I paused, exhausted, drained suddenly of energy, of thought. And just as holding the mother's hand through the night had seemed to invest me with her own past phantoms of regret, so the eyes of Blanche upon me now, losing their bitterness, becoming reflective, considerate, even kind, gave light somehow to herself, healing her own sorrow, while the loneliness that had been hers was now my loneliness, my pain, engulfing me in a darkness that must be carried and endured.
I said to her, 'I'm tired. I haven't slept.'
'Nor I,' she said. 'I found I couldn't pray.'
'We're quits then,' I answered. 'We've both been to the depths. But the child went first and wasn't afraid. When you go to the verrerie, Blanche, there's something you might do. Get your workmen to clear the rubble and find the spring once more. There ought to be water in the well.'
I left her sitting there, and went out of her room and down the corridor to the dressing-room. I flung myself on the camp-bed, closed my eyes and slept dreamlessly until past ten, when I awoke to find Gaston shaking me by the shoulder, telling me that I had to be at Villars to see the commissaire at eleven o'clock.
I got up, shaved and bathed and dressed again, and went with him into the town. Gaston's wife and Berthe had asked whether they might come with me, as they wanted to visit the chapel. They stayed in the car during my brief conversation with the commissaire, who wished me to read and verify the notes he had taken the previous day. When I came out one of the officials told me that someone was waiting by the car to speak to me. It was Vincent, who helped Bela at 'L'Antiquaire du Pont', and he had a small package in his hands.
'Forgive me, Monsieur le Comte,' he said. 'Madame could not get in touch with you in any other way. This package came from Paris yesterday. She knows now it arrived too late. She is so sorry for this. But she wanted me to give it to you, for the little girl.'
I took the package from him. 'What is it?' I asked.
'Some porcelain was broken,' he said. 'The little girl, your daughter, asked Madame if it could be mended. It was impossible, as I believe Madame told you. Instead, she sent to Paris for duplicates. She asked me to beg you not to tell the little girl that they are substitutes. She believes the child would be happier not to know, but to keep them now in memory of her mother, believing they are the broken ones made whole.'
I thanked him, and then, hesitating, asked, 'Did Madame send any other message to me?'
'No, Monsieur le Comte. Just that, and her deep sympathy.'
I got into the car. The others, Gaston and his wife and Berthe, were still patiently waiting for me, and we went, the four of us, to the hospital chapel, from where Francoise would be brought home the following day. Even in the few hours since the evening before she seemed to have become more remote, unapproachable, a part of time. Gaston's wife, who wept upon the instant, said to me, 'Death is beautiful. Madame Jean might be an angel in the sky.' I did not agree. Death was an executioner, lopping a flower before it bloomed. The sky had glories enough, but not the soil.
When we got back to St Gilles I saw Marie-Noel waiting for me on the terrace. She ran forward and flung herself upon me, then, pausing until the others had gone with the car round to the garage, she turned to me and said, 'Gran'mie was down early, before eleven. She's in the salon preparing it for Maman. Maman is going to lie there all tomorrow, so that visitors can come and pay their last respects.' She looked excited, impressed. I noticed she was wearing the locket pinned on to her dark frock. 'Madame Yves is helping Gran'mie,' she went on. 'Gran'mie sent for her. She said she was the only person who remembered how things were arranged when my grandfather died. They are arguing now about the position of the table.'
She took my hand and led me to the salon. I could hear the sound of voices raised in dispute. I entered the room with the child, and saw that although the shutters were still closed the lights were switched on and the sofa and chairs had been turned to face the centre of the room. A long table, covered with a lace cloth, stood between the windows and the door. The comtesse was sitting on a chair beside the table, and Julie, with another white drapery over her arm, confronted her.
'But I assure you, Madame la Comtesse, the table was more in the centre and we did not use the lace cloth but the damask, this one that I have here, which I found myself just now at the back of the linen-room, pushed anyhow, not touched, by the looks of it, since we had it for Monsieur le Comte himself.'
'Nonsense,' answered the comtesse. 'We used the lace. The lace belonged to my mother. It was in my mother's family for a hundred years.'
'Very possibly, Madame la Comtesse,' said Julie. 'I don't dispute it. I remember the lace cloth perfectly; you produced it when the children were christened and it made a fine background for the cake. But for mourning, that's another matter. The white damask is more suitable to pay tribute to Madame Jean, just as it did in 1938 for Monsieur le Comte.'
'The lace hangs better,' said the comtesse. 'No one would know it wasn't an altar cloth. It would deceive Monsieur le cure himself.'
'Monsieur le cure perhaps,' said Julie. 'He is short-sighted. It won't deceive the bishop. He has eyes like a hawk.'
'I don't care,' said the comtesse. 'I prefer the lace. It may be more ostentatious than the damask, but what of it? I intend my daughter-in-law to have the best.'
'In that case,' said Julie, 'there's no more to be said. The lace it will have to be. And I suppose the damask must go back to the linen-room to be forgotten for another twenty years. Who looks after things nowadays at the chateau, I ask myself? It wasn't like this in the old days.'
She sighed, folding the damask cloth on the end of the table.
'What else do you expect,' said the comtesse, 'with servants as they are today? They none of them have any pride in their work.'
'Then it's the fault of the mistress,' said Julie. 'A good mistress makes a good servant. I remember when you used to come down into the kitchen we none of us spoke afterwards for half an hour, we were so frightened. Often we couldn't eat. That is how it should be. But today ...' she shook her head, 'it's another matter. When I came this morning little Germaine was listening to the T.S.F. True, it was an Office relayed from a cathedral, nevertheless ...' She gestured, her sentence unfinished.
'I've been ill,' said the comtesse. 'Things have got out of hand. It will be different in future.'
'I hope so,' said Julie. 'It was time.'
'You say that because you're jealous,' said the comtesse. 'You always liked coming up here poking your nose into what didn't concern you.'
'It does concern me,' said Julie. 'Anything that happens here to you, Madame la Comtesse, or to any of the family, concerns me. I was born in St Gilles. The chateau, the verrerie, the village, that's my life.'
'You're a tyrant,' said the comtesse. 'I hear your daughter-in-law ran off with a mechanic because you made life impossible for her. Now you have Andre and your grandson to yourself, I suppose you're satisfied?'
'I a tyrant?' said Julie. 'I'm the most tolerant woman in the world, Madame la Comtesse. It was my daughter-in-law who nagged from morning till night. It's a good thing for my Andre she has gone. Now we shall have peace at last.'
'You haven't enough to do,' said the comtesse, 'that's your trouble. Poking about in the verrerie grounds with a few chickens. In future you can come up to the chateau twice a week and help me set things in order once again. I was right, though, about the lace cloth.'
'You are free to form your own opinion, Madame la Comtesse,' said Julie. 'I won't argue with you, But if it's the last word I ever utter, I shall insist that it was the damask cloth we used at the funeral of Monsieur le Comte.'
They stared across the table at one another in perfect understanding. Then the comtesse, aware of my presence for the first time, wished me good day. 'Everything went well?' she asked.
'Yes, Maman.'
'The commissaire had nothing fresh to say?'
'No.'
'Then we can proceed with the arrangements as planned. You had better h
elp Renee with the addressing of the envelopes. Blanche has disappeared. I haven't set eyes on her all the morning. I suppose, as usual, she's in church. Now go along, both of you, Julie and I have work to do.'
We met Gaston in the hall. He was carrying the packet I had left in the car. 'Your parcel, Monsieur le Comte,' he said.
I took it and went upstairs to the bedroom, the child following me.
'What is it?' she said. 'Have you bought something?'
I did not answer. I undid the string and opened the paper. The Copenhagen cat and dog, perfect replicas of the ones that had been broken, lay revealed, I put them on the table where they belonged and then glanced at Marie-Noel. She stood with her hands clasped, smiling.
'You would never know,' she said. 'You could never tell that anything had happened. They are perfect. Just as if they hadn't been broken. Now I feel myself forgiven.'
'How do you mean, forgiven?' I asked.
'I was showing off,' she said. 'I was careless, and so they got broken, and because they were broken Maman became ill. I wish we could stand them in the salon tomorrow, beside the candles, as a symbol.'
'I don't think we can,' I said. 'It might look odd. I think if we leave them here, with all her things, it will mean the same.'
We went down to the library, and the lists were waiting for us on the desk. But nobody was there addressing the envelopes, neither Paul nor Renee nor Blanche.
'Where are they?' I said to the child. 'Where's everyone gone?'
She had already seized an envelope and was addressing it to the first name on the list in a careful sloping hand.
'I'm not supposed to say,' she said, 'because Gran'mie doesn't know. Aunt Renee is in her bedroom, looking through all her winter clothes. She told me, as a great secret, that after the funeral she and uncle Paul are going away. They're going to travel, and later on, she said, they might even have a small apartment in Paris. She said she would ask me to stay if you and Gran'mie agreed.'
'Is uncle Paul also upstairs looking through his clothes?' I asked.
'Oh no,' she answered, 'he's gone down to the verrerie. Aunt Blanche isn't in church at all; she went with him, and that's a secret too. They were afraid that if Gran'mie knew she would interfere. Aunt Blanche wants to look through the furniture that's stored at the master's house. She told me that yesterday was the first time she had been inside the house for fifteen years. She said it was a waste nobody lived there, and it ought to be made habitable once again.'
'Aunt Blanche said that?' I asked.
'Yes, she told me so this morning. She's going to do something about it. That's why she went down there with uncle Paul.' For a few moments she addressed the envelopes in silence. Then she raised her head, and biting the end of her pen said, 'Rather a dreadful thought came to me just now. I don't know whether to tell it to you or not.'
'Go ahead,' I said.
'It's just that suddenly,' she said, 'since Maman died, everyone is getting what they want. Gran'mie, who loves everyone to notice her, has come downstairs. Uncle Paul and aunt Renee are going to travel, which has made them pleased. Aunt Blanche has gone to look at the master's house, where, long ago, before I was born, she meant to live, so she told me once in private. Even Madame Yves is bustling with the linen, which makes her feel important. You have got the money you wanted, and can go spending now as much as you please. As for me ...' She hesitated, her eyes troubled, a little sad, 'as for me, I haven't been saddled with a baby brother after all, but have you to myself for the rest of my days.'
I looked at her, a phrase forgotten or repressed forcing itself to my consciousness. Something about hunger, something about greed. Through the half-open double doors leading to the dining-room I could hear the telephone. The sudden ring was an irritation, interrupting thought, for what she was saying to me seemed suddenly important, needing the right answer.
'The thing is,' she said, 'would any of these things have happened if Maman hadn't died?'
Her question, devastating, terrible, seemed to shake the foundation of all belief. 'Yes,' I said swiftly, 'they had to happen, they were bound to happen. It's nothing to do with Maman dying. If she had lived they would have come about just the same.'
Still she looked doubtful, not entirely satisfied. 'When the bon Dieu arranges things, everything is for the best,' she said, 'but sometimes the devil tempts us in disguise. You remember what it says in St Matthew - "All these things will I give thee, if thou wilt fall down and worship me"?'
The telephone ceased ringing, Gaston was answering it in the lobby. In a moment or two his footsteps sounded in the dining-room, coming towards us.
'The point is to discover which is which,' said Marie-Noel, 'who gives us the things we want, God or the devil. It must be one or the other, but how do you tell?'
Gaston came to the double doors and said, 'Monsieur le Comte is wanted on the telephone.'
I got up and went through to the lobby in the hall. I lifted the old-fashioned receiver and listened.
'Who's there?' I asked.
Someone said 'Ne quittez pas', the line blurred and indistinct, as though it came from a distance. Then, after a minute, another voice, a man's, said, 'Am I speaking to the Comte de Gue?'
'Yes,' I answered.
There was a pause. The speaker at the other end seemed to be thinking, deciding what to say.
'Who is it?' I repeated. 'What do you want?'
Then softly, almost in a whisper, the voice replied, 'It's me. Jean de Gue. I've just seen today's newspaper. I'm coming back.'
25
Instinct denied him. Mind, body, spirit, united in revolt against him. He no longer existed. He was not real. The whisper at the other end of the telephone was imaginary, conjured up by fatigue. I waited, not answering. And then in a moment he spoke again.
'You are there?' he said. 'The remplacant?'
I suppose, because I heard a footstep in the hall - Gaston's, perhaps, it did not matter whose - caution seized me, and the conventional being who gives orders, takes them, makes arrangements and plans, spoke into the mouthpiece for me.
'Yes,' I said, 'I'm here.'
'I'm speaking from Deauville,' he said. 'I have your car. I intend driving to St Gilles later in the day. It's no use arriving before dusk - I might be seen. I suggest we meet at seven.'
The cool assurance, the certainty with which he spoke, believing I would fall in with his plans, made me hate him the more.
'Where?' I asked.
There was silence for a moment while he thought. Then, softly, he said, 'You know the master's house at the verrerie?'
I had thought he would suggest the hotel in Le Mans where he had played his first - and only - joke upon me. That would have been neutral ground. To substitute the master's house constituted a challenge.
'Yes,' I said.
'I'll leave the car on a side-track in the woods,' he said, 'and come across the orchard. Wait for me inside the house and let me in. I'll be with you there as soon after seven as I can.'
He did not say good-bye. The telephone clicked as he hung up, and that was all. I turned from the lobby and went into the hall. Gaston and Germaine were passing in and out of the kitchen quarters to the dining-room with trays for lunch. Outside on the driveway I could hear a car, the Citroen. It would be Blanche and Paul returning from the foundry. Soon we should all assemble and eat together.
Although the emotion that filled me now was violent, overwhelming, yet at the same time I felt deliberate and calm. I was the possessor now, he the intruder. The chateau was my chateau, the people were my people, the family who in a few minutes would sit with me round the table were my family, my flesh and blood; they belonged to me and I to them. He could not return and make them his again.
I went into the salon, and the comtesse was still sitting there, surveying the room, the furniture of which had been altered yet again. Julie had gone, bearing the damask cloth with her. The comtesse was alone.
'Who was that on the telephone?' she ask
ed.
'No one of any importance,' I replied. 'Someone who had seen the morning newspaper.'
'In the old days,' she said, 'no one would have telephoned at such a time. It shows want of tact. The courteous thing would be a letter of condolence, and flowers for me. However, good manners are a thing of the past.'
I went over to her and took her hand. 'I want to know how you feel,' I said. 'I couldn't ask you just now, in front of Julie.'
She looked up at me and smiled. 'We had a vigil, didn't we?' she said. 'You slept in your chair. As for me, I never closed my eyes. If you think this business is going to be easy, you're mistaken.'
'I never said it would be easy,' I answered. 'It's going to be the hardest thing you've ever done.'
'I have to deny myself peace and pleasant dreams for your sake,' she said. 'That's what it amounts to, doesn't it? Just because you want me about the place. How do I know you won't change your mind again and banish me upstairs?'
'No,' I said. 'No ... no ...'
My sudden violence amused her. She reached up and patted my cheek. 'You're spoilt,' she said, 'that's your trouble. Julie and I agreed upon it this morning. We all of us martyr ourselves because of you. If I become ill, which I very probably shall do, it will be your fault.' She paused, and then looking about her with satisfaction, said, 'You know, I was agreeably impressed by Francoise in the chapel. She had breeding, for the first time. I shall be proud for everyone to come and pay their respects to her tomorrow. It's a great solace not to be ashamed of one's daughter-in-law when she is dead.'
Gaston came into the salon and announced lunch, in his new hushed voice suited to mourning, and as we went out into the hall she said, 'It will make all the difference when the salon is filled with flowers. Lilies above all, no matter what they cost. After all, Francoise will be paying. We owe it all to her.'
The others were already in the dining-room, and glancing at Paul and Blanche I saw they had the faces of conspirators - not furtive or withdrawn, but in the childish sense, sharing a secret that had turned out well for both. When Blanche, saying grace as she always did, looked at me afterwards, not smiling but somehow confident, assured, I knew that something at least had been achieved that morning, if not an end to silence at least a purge to pain.
The Scapegoat Page 34