The Night Of The Bulls

by Anne Mather

  He was mounted now, and waiting impatiently for her, and she pulled herself together and walked across to her horse. It was not so easy to climb into Melodie’s saddle now. The hard ride and their subsequent rest had served to stiffen her muscles and she had the greatest difficulty in swinging her leg over the animal. She scrambled into her seat with undignified clumsiness, and hunched her shoulders tiredly.

  Manoel swung Consuelo’s reins and the huge mare stepped delicately over to her. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, his eyes less interrogative than before, an expression of genuine concern on his face.

  Dionne looked up with resignation. ‘Of course,’ she countered. ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

  Manoel’s lips twisted. ‘Stop fighting me, Dionne,’ he advised her quietly. ‘At least try and behave like a civilized human being at the mas!’

  Dionne stared at him angrily. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Manoel’s gaze flickered over her. ‘My mother and Yvonne will be watching us – watching our reactions to one another. I don’t intend to give them food for speculation!’

  Dionne’s mouth felt dry. ‘Then perhaps you shouldn’t have brought me here!’ she retorted.

  Manoel’s eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t try to fight me at my own game,’ he said contemptuously. ‘Just remember what I have said!’

  With a movement of his wrist, the black mare moved away and Dionne had, perforce, to follow him.

  The land was less marshy now. They were nearing the mas. In the far distance Dionne could see the surrounding protective belt of trees and in front of these, corrals and outbuildings. They saw a herd of cattle, mostly young bulls, being driven to another grazing area by a group of gardiens who raised their hats politely when they saw le patron and considered Dionne with undisguised interest. She shivered when several of the bulls sheered away from the group towards them, but Manoel gestured her to stay where she was and he rode out to meet them, swinging them back into the herd. He was an expert horseman, but Dionne’s heart was in her mouth as the heavy beasts lowered their horns menacingly before submitting to authority. When Manoel rode back to her a few minutes later Dionne avoided his eyes. She had no wish for him to see how terrified she had been. It was simply another example of the agony she was bound to suffer when she left the Camargue again, and not even Jonathan could entirely console her for that.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE Mas St. Salvador was approached between corrals and a small, rough arena where Dionne had once watched Manoel perform with his bulls. Plane trees spread their wide leaves beside the track, providing avenues of shade from the heat of the afternoon sun, while nearer the house there were tamarisks and cypresses. Because of the fertility of the soil around the mas Madame St. Salvador had been able to cultivate a small garden near the house where she grew vegetables and plants. She was a keen gardener, that much Dionne remembered, although her recollections of Manoel’s mother were always tinged with bitterness.

  There seemed to be no one about when they dismounted in the yard before the building and Dionne looked about her with interest. The mas was typical of buildings in the Camargue, one-storied and squat, but it was larger than most, its rambling width having been added to over the years. The windows were tall and narrow, shutters bolted back against the walls now, but in winter, when the mistral blew down the valley, they were warmly and securely fastened.

  Dionne glanced at Manoel, who had led the horses across to a water trough at the far side of the yard and was now returning to her with long lazy strides. He stopped beside her, looking down at her piercingly.

  ‘Well?’ he said. ‘Is it as you remembered?’

  Dionne nodded, scarcely trusting herself to speak, and Manoel put a hand beneath her elbow and guided her up the shallow step into the narrow passage that ran from front to back of the mas. The touch of his flesh against hers was too much at this time, and she moved quickly, freeing herself, so that an ironic gleam appeared in his grey eyes.

  It took a few moments to accustom her eyes to the darkness of the passage after the sunshine outside, and it struck her as chill. Then Manoel was opening a door to his left and propelling her, not very gently, into the huge kitchen. Despite the heat of the day, a fire burned in the wide grate, and Dionne’s eyes were drawn to it first. Then she realized there was someone else in the room. A woman, in her late fifties, was in the process of boning a ham, helped by a young girl, little more than fifteen years old. Dionne recognized Madame St. Salvador at once, although she, like Manoel, looked much older than she remembered.

  The older woman’s eyes darted compulsively to Dionne as Manoel urged her into the room, and she said, with forceful impatience: ‘So you’ve brought her, then?’

  She spoke in English and Dionne suspected that this was because she wanted the girl to understand every word that was said between her and her son.

  Manoel made an indifferent gesture. ‘So it would appear,’ he observed dryly.

  Madame St. Salvador wiped her hands on a damp cloth and spoke to the young girl who had been assisting her, dismissing her abruptly. Then she approached Dionne, her eyes wary.

  ‘Why have you come here?’ she demanded, shocking Dionne by the suddenness of her attack, and Manoel put out a deterring hand.

  ‘You know why she is here, Maman,’ he asserted firmly.

  His mother gave him a scornful glance. ‘Oh, oui, I know why she is here, at the mas! But I want to know why she has come back to the Camargue! I want to know why she thinks that just because she was your mistress, she has any right—’

  ‘Sois silencieuse!’ Manoel uttered the words harshly and yet distinctly, and his mother lapsed into glowering resentment. ‘Maintenant, where is Yvonne?’ He glanced round. ‘Is she resting?’

  His mother looked as though she was not going to answer him and then the look in Manoel’s eyes changed her mind. ‘Of course she is resting,’ she muttered mutinously. ‘You know she always rests after lunch. You are later than we expected, as I am sure you know.’

  Manoel moved negligently towards the door. ‘Then we will go and see Gemma,’ he said, his eyes flickering to Dionne’s pale face.

  Madame St. Salvador shrugged her bony shoulders. She had always been a thin woman, and with greying hair accentuating the gauntness of her features she looked almost emaciated. ‘As you wish.’

  Dionne swallowed with difficulty. Manoel’s mother had not changed one bit. She still hated her as much today as she had ever done. But it was hard to take, particularly as her nerves were already taut and every minute spent in this house made her feel worse. She looked at Manoel, searching for some sign of his feelings in his face, but apart from a muscle jerking just above his jawline he seemed completely unmoved by the tensions in the room.

  ‘Come!’ He addressed himself to Dionne now and she moved rather jerkily towards the door, glad to escape from Madame St. Salvador’s presence.

  Outside, in the narrow passage, Manoel moved towards another door further along, but Dionne caught his sleeve impulsively. ‘Please, Manoel,’ she pleaded, ‘please don’t make me go on!’

  Manoel hesitated. ‘Why? What did you expect from Maman? Her good wishes? A welcome, perhaps?’

  Dionne bent her head. ‘No! Never that!’ She looked up. ‘Can’t you see she hates me? Everyone here hates me!’

  Manoel did not dispute her tremulous statement even though she thought he might. Surely if he hated her so he would have refused to give her the money. Unless he considered it was worth the sacrifice in order to make her suffer these agonies of humiliation.

  Turning away from her, he tapped lightly at the door, and a frail voice called: ‘Entrez!’

  Manoel opened the door and stepped into the aperture, his face taking on an entirely different expression. Dionne heard a familiar, yet weakened, voice say: ‘Ah, Manoel, c’est toi! Tu as apporté Dionne?’

  Manoel nodded, bending his head to pass under the low beamed doorway. ‘Elle est là. Voyons, Dionne.’

  Dionne
moved reluctantly through the doorway and into the shadowy room. It was a large room, with panelled wooden walls hung with impressionist paintings of the Camargue, done by Demetre, the gypsy artist Gemma had helped so much. Rugs adorned the polished wood floor and the furniture was large and cumbersome, most of it very old. An enormous fourposter took up a great deal of the space that was left and propped up on a mound of pillows in the centre of this great bed was a small dark-haired old lady with eyes still as bright and inquisitive as Dionne remembered. This was Gemma, Manoel’s grandmother of the gypsy blood, from whom he had inherited so many facets of his character, as well as the raven’s wing darkness of his hair and the penetrating brilliance of his eyes. Of all the St. Salvadors Dionne realized that Gemma had changed the least, and she wondered how she had been persuaded to leave her caravan and return once more to the mas which she despised.

  Dionne hovered in the doorway and the bright bird’s eyes turned irritably in her direction. Then Gemma indicated that she should come to the bed and Dionne moved towards her nervously.

  ‘Hello, Gemma,’ she said unsteadily. ‘How are you?’

  For several minutes the old woman just stared at her and Dionne moved uncomfortably beneath that intent appraisal. And then Gemma turned to her grandson, nodding her head with some satisfaction.

  ‘Bien,’ she said. ‘I am obliged to you, Manoel. You may leave us for a while.’

  ‘Oh, but—’ began Dionne, only to be silenced by a look from Manoel’s grey eyes, and with lithe grace he crossed the room to the door and went out with a casual salute of farewell to his grandmother.

  Dionne watched the heavy door close behind him and pressed the nails of one hand into the palm of the other. Then she looked back at the bed and at the indomitable little woman who sat in its centre so regally. Gemma had once told her that she had the blood of royalty in her veins and looking at her now Dionne wondered how anyone could doubt it.

  Gemma regarded her impatiently, and then said: ‘Find somewhere to sit. Here – on the bed – beside me. Now …’ she flicked a finger towards Dionne’s pale cheeks. ‘So you have come back to us.’

  Dionne lifted her shoulders imperceptibly. ‘For a short while,’ she conceded.

  ‘To see Manoel?’

  ‘Yes.’ Dionne did not look up, concentrating on the leaf motif that formed a pattern on the quilt.

  ‘Why?’ Gemma was like Manoel; sharp and to the point; like his mother had been, only Madame St. Salvador had been different somehow.

  ‘I need some money.’ Dionne answered her truthfully. There was no point in prevaricating with Gemma. Sooner or later she would get the truth out of her, and Dionne was only afraid she might not have the strength to withstand other, more personal, questions.

  ‘I see.’ Gemma lay back on her pillows, her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. ‘And why come to Manoel? After what happened, I should have thought he would be the last person you would turn to.’

  Dionne heaved a sigh. ‘There was no one else to ask.’

  ‘And you think asking Manoel is fair?’

  Dionne shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Why do you need money? Are you in trouble?’

  ‘No, not trouble exactly.’ Dionne looked up into her gnarled old face helplessly. ‘Look, Gemma, this is between Manoel and me – no one else. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it has to be. If he thinks that by bringing me here – to you – he can—’

  Gemma interrupted her hotly, her dark eyes flashing fire. ‘I demanded that you be brought to me,’ she stated arrogantly. ‘When Louise told me you were in Arles—’

  ‘Louise told you?’

  ‘Of course. You don’t imagine Manoel …’ Gemma made an impatient gesture. ‘No, Louise was responsible. Surely you know Manoel better than that, Dionne. You should!’

  Dionne’s cheeks burned hotly. She got up from the bed abruptly and walked jerkily across the room to the narrow window. ‘You – you haven’t told me why you’re living at the mas. Why you’ve abandoned the caravan!’

  Gemma watched her for a few minutes and then uttered an expletive. ‘I had a fall – several months ago. These doctors — they are so afraid of death themselves that they insist on protecting everyone from its relief! They insisted I be brought to the mas and kept under observation!’ She clenched her small fists. ‘Had it not been for Manoel I would never have permitted it. As it was …’ She spread her palms. ‘So I am here – with her!’ She pointed unmistakably towards the kitchen where her daughter-in-law, Manoel’s mother, was working.

  ‘I see.’ Dionne turned back to lean against the window frame. ‘You ought to be company for one another now that – now that Manoel’s father is dead.’

  ‘Albert?’ Gemma twisted her lips, looking remarkably like her grandson for a moment. ‘You know Albert and I never had anything in common. How could I have anything in common with his widow? That tightlipped, cold female who only did one good thing in the whole of her life!’

  ‘Which was?’ inquired Dionne curiously.

  ‘She bore Manoel!’ Gemma gripped the coverlet tightly. ‘Manoel! The son I should have had. The real fruit of my loins! Oh, yes, I would do much for Manoel!’

  Dionne’s colour deepened and she bent her head awkwardly. Only Gemma could talk like this without sounding theatrical. As it was Dionne found her throat aching with the suppression of emotion, and she moved across to the dressing-table to finger a brush whose handle was made of mother-of-pearl.

  ‘Louise told me about Yvonne,’ murmured Dionne, her back to the bed so that Gemma could not see her expression.

  ‘Did she?’ Gemma sounded disinterested.

  ‘Yes.’ Dionne turned to lean against the dressing-table. ‘It must have been – terrible!’

  Gemma sniffed indifferently. ‘For Yvonne, yes,’ she conceded ungracefully.

  Dionne shook her head. ‘But she was always so active! So full of energy! It must have been a ghastly blow!’

  ‘I imagine it was.’ Gemma lay back on her pillows wearily.

  ‘But how did it happen?’ Dionne persisted. ‘Louise said she was tormenting the bulls – because — because she and Manoel had had a row—’

  Gemma closed her eyes. ‘I believe that was how it happened,’ she said tiredly.

  ‘But – but why would she do such a thing? Surely no argument with Manoel—’

  Gemma held up a hand, her eyes still closed. ‘I’m very tired suddenly,’ she said. ‘Please to go.’

  Dionne sighed and put the hairbrush down on the dressing-table and walked towards the door. But as she reached out a hand to the handle Gemma opened her eyes again and Dionne could have sworn she wasn’t tired at all, but pretending.

  ‘I want to see you again,’ she said sharply. ‘When will you come?’

  Dionne gasped. ‘But – but I have to go back to England!’

  ‘Why? What is so urgent there? A man?’

  ‘No!’ Dionne tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘No, but I do have a job—’

  ‘Nonsense! You’re just making excuses! Manoel will arrange it. Send him to me before you go.’

  Dionne shook her head helplessly and then as Gemma’s eyes closed again she went out through the door, closing it quietly behind her.

  In the passage she hesitated, and then she heard voices coming from the kitchen and knew she had to go there to find Manoel. Reluctantly she opened the door and entered the room.

  Despite the fact that Manoel and his mother were there, it was to the occupant of the wheelchair which stood in the middle of the tiled floor that Dionne’s eyes were drawn. The girl who sat so proudly in the wheelchair was Yvonne Demaris, the girl Manoel’s mother had so desperately wanted him to marry.

  Yvonne, surprisingly, had not changed a lot in spite of the accident. She had always been a good-looking girl, with a mane of golden-brown hair that was presently caught up in a ponytail. Her features had always been narrow, her face long, her eyes an indeterminate shade of blue-grey. But there was hos
tility in her eyes now, just as there had been in Madame St. Salvador’s, and the fingers plucking nervously at the rug which covered her knees betrayed her inner excitement.

  Dionne marvelled at the strength of character of Gemma. Obviously neither of these two women had wanted her here, but their opinions had been overruled by that autocratic old woman whose word had always stood for much more than anyone else’s, except perhaps Manoel’s.

  For a few agonizing seconds no one spoke, and then Manoel broke the enforced silence. ‘You have been dismissed from the presence?’ he inquired mockingly.

  Dionne nodded. ‘I suppose you could put it like that.’ She bit her lip and looked at the other girl. ‘Hello, Yvonne. I – I was sorry to hear of your accident. But you’re looking well.’

  Yvonne raised her dark eybrows and glanced briefly at Manoel’s mother. ‘Why should you feel sorry, mademoiselle?’ she asked coldly. ‘I am quite sure the news of my disablement delighted you!’

  Dionne flushed. ‘You’re quite wrong. Anyone would feel distressed to hear of such a thing!’ And then with spirit, she added: ‘However, I’m glad to see it hasn’t blunted the sharpness of your tongue, Yvonne!’

  Yvonne’s lips parted indignantly. ‘How dare you? Coming here, talking to me like that, you—’

  ‘Pour l’amour de Dieu!’ Manoel raised his eyes heavenward. ‘Enough of this petty bickering! I will not have it!’ He looked at Dionne. ‘Sit down! My mother has made coffee. We will have some before we leave, oui?’

  Dionne did not see that she had much choice in the matter and she moved obediently to sit on the wooden settle by the fire. Despite the warmth of the day outside the kitchen was quite cold and she was glad of that cheerful blaze. Madame St. Salvador moved reluctantly to the stove, taking out cups and saucers and placing them deliberately noisily on to a tray. Yvonne caught Manoel’s arm, speaking to him swiftly in their own language, using a patois which Dionne could not hope to understand and therefore excluding her from their conversation. Manoel listened intently to what she was saying, his hands thrust casually into the waistband at the back of his trousers, his head bent towards the girl.