The Scapegoat

by Daphne Du Maurier

They say the touch of hands reveals the self. A child puts his into an adult's, and knows instinctively whether to trust or to dislike. Two nights ago these hands had clutched and pleaded, panic-stricken, lost, and now this evening they were stronger than mine; the grip was firm, the pressure ruthless. Her hands neither gave confidence nor sapped it: they turned the assurance I had to a different plane. The faith she had in her son was so intense that even if she did not know his secrets, or share more than a small part of his life, it was as though he remained within her, bound and sightless as he had been before birth, and she would never loose him.

  'Don't let's become sentimental,' she said, 'and trouble ourselves over what fate sends us. It's too late, for you and for me. Life isn't a short affair, as everybody likes to make out; it's long, much too long. We are neither of us going to die for years. For God's sake let us both be comfortable, if we can.'

  A discreet tap at the door revealed Charlotte with the tray, followed by Germaine with a second, and once again there was the ritual of the meal, now familiar to me. The first evening the comtesse had barely tasted food, but tonight she sopped up her soup with soft pieces of bread, mushing it to a broth, her eyes intent, her chin nearly touching her plate. I thought of the ham and cheese and fruit in the house in Villars, and my companion there, and I wondered what Bela's life was in the evening; whether she went out and dined with friends, whether she sat alone, how it would seem there with the shutters closed. The mother turned to me, forking a piece of steak from her mouth to one of the dogs, and said, 'Why are you so silent? What are you thinking about?'

  'A woman,' I said. 'Nobody you know.'

  'Does she suit you?'

  'Yes.'

  'That's all that matters. Your father kept a mistress for a time in Le Mans,' she said. 'I saw her once, red-haired, a perfect beauty. He used to go and see her every Friday. It made him better tempered at week-ends. Then she married a rich butcher and went off to live in Tours. I was sorry when she went; she did him good.'

  Charlotte brought us creme caramel in little pots. The dogs waited expectantly, paws lifted.

  'So you let Marie-Noel drive back from Villars with Julie and her grandson,' she continued, switching her train of thought. 'She came to me full of it, said she preferred it to the Renault. Who drove, I asked? One of the workmen, she said, the young one with curly hair. She said she liked his smell. Tell that to your aunt Blanche, I said. See what she has to say.'

  So Madame Yves was Julie. I was relieved. In the return to find Francoise ill in bed I had forgotten the child and the lorry.

  'All children like driving in lorries,' I said. 'I probably did the same myself.'

  'You?' She laughed. 'Better forget what you got up to at her age. Have you forgotten little Cecile who came to tea? You took her inside the dovecot and locked the door. Her mother never brought her again. Poor Cecile ... Watch Marie-Noel, she's growing fast.'

  'It's not very amusing,' I said, 'being an only child.'

  'Nonsense, she loves it. She doesn't want other children. She likes them older. I know, I was the same at her age. I fell in love with all my grown-up cousins. Marie-Noel hasn't any cousins. She'll fall in love with the workmen at the verrerie instead.'

  There was a knock on the door. 'Who is it?' she called. 'Come in. I hate people who knock on doors.'

  Germaine stood in the doorway. 'Dr Lebrun on the telephone for Monsieur le Comte,' she said.

  'Thank you,' I got up, laying down my napkin on the tray.

  'Better say good night to me now. I shall be tired directly. Tell the old fool not to panic. All Francoise has to do is to keep her feet up, and she may produce a boy. Kiss me, then.' The hands gripped me once again, the eyes held mine. 'None of this nonsense about specialists. They cost too much,' she said.

  I went out of the room, down the stairs, and to the telephone in the cloakroom. Marie-Noel, in her dressing-gown, was waiting by the instrument. She looked at me anxiously, her face pale.

  'Can I listen in aunt Blanche's room?' she asked.

  'Certainly not,' I said. 'Dr Lebrun wants to speak to me.'

  'Will you tell me what he says afterwards?'

  'I don't know.'

  I pushed her out of the way, went into the cloakroom and shut the door. I said 'Hullo?' and the voice of the doctor answered, high-pitched, elderly, running on and on in a flurry of words.

  'Good evening, Monsieur le Comte, it was so unfortunate that we missed one another this morning. I was in Villars this afternoon and could have seen you there, even, had I known where to find you. Now I found Madame la Comtesse Jean in a highly nervous state, very apprehensive about herself, and certainly any agitation at this stage might easily bring things on before the natural term, and taking into consideration the difficulties she has had before, the anaemia and so on, she might have considerable trouble. In fact, it is essential that she should have complete rest during the next few days; this moment during the seventh month can be critical, you understand. I am not alarming you in any way?'

  He paused two seconds to draw breath, and I asked him whether he would like a consultation with a specialist.

  'Not at present,' he said. 'If your wife rests and has no further symptoms of malaise, above all no sign of haemorrhage, then all should be well. For the event itself I would suggest that she goes to the clinic at Le Mans, but that can be discussed in a few weeks. At any rate, I shall be in touch with you constantly, and will give you another ring tomorrow. By the way, you are expecting me on Sunday, I suppose?'

  Perhaps it was his custom to take lunch at the chateau on Sunday, or pay, not a visit of inspection to his patients, but a ceremonial call.

  'Of course,' I said. 'We shall be delighted to see you.'

  'Luckily your bedroom faces the front. Your wife will not be disturbed. Very well then, we shall meet on Sunday.'

  'Au revoir, doctor.'

  I hung up the receiver. Your wife will not be disturbed ... Was Sunday lunch so convivial that the sound of merriment echoed through the salon and rang to the rafters of the chateau? It was unlikely, and I wondered what he meant. I went out of the cloakroom, and Marie-Noel was still there.

  'Well?' she asked quickly. 'What did he say?'

  'He said Maman was to stay in bed.'

  'Is the baby ready to come?'

  'No.'

  'Then why was everybody saying that it was, and if it did come it would be born dead?'

  'Who said so?'

  'Germaine, Charlotte, everybody. I heard them talking in the kitchen.'

  'People who listen at doors always hear lies.'

  I could hear Paul talking to Renee in the dining-room. They had not yet finished dinner. I went into the salon, the child following me.

  'Papa,' she said, and she was whispering now, 'is Maman ill because I broke the porcelain and made her unhappy?'

  'No,' I said, 'it's got nothing to do with it.'

  I sat down on the arm of the chair and pulled her to me.

  'What's the matter with you?' I asked. 'Why are you so nervous?'

  Her eyes flickered away from me, looked at everything in the room but me.

  'I don't see why you want it,' she said at last. 'I don't see why you want to have this baby. Maman thinks it is a nuisance. She told aunt Renee a long time ago that she wished she didn't have to have it.'

  Her question, so full of anxiety, was surely logical. Why was her mother obliged to have a child she did not want? I wished she could have asked the reason of Jean de Gue. I made a sorry substitute. In the circumstances it seemed easiest to tell the truth as I saw it myself.

  'It's peculiar,' I said, 'and rather cold-blooded, really. Your grandfather Bruyere had a lot of money. He tied it up in such a way that your father and mother can't use any of it unless they have a son. So, even though they are perfectly content with their one daughter, it would make things much easier financially if they could have a son.'

  The instant look of relief upon her face was as though she had been given a bl
essed antidote to physical pain.

  'Oh,' she said, 'is that all? Just for money?'

  'Yes,' I said. 'Mercenary, isn't it?'

  'Not at all,' she said. 'I think it's very sensible. Does it mean the more boys you have, the more money you and Maman get for yourselves?'

  'Hardly,' I said. 'It just works for one.'

  In an excess of emotional release she slipped off my knee and turned a somersault from the sofa on to the floor, dressing-gown and nightgown flying over her head, revealing her small round behind. Shouting with laughter, her head hidden in the bunch of clothes, her quarters bare, she walked backwards to the screen as Blanche and Renee and Paul came into the room.

  Blanche stood still, her eyes fastening on to the naked, capering animal into which the child had turned.

  'What do you think you're doing?' she said swiftly. 'Pull down your dressing-gown at once.'

  Marie-Noel turned, shook herself free, the dressing-gown falling about her, and, perceiving her adult audience, stood and smiled.

  'It's all right, aunt Blanche,' she said. 'Papa and Maman only do it for money, not because they want children. And that's why everyone in the world tries for boys - it's good for finance.' She ran towards me and caught my hand, turning me round to face the relatives with a happy, proprietary air. 'You know, Papa,' she said, 'aunt Blanche told me that after you were born, when she was a little girl, everyone stopped loving her, nobody took any notice of her any more, and it was one of the lessons in humility that turned her to God. But when my little brother arrives everything will go on just the same. You will love me as much as ever, and perhaps the Sainte Vierge will teach me a different lesson in humility, not the one she taught aunt Blanche.'

  It must have struck her that the frozen faces of her aunts and uncle did not reflect her own satisfaction. She glanced at me uncertainly, then back again to the sisters-in-law. Of the two women, Renee, if it were possible, looked the more outraged and shocked. The child sensed this, and smiled at her graciously.

  'After all,' she said, 'there are other virtues besides humility. I could learn to have patience, like aunt Renee. It's not everyone who can grow a baby. She has been married for three years to uncle Paul, and nothing has happened to her yet.'

  14

  It seemed to me that I had reason to bless Francoise: her weakness gave me an excuse for absence upstairs. It was far simpler to sit with her in the bedroom than down below in the salon with Paul and Renee. I went upstairs and put the child to bed, and when she was settled and tucked in for the night I returned to Francoise and did the same for her. I fetched hot water from the bathroom, and a sponge and soap and towel; then toothbrush and powder, pins for her hair, the pot of cream, the night-cap that tied with the ribbon under the chin. I waited on her like an orderly in hospital, or someone called urgently to minister first aid. I was reminded of those wartime days when, emerging from the tomb where I decoded documents, I took my turn at driving ambulances or whatever came my way during those feverish nights. The sudden intimacy with strangers then, most of them women and children, many of them frightened and in pain, had given me the same feeling of humility and compassion that came to me now as I helped Francoise prepare herself for the night. Her gratitude was intense, as theirs had been. She kept saying, in wonder and surprise, that I was kind.

  'It's nothing,' I answered. 'What else would you expect?'

  'I'm not used to it,' she said. 'You're not thoughtful as a rule. I've often come up early to bed, feeling tired, and you've stayed down talking to Paul and Renee. But perhaps you're avoiding them tonight in case they ask you what you were doing in Villars?'

  She was as intuitive in her own way as the child was in hers, and I wondered, as I kissed her and turned out the light, whether she realized instinctively that I had disclosed only part of what had happened during the day.

  As I went back to the dressing-room, I remembered the letter from the lawyer Talbert which I had brought away from the bank. It was still in my pocket, and I took it out and read it. It was mercifully clear. The verrerie, he said, was running at a steady loss - that at least I already knew - and bankruptcy could only be avoided if it was subsidized from some other source, by the sale of land or securities, for instance, as Bela had suggested. The writer said that he would be glad to come to St Gilles and discuss the matter with me at any time that suited me, and, as the matter was urgent, suggested that I might take the earliest opportunity to arrange an appointment. Presumably it was this letter which had made it so vital that Jean should see the Carvalet people in person and persuade them, if he could, to agree to more favourable terms.

  The following day was Saturday, and I decided to go down to the foundry first thing in the morning, before Paul had dressed and had his coffee, to see if there was a letter from Carvalet. The directors could hardly have consulted before Friday, and a letter written afterwards would surely arrive today. I was up and round to the garage for the car before Gaston had come to brush my clothes and take away my tray. This time Cesar let me pass without barking, and when I reached through his gate to pat him, and he wagged his tail, I felt that I had scored a triumph. Nobody was about. Sounds from the cowhouse beyond suggested that the old woman was with the cattle, and I could see the bent back of the man in overalls hoeing in a distant field. I turned left out of the village and up the hill to the straight forest road, and nothing of what I did seemed strange at all. It was all part of my life, more so than anything that had been in other days, this speeding along the smooth road between the oak trees and the chestnuts. And the feeling stayed with me when I drew the car to a standstill beside the gate of the foundry, and, getting out and slamming the door, called good day to the men already at work.

  As I crossed the rough ground to the house behind the big foundry shed I met the postman walking away from it, and I knew my instinct to come early had been right. I went swiftly to the office door, and there was Jacques sorting the letters beside the desk. He turned round, looking at me in surprise.

  'Bonjour, Monsieur le Comte. I didn't think you would be here this morning. Monsieur Paul said neither of you would be down.'

  I wondered why Paul should have told him so. Was it some sort of holiday?

  'I thought Carvalet might have written,' I said. 'I'm expecting a personal letter from one of the directors.'

  He went on staring at me. Perhaps my brisk manner was unusual.

  'I hope nothing is wrong?' he said.

  'So do I,' I replied. 'Have you the mail there? Let's see if there is anything from them.'

  He looked down at the small pile of letters in his hand, and second from the top was a long envelope with the Carvalet stamped address.

  'There it is,' I said. 'Thank you, Jacques.'

  I took it from him, and discreetly he moved away to the table in the middle of the room, while I read the letter with my back to the window. It was all right. It confirmed the telephone conversation and it enclosed the contract, extended for a further six months, drawn up on the new terms. The letter expressed satisfaction that the two firms had, after all, come to an agreement.

  'Jacques,' I said, 'have you got our contract there? The old one?'

  'You have it, Monsieur le Comte,' he said, 'in the file on your desk.'

  'Look for it, will you,' I asked, 'and I'll glance through the rest of the mail?'

  He did not question me, but the expression on his face showed bewilderment. I watched him search through a file in a prominent position on the desk, while I flipped through the remaining letters, which were bills and receipts. He handed me the contract without a word, and I sat down at the desk and compared the two. The wording was identical, except for the crucial matter of the terms of sale. Knowing nothing of the business, nothing of the output of the verrerie, I could at least seize the salient fact that in the future Carvalet would pay less for the products sent them.

  I felt in my pocket for the lawyer's letter and laid it before me, beside the contracts.

  'I want to
run through the figures,' I said to Jacques. 'Wages, production costs, the whole outfit.'

  He stared. 'You saw them recently,' he said. 'You and Monsieur Paul and I checked everything before you went to Paris.'

  'I want to do it again,' I said.

  It took us about an hour and a half. It was tedious, incomprehensible and fascinating, and when we had done, and he went through to the kitchen to make some coffee, I was able to compare the final figures he had given me with what they would become under the new contract. The answer was that something in the nature of five million francs would have to be found from the personal account of Jean de Gue to balance costs. I saw his reason for closing down. There was nothing else he could do, if he did not want to sell land or securities. The glass-foundry had been losing money under the old contract: under the new one it ceased to exist as a business at all. It became a luxurious toy, as ephemeral and brittle as the glass it made. My blundering sentiment had cost the owners dear.

  I took the new contract, put it with both the letters in my coat pocket, and went through to the kitchen to find Jacques.

  'There, Monsieur le Comte,' he said, 'a little refreshment after so much work.' He handed me a cup of steaming coffee. 'I am still marvelling at your success in Paris,' he said. 'You went really with no hope at all, more as a formality than anything else. But it proves the value of personal contact.'

  'No one,' I said, 'will be out of work. That's the important thing.'

  He raised his eyebrows. 'Were you so concerned about the men?' he asked. 'I hadn't realized that. Actually, after the first shock they would soon have found employment. They've been prepared for a close-down for a long time.'

  I drank my coffee, disillusioned. Perhaps I had meddled to no purpose after all. Someone knocked on the outer door and, excusing himself, he went back to the office. I looked about me, and saw that I was standing in a fair-sized kitchen that must once have done duty for a family, the door beyond leading through to the rest of the house. Curious, I opened it, and saw a broad stone passage, with other rooms leading off it and a staircase rising to the floor above. I crossed the passage and looked into the rooms. They were empty, unfurnished, the walls discoloured, paint cracking, dust thick upon the floors. In the furthest one of all, a fine, square room with panelled walls, there were large pieces of furniture stacked against a wall, cases of crockery, chairs piled high one upon the other, the whole giving an appearance of neglect, as though the owner had put all his possessions to one side and forgotten about them. An old almanac was pinned to the wall, the date 1941, and beside it was a box of books. I bent down and opened one of the books. Inside was written 'Maurice Duval'.