The Night Of The Bulls

by Anne Mather

  Dionne smoothed the sleek chignon in the nape of her neck. ‘You intend to go through with – with what you said? You are forcing me to come to the mas!’

  He lay back in his seat indolently, his long slender fingers beating a rhythmic tattoo against the steering wheel. ‘If you want my help – yes.’

  Dionne hunched her shoulders. ‘Very well, then. When?’

  His eyes narrowed to slits. ‘You’ll come?’

  ‘Have I any choice?’ She raised her gaze to his.

  His mouth moved contemptuously. ‘It seems not. You must need this money very badly, Dionne. I cannot believe you are the only person involved. There are deeper reasons for such sacrifice on your behalf.’

  Dionne opened the car door. ‘May I go now?’

  ‘A moment.’ His gaze raked her thoroughly. ‘I will come for you the day after tomorrow. Tomorrow I have to go to Nimes. I regret the delay, but no doubt you can stand it. If it is so important to you!’

  Dionne’s mouth worked emotionally. He could be so blatantly insolent if he chose, and his harsh words tore her to shreds. How could she have believed he found her anything more than physically disturbing? It was obvious from his attitude that he considered her little better than a capricious female, intent only on selfish pursuits.

  She pushed open her door and slid out before he could say anything more, and he leant across to slam the door behind her before putting the big car into gear and driving savagely away. Dionne entered the hotel slowly feeling utterly exhausted. She was absorbed with the desolation of her emotions, wondering with despairing spirits however she was going to get through the next two days until she saw him again …

  In fact the following day was not the barren waste she had expected it to be. No one could remain completely immune from the warmth of spring sunshine, the flowering shrubs, the beds of flowers burgeoning with colour, and Dionne’s spirits lifted somewhat.

  She wrote to Clarry in the morning and then went to post her letter. She mentioned that she had contacted Manoel and that she hoped to have some good news in a few days, but that was all. She could hardly tell Clarry that Manoel knew none of the facts of the case, or that she had no intention of telling him these facts, and if her conscience pricked her a little she silenced it with the knowledge that in his present frame of mind Manoel was totally unfitted to be told the truth. It was quite possible that armed with such irrefutable evidence as Jonathan’s appearance, for example, he would take an intense delight in depriving her of her son … That Jonathan was his son, too, was not relevant.

  But it was, her inner conscience told her. In the circumstances, Manoel had every right to be told the truth!

  It was as well that an unexpected visitor awaited her when she returned to the hotel, or her day might have deteriorated into purgatory. As it was, she was almost relieved to see Henri Martin’s uncomplicated countenance.

  He was seated in the reception area waiting for her, and his face took on an expression of anxiety when he saw her crossing the hall towards the stairs.

  ‘Mademoiselle King!’ His ejaculation startled her and she swung round in surprise.

  ‘Why, Monsieur Martin,’ she exclaimed. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Henri Martin spread his hands in typically continental fashion. ‘I have come to offer myself as your escort for lunch, Mademoiselle King,’ he confessed. ‘I realize I am taking a liberty by coming here, but perhaps you will find it in your heart to forgive me.’

  Dionne sighed. Although her initial impulse had been to reject him something made her hesitate. Maybe it would be a good thing to get out of the hotel. Away from associations that plagued her mind until she had no peace whatsoever. Henri Martin was at least divorced from her personal affairs.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Mr. Martin,’ she said now. ‘I – I’d like to accept, if I may. But you’ll have to give me a few moments to change.’ She indicated her casual slacks and shirt blouse.

  Henri Martin’s face mirrored his delight. He really was a most handsome young man, she thought detachedly. Dressed in an expensively tailored grey lounge suit, his linen white and immaculate, he was quite unique in this part of the world where most of the men wore the casual kind of clothes Manoel St. Salvador had been wearing the night before. But then Manoel suited those kind of clothes, even though on the rare occasions when she had seen him in formal evening attire he had looked quite devastating, and his gypsy darkness, inherited from his grandmother, was further enhanced by the garb of a gardien.

  ‘I shall be delighted to wait as long as you like,’ Henri asserted now, and Dionne exchanged a smile with him before hastening up the stairs to her room.

  When she came down again dressed in a short-skirted dress of apple green linen, she looked absurdly young, and she was glad of the severity of her hairstyle to divert his attention.

  They lunched at a large restaurant in the centre of Arles where Henri was obviously well known, and Dionne paused to wonder what his occupation might be. They ate kidneys skewered on sticks with tomatoes and small whole mushrooms laid on a bed of fresh salad, and although she protested that she was not very hungry she did full justice to the meal. She was young and healthy, after all, and Henri’s company was so undemanding after Manoel’s.

  After lunch, Henri suggested a trip to the upper Rhone valley to see the vineyards, but Dionne demurred. Nimes was in the upper Rhone valley and she had no desire to run into Manoel while she was in Henri’s company. Besides, if she did run into Manoel, he would probably think she was following him, and although the idea might appeal to her in some ways, it was definitely an irresponsible notion.

  Instead, they drove to Les Saintes Maries de la Mer and spent a pleasant couple of hours walking on the beach. Dionne learned quite a lot that afternoon. She learned that Henri’s family owned a large store in Arles with branches in Avignon and Marseilles, and that Henri had been to Paris, studying accountancy and economics to equip him for his eventual role as chairman of the company. In consequence, to a large extent his time was his own, and Dionne thought she ought to feel flattered that he had taken such an intense interest in her. No doubt the fond mamas in Arles considered Henri Martin quite a catch, and like Manoel’s parents would not approve of his associating with a penniless English schoolteacher.

  For herself she made little explanation, allowing Henri to assume she was in Arles purely as a tourist, although she realized as the afternoon wore on that it was extremely likely that Henri knew Manoel and his family. The St. Salvador mas was, after all, a large and prosperous concern, and the vineyards in the Rhone valley might very well produce wine sold in Henri’s father’s stores.

  But for once Dionne refused to consider the consequences of either Manoel learning of her association with Henri, or Henri learning the real reasons behind her visit to Arles. In a detached kind of way she was enjoying herself. It was years since she had allowed herself to relax with a man, but Henri was so charming and kind that she found she could talk to him. They discussed books and paintings, and current trends in the theatre, and she was amazed when he informed her that it was almost five o’clock.

  They drove back to Arles in Henri’s sleek continental sports car and when he drew to a halt outside her hotel, he said eagerly: ‘When may I see you again? This evening?’

  Dionne looped the strap of her handbag round her fingers. ‘No – not tonight, Henri,’ she replied slowly. ‘And not tomorrow either. I – I have plans for tomorrow.’

  Henri’s face lost some of its animation. ‘Then when?’

  Dionne sighed. How could she make arrangements when she didn’t even know how long she was staying?

  ‘Perhaps you could ring?’ she suggested tentatively. ‘Yes, that would be the best thing.’

  Henri hunched his shoulders. ‘Oh, very well, if you think that’s best. But you will come to the phone, won’t you?’

  Dionne’s lips parted. ‘Of course. I – I’ve enjoyed myself tremendously this afternoon. Please don’t th
ink I’m making excuses. I’m not.’

  Henri relaxed somewhat. ‘All right. All right. I will ring. The day after tomorrow, oui?’

  Dionne nodded, and then slid out of the car as his hand strayed along the back of her seat and touched the hair at her nape. ‘Good-bye,’ she said quickly.

  Henri’s lips twisted. ‘Au revoir, Dionne.’ He raised a hand, and the sports car purred smoothly away.

  In her room, Dionne threw down her handbag carelessly and stretched. She had not been lying. She had enjoyed herself in a purely superficial way. Henri aroused no disturbing elements inside her, and she could be natural with him. She realized, of course, that he was attracted to her, but she was used to the casual admiration of the opposite sex and she saw his involvement as nothing more than a natural reaction to her femininity. She was quite unaware that she possessed something more than mere good looks to enthrall a man’s interest.

  Stripping off her clothes, she had a cooling shower and then put on a silk bathrobe and lay down on her bed. She felt tired, but that was not surprising in the circumstances. She had not slept well since her arrival at the hotel, her mind too active to relax completely. But the sea air that afternoon had made her eyes sleepy and she closed them reluctantly, allowing inertia to creep over her.

  She slept, and when she woke it was dark outside. She felt chilled to the bone and slid off the bed in search of her watch. She found it on the dressing table where she had left it when she went for the shower. She was horrified to discover it was almost midnight, and she shook her head disbelievingly. She had slept for almost six hours!

  Opening her bedroom door quietly, she listened for a moment. There was no sound from downstairs and, shrugging, she closed the door again. She might just as well go to bed. There was obviously no point in dressing now.

  But once she was between the sheets she felt wide awake. Moonlight shone through her windows, flooding the room with light, while from a distance came the hypnotic sound of a guitar strumming the kind of plaintive melody that moved the senses.

  She slid out of bed with a heavy sigh and padded to the window, looking down on the shadowed square. The plane trees moved their leaves in a faint breeze, moonlight turning their trunks to a ghostly greyness.

  A large car was parked in the square, a dusty grey station wagon, partially concealed by the trees. And even as Dionne watched a man detached himself from the shadow of the trees, a tall dark man, his hair silvered by the pale light. He was dressed in dark clothes, the clothes of a gardien, his waistcoat unfastened, the sleeves of his dark shirt turned back to his forearms. He looked up suddenly, his eyes searching the darkened windows of the hotel, and Dionne drew back tremblingly to rest against the wall, a hand pressed to her throat. It was Manoel! Manoel here, outside the hotel, walking up and down with unnerving persistence.

  She dared to take another look. He was leaning against the bonnet of the station wagon now, lighting a cheroot, the match illuminating momentarily the harsh planes of his face. Then he left the cheroot in his mouth and rested his hands on the dusty surface of the vehicle, his shoulders hunched in an attitude of absolute defeat.

  Dionne caught her breath, a tightness in her throat. Why was he here at this time of night? What had possessed him to drive all this way just to park outside the hotel? What terrible motives had driven him from his bed to this lonely square?

  She pressed her arms about herself feeling a sickness, a nausea that had nothing to do with hunger, at least not hunger of a physical kind. Why had she fallen asleep earlier? Why couldn’t she have gone to bed at the normal time and thus avoided seeing something she should not have seen?

  She turned back to the window and then blinked rapidly. The station wagon had gone. The square was deserted. She had been so absorbed with her own misery she had not even heard the engine …

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE next morning Dionne was awake very early, and took coffee in the restaurant long before any of her fellow guests were up. But she was nervous and distrait, and remaining in bed had been impossible to contemplate. She had dressed in a plain blue cotton dress which had seen better days, and which would not look out of place at the mas. She had no wish for Madame St. Salvador or Yvonne to think she was trying to draw attention to herself and was completely unaware that she could wear almost anything with elegance.

  But time went by and Manoel did not appear and Dionne began to get agitated. She had thought he would come early, but as the clock crept round to half past ten she began to wonder whether he was coming at all. Her heart pounded and she paced the reception hall restlessly, wishing he would appear. Was he making her wait deliberately in the hope of gaining some kind of an advantage? she thought uncharitably, and then walked to the door once more and looked out on the square.

  Monsieur Lyons, the hotel manager, appeared. ‘Is something wrong, mademoiselle?’ he inquired with his usual solicitude for his guests.

  Dionne made a deprecatory gesture. ‘No – no, nothing’s wrong, Monsieur Lyons. I’m waiting for someone, that’s all.’

  ‘Ah!’ The manager looked confidential. ‘A young man, perhaps.’ He smiled. ‘Would you like some coffee, mademoiselle? I can easily ask Maurice to prepare some.’

  Dionne hesitated. ‘Would you? Oh, that would be wonderful!’ She was enthusiastic. She needed something to calm her nerves.

  ‘Mais certainement, mademoiselle,’ Monsieur Lyons beamed. ‘I will arrange it at once.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Dionne smiled, and the manager hastened away.

  A few minutes later he was back with the tray and he indicated that Dionne should go into the lounge. She did so and he placed the tray on the low table in front of her.

  ‘Voilà, mademoiselle!’ He looked suitably pleased with himself.

  Dionne thanked him and the manager departed about his business. She poured herself some coffee and was just about to drink it when she became aware that someone was standing indolently in the doorway watching her.

  She looked up jerkily, straight into Manoel’s grey eyes, and her heart skipped a beat as her cup clattered back into its saucer.

  ‘So?’ he said, advancing into the room. ‘Are you ready?’

  Dionne took a deep breath. ‘Do you realize it’s nearly eleven o’clock?’

  Manoel shrugged. ‘What of it?’

  Dionne seethed, anger momentarily banishing all other emotions. ‘I’ve been waiting for you since nine o’clock!’ she said fiercely. ‘I though you intended taking me to the mas this morning.’

  ‘So I do.’ He was infuriatingly indifferent.

  ‘But it’s – it’s almost lunchtime!’

  ‘So? We will have lunch at my home.’

  ‘Oh, Manoel!’ Her lips trembled and she had to bite them hard. ‘Don’t make me do this!’

  Manoel’s expression hardened. ‘I would suggest you go and change, mademoiselle,’ he remarked, ignoring her appeal. ‘A dress is not suitable attire for what I have in mind. Put on some trousers!’

  Dionne rose obediently to her feet, noticing inconsequently how attractive he looked. In grey suede trousers that fitted the taut muscles of his thighs like a second skin, a grey suede waistcoat embroidered with black thread, and a red silk shirt, he looked every inch the French nobleman. There was hauteur in the line of his strongly shaped head and arrogance in his clipped tones. Henri, in his elegantly pressed suits, could never command such presence, and Dionne found her antagonism melting beneath the compelling forcefulness of his personality.

  Without another word she left the lounge, running up the stairs to her room swiftly. Tearing off the blue dress, she stepped into close-fitting cream pants and a blouse of purple Tricel jersey. She left the top two buttons unfastened, checked that her hair was secure in its chignon and ran downstairs again.

  Manoel was in the process of helping himself to his second cup of coffee while Monsieur Lyons, the hotel manager, was talking deferentially to him. Dionne controlled her indignation. Manoel had a nerve, sitting
there drinking her coffee, while he ordered her to go and get changed.

  When she entered the lounge the plump little manager turned to her politely. ‘Monsieur St. Salvador tells me you are to go to his manade today, mademoiselle. It will be a thrilling experience, I am sure.’

  ‘Yes.’ Dionne sounded less than confident.

  Manoel had risen to his feet at her entrance and was watching her with lazily intent eyes. Then he finished his coffee, dropped the cup back into its saucer and walked towards her. ‘Much better,’ he remarked approvingly, and Dionne felt a hot flush stain her cheeks. Manoel bid good-bye to the manager and they walked outside.

  The sun was hot on their shoulders. It was a beautiful day, and in other circumstances the prospect of a day out would have appealed to Dionne tremendously. As it was she was taut and strung up, unable to relax.

  Two horses were secured to the railings of the hotel and there was no sign of the station wagon. Dionne turned questioningly to Manoel and he inclined his head slowly.

  ‘You are disappointed?’ he inquired indolently. ‘You thought perhaps to ride in the station wagon?’

  ‘You know I did,’ exclaimed Dionne crossly. ‘It’s years since I’ve ridden a horse!’

  ‘Three years, to be exact,’ remarked Manoel deliberately, and she looked away.

  The two horses were not alike. One was a white Camarguais mare, small and squat, revealing its placid nature. The other was also a mare, but black and fiery, exactly the kind of mount Dionne would have expected Manoel to ride. Three years ago he had had a black stallion, and as though in answer to her unspoken question he said:

  ‘This is Consuelo. Caspar was her sire.’

  Dionne made no comment, and Manoel unfastened the white mare’s reins.

  ‘This is Melodie,’ he said, patting the horse’s nose before offering his hand to enable her to mount.

  But Dionne wanted no contact with him, and grasping the pommel she levered herself unaided into the broad saddle. Manoel viewed her for a moment, as though assessing her ability, and then with a characteristic shrug of his shoulders he mounted the black mare, controlling it expertly.