I remembered the correct turnings to St Gilles, and as I drove down the lime avenue, over the bridge, through the gateway to the drive and under the archway of the moat to the outbuildings that I had only seen from a distance, my confidence was supreme. Nothing could daunt me now. I found myself in a yard containing two garages with doors flung wide, a potting-shed and an empty stable full of broken stalls. As I got out of the car and slammed the door, the old woman I had spoken to in the cow-shed the day before emerged from the entrance, and I heard her call over her shoulder to someone within. She said something about 'Monsieur le Comte', and a man in blue overalls followed her from the stables. They smiled and came towards me, and the man asked whether I wanted him to wash the car. I told him yes, for this was probably routine, and once again the woman pattered a string of incomprehensibilities, and I smiled and nodded, catching a reference to 'beau temps' and 'la chasse', the rest escaping me.
I went back under the archway, and the retriever ran forward in his enclosure, barking. I stood still, calling him softly by name, but, doubtful, he continued barking, his tail wagging uncertainly at the same time, and I went to the gate of his run and waited for him to smell my clothes. He sniffed, puzzled, not satisfied, and I saw the man in overalls watching from the stable-yard.
'What's the matter with Cesar?' he said.
'Nothing,' I answered. 'I must have startled him, that's all.'
'It's funny,' he said. 'He generally goes nearly mad when he sees you. Let's hope he's not turning savage.'
'He's all right,' I said. 'Aren't you, Cesar?'
I reached through the gate and patted the dog's head, who, gradually reconciled to tone and touch, was mute and continued sniffing. But when I moved away he began to growl again.
'If he behaves like that on Sunday he won't be much use to you,' said the man. 'Shall I give him a dose of oil after his food?'
'No,' I said, 'let him alone. He'll soon recover.'
I wondered what was expected of the dog on Sunday. Perhaps if I took him myself for exercise he would come to know me, and the suspicious bark give way to whines of welcome? If not, attention would be drawn to him, his behaviour questioned, the poor animal accused of treachery towards his master, when in reality he had proved himself to be the only instinctive creature in St Gilles.
I went up the steps to the terrace, and as I entered the hall Paul came out of the small cloakroom to the right of the stairs.
'Where the devil have you been all day?' he asked. 'We've been trying to get you since one o'clock. Renee lost all sight of you, had to come back in a hired car, and then, to our astonishment, Marie-Noel turned up alone as we were finishing lunch, announcing quite calmly that she'd had a lift in the lorry. Lebrun waited until two, and then had to go. He's just been through to me again.'
'What's wrong?' I inquired.
'What's wrong?' he repeated. 'Only that Francoise isn't at all well, and Lebrun has forbidden her to move from bed. If she isn't careful she'll have a premature baby and lose it, and more than likely be critically ill herself. That's all that's wrong.'
The contempt in his voice was something I had to accept. The fault was not Jean de Gue's but mine. I had promised to be back in time to see the doctor. I had not kept the promise. I had not even remembered it.
'What's his number?' I asked. 'I'll get on to him at once.'
'No use,' he said. 'He's been called out again. I told him to try you later this evening.'
He turned on his heel and disappeared through the dining-room into the library. He was not going to question me further. For that I was grateful. I knew what I had to do. I went straight upstairs and along the corridor to the bedroom. The curtains were half drawn, the fire had been lit, and there was a screen at the foot of the bed to mask the light. Francoise was lying against her pillows with closed eyes. She opened them as I came into the room.
'Oh, it's you,' she said, 'at last. I'd given you up long ago. I told them you'd probably taken the train back to Paris.'
The voice was flat, expressionless. I went up to the bed and took her hand.
'I should have telephoned,' I said. 'I was held up in Villars, and frankly I forgot. There's no more to it than that. I don't even ask you to forgive me. How are you feeling? Paul tells me Lebrun has ordered you to stay in bed.'
The hand in mine felt limp and cold. She did not take it away.
'If I don't I shall lose the baby,' she said. 'It's what I've been afraid of all along. I've always known something would go wrong.'
'It won't go wrong,' I said, 'not if you take care. The question is, how good is Lebrun? Wouldn't you like me to call in a specialist?'
'No,' she said, 'I don't want a stranger interfering at this point, upsetting me, upsetting Lebrun. I shall be all right as long as I stay quiet and nobody worries me. What with Marie-Noel coming back on the workmen's lorry, and Renee having to hire a car because you disappeared, I've been almost frantic with anxiety. And then, in the middle of the afternoon, I decided that I might as well give up and resign myself to the fact that you wouldn't be coming back - that you'd got rid of them both on purpose and had gone off to Paris.'
The tired eyes searched my face, and I knew that the only answer was to keep as near to the truth as possible.
'I had a long session at the bank,' I said. 'I don't mind telling you, but I don't want the others to know. The fact is, I lied about the contract. I didn't succeed in getting an extension when I was in Paris, and only managed to arrange things by telephone, and through the bank, today. They've agreed to continue the contract, but on their terms. It means the verrerie working at an even greater loss than before, of course, but it can't be helped. Somehow I shall have to find the money.'
She looked bewildered, and I went on standing there holding her hand.
'What was the point of lying?' she asked. 'I don't understand.'
'I suppose it was pride,' I said. 'I wanted everyone to believe I had succeeded. Well, perhaps I have succeeded, for a time. I haven't been into all the figures yet. But I want you to keep this to yourself. I don't intend telling Maman, or Paul, or anyone except you unless things turn out to make it absolutely necessary.'
She smiled for the first time, and, as she half raised herself on her pillow, I saw that she meant me to kiss her. I did so, and let go her hand.
'I won't tell anybody,' she said. 'I'm only too glad that you've taken me into your confidence for once. It's funny, though, that you've bothered so much about the verrerie. The idea of closing down never seemed to worry you as it did Paul and Blanche.'
'No,' I said, 'perhaps not. It began to worry me yesterday, when I went down there in the afternoon.'
She asked me to give her a comb and looking-glass from the dressing-table, and sitting upright against the bunched pillows she combed the lank fair hair away from her face. It was a gesture similar to another I had seen scarcely two hours before and because of the total difference of mood and personality, the one carefree and gay, the other so weary, lifeless, yet if possible more intimate still, I felt myself oddly moved: I wished the balance could be restored, and Francoise likewise vigorous and happy.
'Why didn't you tell me the night you came back?' she said.
'I hadn't decided,' I replied. 'I wasn't sure what I was going to do.'
'Paul's bound to find out,' she said. 'You can't possibly keep it from him. Besides, what does it matter if he does know, since you've fixed the contract? Anyway, all these things will be solved when the boy is born.' She put the mirror back on the table beside the bed. 'Marie-Noel said you were down in the vaults at the bank. Everyone wondered what you were doing. I didn't know you kept anything there.'
'Various securities,' I said, 'deeds, and so on.'
'Is our Marriage Settlement there?'
'Yes.'
'Did you look at it?'
'I did glance through it.'
'If we have another daughter there's nothing to be done, is there?'
'No, apparently not.'
> 'What happens if I die? You get everything, don't you?'
'You're not going to die. Now, shall I close the shutters and draw the curtains and put on your light? Have you anything to read?'
She was silent. She lay back on her pillows. Then she said, 'You might get me the locket you brought me from Paris. I think I'll keep it here beside me, on the table.'
I went to the dressing-table in the alcove, took the small jewel-case I saw there, and gave it to her. She lifted the lid and looked at the locket, snapping the miniature open as she had done before.
'Where was it you bought it?' she asked.
'A place I know in Paris,' I said. 'I can't remember the name.'
'Renee tells me that the woman who keeps the antique shop in Villars does miniatures from time to time,' she said.
'Oh? Perhaps. I don't know.'
'If she does, we might get her to do Marie-Noel some time, and the baby too. It would be cheaper than in Paris.'
'Yes, probably.'
She put the locket, with the miniature open, on the bedside table. 'You'd better go down and make your peace with Renee,' she said. 'I was feeling too ill to cope with her when she arrived back - you know how impossible she can be when she loses her temper.'
'She'll get over it.'
I closed the shutters, and then I put a log on the fire.
'I suppose the child's with Blanche,' she said, 'or upstairs with Maman. I haven't felt well enough to see her. Tell her I didn't mean what I said this morning, that I was ill and wretched.'
'I think she understood that.'
'What did you do with the broken pieces?'
'Never mind. I've seen to them. Is there anything else you want?'
'No. No, I shall just go on lying here quietly.'
I went through the bathroom to the dressing-room and changed my shoes and coat, as I had done the evening before. The bottle of 'Femme' was still standing on the chest. It was no longer impersonal, like something glimpsed in a shop window, but had all the significance of my own intimate life. I put it away in a drawer, and because the drawer had a key something made me turn the key and slip it into my pocket afterwards. I went out into the corridor, and at the foot of the stairs I came face to face with Charlotte.
'Monsieur le cure has just gone,' she said. 'Madame la Comtesse has been asking for you.'
'I'll go to her now,' I said.
Once again she preceded me up the stairs, as on my first evening. And that moment forty-eight hours ago seemed to me, following her a second time, like something in a distant past: the masquerader of that night was as different from the man who now climbed the stairs as he, in his turn, had been from the self waking in the hotel bedroom at Le Mans. It was as though the skin that covered me was like armour. Then my courage had been false; now it was invincible.
'Monsieur le Comte was detained a long time in Villars?' asked Charlotte.
I knew I was right to mistrust her and dislike her, and that every word she spoke was false.
'Yes,' I said.
'Madame Paul had tea with Madame la Comtesse this afternoon,' she continued. 'She was very put out that she had been obliged to hire a car to bring her back, and she told Madame la Comtesse the whole story.'
'There was no story,' I said. 'I was detained, that was all.'
We were now on the upper corridor, and I walked past her and went on to the further passage and the room beyond. I entered, to be greeted with the usual yapping from the dogs, and caring no longer I kicked them out of the way and went at once to the chair by the fire, where the mother was sitting, her massive shoulders draped in a purple shawl. I bent and kissed her, relieved to see that Blanche was not with her and she was sitting there alone.
'Good morning and good evening,' I said. 'I'm sorry I never came to see you this morning. I left early. You've already heard all about it. I'm glad to see you up. Have you had a good day?'
The mocking, questing eyes met mine, and she grunted and pointed to a chair.
'Sit down,' she said, 'there, with the light on your face, so that I can see you. Get out, Charlotte. And no listening at the door. Go down to the kitchen and order two trays for dinner. Go on, hurry up. And take these things away first.' She pushed the missal and prayer books on the table out of the way. The terriers climbed up and settled themselves on her lap, and she remained silent until the servant went out of the room. I lighted a cigarette, feeling her eyes upon me still.
'Well,' she said, 'where were you?'
I guessed that everything Renee and Marie-Noel knew of my morning had already been told: the drive to Villars, the expedition to the market, the visit to the bank, and possibly, through a telephone call to the clerk, the actual moment of my leaving it. The fact that she asked where I had been showed ignorance of the house by the canal. This was something, then, which Jean de Gue withheld from his mother.
'I had business,' I said.
'You left the bank before half past twelve,' she said, 'and it's now half past six.'
'Perhaps I drove to Le Mans,' I said.
'Not in the Renault. It was in the Place de la Republique all afternoon. The man who drove Renee home reported seeing it when he returned to the garage in Villars. I told Renee to telephone and ask him.'
I smiled. The itching curiosity was blatant, like a child's.
'If you want the truth,' I said, 'I was trying to avoid Renee. And I succeeded. That's all I'm going to tell you. You can question me until midnight and you won't be any the wiser.'
She chuckled, and I saw that once again my instinct not to lie proved my salvation. 'I don't blame you,' she said. 'Don't give in to her, or she'll prove insatiable.'
'She hasn't enough to do,' I said. 'None of you women have enough to do.'
'I had plenty to do once,' she said, 'when your father was alive, in the old days, before the war and before you married. There were no women sitting about idle then. Empty-headed fools like Francoise and Renee were children in their teens. I had something to live for. So had Blanche.'
The sudden venom in her voice startled me. I looked up, and the mouth was narrow, hard, like her daughter's, and the eyes that had mocked me a moment ago were veiled under the hooded lids.
'What do you mean?' I asked.
'You know very well what I mean,' she said, and then, as swiftly as it had come, her expression changed again, the mouth sagged, relaxed, and she shrugged her shoulders. 'I'm old and ill, that's my trouble,' she said, 'and it bores me, as it will bore you when your time comes. We're too much alike. We don't want to be bothered with our own ailments or anybody else's. How is Francoise this evening?'
I felt I had been near to some inner core of revelation that, could I perceive it for a moment, would bring understanding of what went on under the folds of flesh, but the new question came from another quarter, the quiet, elaborately casual tone was that of someone without heart or feeling.
'As you know, I missed Lebrun,' I said. 'He's going to telephone me later. She has to stay in bed. She isn't at all well.'
I watched her fingers beating a tattoo on the arm of her chair. It went to a definite rhythm - three and two and three again. Glancing at her, I saw that she was not conscious of this; she did not even know that her fingers moved. The tattoo was keeping pace with a thought not clearly formed, to which she might, or might not, give expression.
'I saw Lebrun myself,' she said. 'He won't tell you any more than he told me. He's a bungler, and he won't admit it. She's going to have trouble with this baby, just as she did with the last - I've known it all along. The only difference is that this time she's succeeded in carrying it longer.'
The tattooing on the chair-arm continued. I watched it, oddly fascinated.
'Francoise doesn't want a specialist,' I said. 'I suggested it just now.'
'You suggested it?' she asked. 'Whatever for?'
'Why surely,' I said, 'if there's going to be difficulty, any sort of trouble ...' Unaccountably, her eyes meeting mine, discomfort seized me. I remembered
the terms of the Marriage Settlement, and that if Francoise died without giving birth to a son the whole vast dowry would be divided between Jean de Gue and Marie-Noel.
The room, already stifling, became suddenly unbearable. I got up, loosening my collar. I felt her eyes upon my back as I went over to the window, but she did not say anything as I stood there, wrestling with the shutters. I threw them back, lifting the sash of one of the windows, and leant out, drawing in a deep breath of air. Dusk had come, and with it mist. The paths were shrouded, the huntress hidden, even the dovecot on the verge of grass below was black and humped into obscurity. Immediately beside me was a gargoyle's head, ears flattened, slits for eyes, the jutting lips forming a spout for rain. The leaded guttering was choked with leaves, and when rain came the whole would turn to mud and pour from the gargoyle's mouth in a turbid stream. How loud the sound of rain would be here, close to the roof, first pattering on the leads, then falling fast, seeping down the walls, swirling in the runways, choking and gurgling above the gargoyle head, driving sideways like arrows to the windows, stinging the panes; and to the owner of this room beneath the roof, lying alone in bed, there would be no other sound, perhaps, for hour after hour through the long winter's night but the falling rain, and the flood of leaves and rubble through the gargoyle's mouth.
I shut the window and looked back into the room. She was watching me still, but her hands no longer beat a tattoo on the chair.
'What's wrong with you?' she said. 'You're nervous, aren't you?'
'No,' I answered. 'I couldn't breathe, that's all. You keep this room too warm.'
'If so, it's partly for your sake,' she said. 'You always say the chateau is too cold. Come over here.'
I went towards her slowly, against my will. Those eyes of hers, so like her son's, so like my own confronted in a mirror, surely had intuition of the masquerade. She reached for my hands and held them.
'Are you developing a conscience at long last?' she asked.
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