between the back of our hands and our lips for a moment. We found our way out by ourselves, down that shallow-stepped staircase with the handsome handrail, and let ourselves out of the double door and grille, closing it softly. We made for the village without speaking a word . . . Heigho! . . . ’
Loder had picked up the cigarette case again, but for all the way his eyes rested on it I doubt whether he really saw it. I’m pretty sure he didn’t; I knew when he did by the glance he shot at me, as much as to say ‘I see you’re wondering where the cigarette case comes in.’ . . . He resumed with another little laugh.
‘Well,’ he continued, ‘we got back to Rangon’s house. I really don’t blame Rangon for the way he took it when we told him, you know – he thought we were pulling his leg, of course, and he wasn’t having any; not he! There were no English ladies in Darbisson, he said . . . We told him as nearly as we could just where the house was – we weren’t very precise, I’m afraid, for the village had been in darkness as we had come through it, and I had to admit that the cypress hed
ge I tried to describe where we’d met our friends was a good deal like other cypress hedges – and, as I say, Rangon wasn’t taking any. I myself was rather annoyed that he should think we were returning his hospitality by trying to get at him, and it wasn’t very easy either to explain in my French and Carroll’s Provençal that we were going to let the thing stand as it was and weren’t going to call on our charming friends again . . . The end of it was that Rangon just laughed and yawned . . .
‘ “I knew it was good, my wine,” he said, “but – ” a shrug said the rest. “Not so good as all that,” he meant . . .
‘Then he gave us our candles, showed us to our rooms, shook hands, and marched off to his own room and the Prévosts.
‘I dreamed of my old lady half the night.
‘After coffee the next morning I put my hand into my pocket for my cigarette case and didn’t find it. I went through all my pockets, and then I asked Carroll if he’d got it.
‘ “No,” he replied . . . “Think you left it behind at that place last night?”
‘ “Yes; did you?” Rangon popped in with a twinkle.
‘I went through all my pockets again. No cigarette case . . .
‘Of course, it was possible that I’d left it behind, and I was annoyed again. I didn’t want to go back, you see . . . But, on the other hand, I didn’t want to lose the case – it was a present – and Rangon’s smile nettled me a good deal, too. It was both a challenge to our truthfulness and a testimonial to that very good wine of his . . .
‘ “Might have done,” I grunted . . . “Well, in that case we’ll go and get it.”
‘ “If one tried the restaurant first – ?” Rangon suggested, smiling again.
‘ “By all means,” said I stuffily, though I remembered having the case after we’d left the restaurant.
‘We were round at the restaurant by half-past nine. The case wasn’t there. I’d known jolly well beforehand it wasn’t, and I saw Rangon’s mouth twitching with amusement.
‘ “So we now seek the abode of these English ladies, hein?” he said.
‘ “Yes,” said I; and we left the restaurant and strode through the village by the way we’d taken the evening before . . .
‘That vigneron’s smile became more and more irritating to me . . . “It is then the next village?” he said presently, as we left the last house and came out into the open plain.
‘We went back . . .
‘I was irritated because we were two to one, you see, and Carroll backed me up. “A double door, with a grille in front of it,” he re-peated for the fiftieth time . . . Rangon merely replied that it wasn’t our good faith he doubted. He didn’t actually use the word “drunk” . . .
‘ “Mais tiens,” he said suddenly, trying to conceal his mirth. “Si c’est possible . . . si c’est possible . . . a double door with a grille? But perhaps that I know it, the domicile of these so elusive ladies . . . Come this way.”
‘He took us back along a plantain-groved street, and suddenly turned up an alley that was little more than two gutters and a crack of sky overhead between two broken-tiled roofs. It was a dilapidated, deserted ruelle, and I was positively angry when Rangon pointed to a blistered old porte-cochère with a half-unhinged railing in front of it.
‘ “Is it that, your house?” he asked.
‘ “No,” says I, and “No,” says Carroll . . . and off we started again . . .
‘But another half-hour brought us back to the same place, and Carroll scratched his head.
‘ “Who lives there, anyway?” he said, glowering at the porte-cochère, chin forward, hands in pockets.
‘ “Nobody,” says Rangon, as much as to say “look at it!” “M’sieu then meditates taking it?” . . .
‘Then I struck in, quite out of temper by this time.
‘ “How much would the rent be?” I asked, as if I really thought of taking the place just to get back at him.
‘He mentioned something ridiculously small in the way of francs.
‘ “One might at least see the place,” says I. “Can the key be got?”
‘He bowed. The key was at the baker’s, not a hundred yards away, he said . . .
‘We got the key. It was the key of the inner wooden door – that grid of rusty iron didn’t need one – it came clean off its single hinge when Carroll touched it. Carroll opened, and we stood for a moment motioning to one another to step in. Then Rangon went in first, and I heard him murmur “Pardon, Mesdames . . . ”
‘Now this is the odd part. We passed into a sort of vestibule or hall, with a burst lead pipe in the middle of a dry tank in the centre of it. There was a broad staircase rising in front of us to the first floor, and double doors just seen in the half-light at the head of the stairs. Old tubs stood against the walls, but the palms and aloes in them were dead – only a cabbage-stalk or two – and the rusty hoops lay on the ground about them. One tub had come to pieces entirely and was no more than a heap of staves on a pile of spilt earth. And everywhere, everywhere was dust – the floor was an inch deep in dust and old plaster that muffled our footsteps, cobwebs hung like old dusters on the walls, a regular goblin’s tatter of cobwebs draped the little bracket inside the door, and the wrought-iron of the hand-rail was closed up with webs in which not even a spider moved. The whole thing was preposterous . . .
‘ “It is possible that for even a less rental – ” Rangon murmured, dragging his forefinger across the hand-rail and leaving an inch-deep furrow . . .
‘ “Come upstairs,” said I suddenly . . .
‘Up we went. All was in the same state there. A clutter of stuff came down as I pushed at the double doors of the salon, and I had to strike a stinking French sulphur match to see into the room at all. Underfoot was like walking on thicknesses of flannel, and except where we put our feet the place was as printless as a snowfield – dust, dust, unbroken grey dust. My match burned down . . .
‘ “Wait a minute – I’ve a bougie,” said Carroll, and struck the wax match . . .
‘There were the old sconces, with never a candle-end in them. There was the large oval mirror, but hardly reflecting Carroll’s match for the dust on it. And the broken chairs were there, all gutless, and the rickety old round table . . .
‘But suddenly I darted forward. Something new and bright on the table twinkled with the light of Carroll’s match. The match went out, and by the time Carroll had lighted another I had stopped. I wanted Rangon to see what was on the table . . .
‘ “You’ll see by my footprints how far from that table I’ve been,” I said. “Will you pick it up?”
‘And Rangon, stepping forward, picked up from the middle of the table – my cigarette case.’
* * *
Loder had finished. Nobody spoke. For quite a minute nobody spoke, and then Loder himself broke the silence, turning to me.
‘Make anything of it?’ he said.
I lifted my eyebrows. ‘Only your vigneron’s explanation – ’ I began, but stopped again, seeing that wouldn’t do.
‘Anybody make anything of it?’ said Loder, turning from one to another.
I gathered from Smith’s face that he thought one thing might be made of it – namely, that Loder had invented the whole tale. But even Smith didn’t speak.
‘Were any English ladies ever found to have lived in the place – murdered, you know – bodies found and all that?’ young Marsham asked diffidently, yearning for an obvious completeness.
‘Not that we could ever learn,’ Loder replied. ‘We made enquiries too . . . So you all give it up? Well, so do I . . . ’
And he rose. As he walked to the door, myself following him to get his hat and stick, I heard him humming softly the lines – they are from Oft in the Stilly Night –
I seem like one who treads alone
Some banquet-hall deserted,
Whose guests are fled, whose garlands dead,
And all but he – departed!
The Rope in the Rafters
1
For the last seven miles of his journey James Hopley’s hopes had sunk lower and ever lower till now, at the gates of the château itself, he heartily wished he had never left the clinic in Paris. The driver of the single-horse voiture had descended from the seat and with the rain beating on his back was struggling with the rusty fastenings. One of the gates had come away from its masonry, and the pair of them were only held together by the lock in the middle and a turn or two of old dog-chain, and even when he had got them apart he had to hold them so while he led the horse through by the bridle. With one of his eyes, for the other was of glass, James Hopley looked through the streaming panes at the desolate and unkempt avenue. Then he groaned. The château itself had come into view. The whole of one end of it was a skeleton of scaffolding. New windows were being broken through, a new chimneystack was being built. The rain beat down on dumps of broken brick and débris and laths torn out of walls, the yew trees dripped on barrows and wheeling-planks and weeds. A Henri Quatre château in the depths of the country! This was the place Blanche and the doctors had said would do him all the good in the world!
For many years past Blanche’s kindnesses to him had been innumerable. She had written to him when nobody else had, had remembered him when the rest of the world had forgotten him. This loan of her château was only the most recent of her benefactions. But there was one thing she would not do. She would keep her memory of him as he had been. Never, never would she see him again. And he sometimes felt that this was her greatest kindness of all.
The Dead of Night Page 60