‘Don’t worry, Monsieur de Valmy. He’s having a bad spell, but it’ll get over.’ I added, inconsequentially: ‘When does Monsieur Hippolyte get home?’
He turned his head quickly. The chair moved at the same moment so suddenly that the arm struck the edge of the desk. His exclamation was lost in my cry.
‘You’ve knocked your hand!’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘The knuckle’s bleeding. Can I get you—’
‘It’s nothing, I tell you. What were you saying?’
‘I forget. Oh yes, I wondered if you knew just when Philippe’s Uncle Hippolyte gets home?’
‘I have no idea. Why?’
My eyes had been on his grazed hand. I looked up now to see him watching me, his face as usual calmly shuttered, but with something in that quiet gaze that held me staring without reply.
Then the brilliant eyes dropped. He moved a paper-knife an inch or two and repeated casually: ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Just that Philippe keeps asking me, and I wondered if you’d heard from Monsieur Hippolyte.’
‘Ah. Yes. Well, I don’t know exactly, I’m afraid. My brother has always been slightly unpredictable. But he’ll be away for another three months at least. I thought Philippe knew that. I believe his scheduled lecture-tour finished just before Easter, but he plans to stay for some time after that to assist the excavations at – as far as I remember – Delphi.’ He smiled. ‘My brother is a remarkably poor correspondent … I imagine that Philippe knows just about as much as I do.’ He lifted the paper-knife, placed it exactly where it had been before, looked up at me and smiled again, charmingly. ‘Well, Miss Martin, I won’t keep you. I still have to divert some of that anger into its proper channels.’
He was reaching for the house-telephone as I escaped.
It occurred to me with wry surprise that ‘escape’ was exactly the right word for my relieved exit from the library. The discovery annoyed me considerably. Damn it, the tiger played velvet-paws with me, didn’t he?
But, unreasonable as it was, I couldn’t rid myself of the impression that some of that much-discussed anger had been – whatever he said, whatever the probabilities – directed straight at me.
It was only a fortnight now to the Easter Ball, and I had to work fast. The weather was bad, so walks with Philippe were not obligatory, and though I took him several times to the stables to play on wet afternoons, we had a good deal of spare time indoors when I cut and sewed. Philippe and Berthe both appeared fascinated by the idea of making a dance dress, and hung over me, fingering the stuff and exclaiming over every stage in its manufacture. Berthe was of rather more practical help than Philippe, as she gave me the use of her machine, and – since she was of my height and build – let me fit the pattern on her, never tiring of standing swathed in the glinting folds while I pinned and pulled and experimented.
As the days went by the château hummed with activity and pleased expectation. If there was indeed any shortage of money here, it could not have been guessed at. I did gather, from odd snippets of gossip to which I was careful to pay no attention, that much of the cost for the ball must be borne by Monsieur de Valmy himself. Monsieur Hippolyte, it was whispered, didn’t care for such things, and whereas in past years Philippe’s father had willingly financed the affair and had invariably, with his wife, come from Paris to attend it, now that Monsieur Hippolyte was Philippe’s co-trustee he was (I gathered) inclined to sit down rather tightly on the money-bags. Whatever the case, it seemed that Monsieur de Valmy was determined to recall at least some of the splendours of ‘the old Comte’s’ time. To my unaccustomed eye the preparations seemed lavish in the extreme. Rarely-used bedrooms were opened and aired – for there were to be guests over Easter weekend – the great ballroom and the big drawing-room were thrown open, chandeliers were washed, lustre by lustre, mirrors were polished, furniture and rugs spirited from one place to another, all, it seemed, under the eagle eye of Monsieur de Valmy. His chair was everywhere; if a servant dropped a piece of silver he was cleaning, the Master heard it; if a table was pushed along a parquet floor instead of being lifted, the Master spoke angrily from a corner of the room; he was even to be seen constantly on the upper corridors, swiftly propelling himself in and out of bedrooms and along corridors not commonly used by the family.
And so, bit by bit, corner by corner, the great house was prepared for the event of the year, and excitement seemed to thicken in the air as Easter drew nearer. Then came the final touches; flowers were carried in from the hot-houses, camellias and lilies and gorgeous blooms I didn’t recognise, with tub after tub of bluebells and narcissi and tulips looking cool and virginal among the heavy-scented exotics. In one of the galleries there was even a miniature grove of willows over a shallow basin where goldfish glided, with cyclamens clustering like butterflies at the water’s edge. Outside, floodlights had been fitted up, and a fountain like a firework shot its sparkling trails thirty feet towards Saturday’s big yellow moon. For on Easter Eve the weather cleared, and Easter itself came in bright and beautiful, with a soft wind blowing that set the wild daffodils dancing in the woods, and put the seal on the success of the affair.
The Château Valmy was en fête.
On Saturday night after Philippe had gone to bed I put the finishing-touches to my frock. Berthe had stayed to help me, and now paraded it delightedly before me, while I sat on the floor among a scatter of pins and watched her with critical eyes.
‘Ye – es,’ I said. ‘Turn round again, will you? Thanks. It’ll do, I think, Berthe.’
Berthe twirled a curtsy in it, gay and graceful. It was amazing how she had shed her prim servant-maid attitude along with her uniform. In the shimmering dress she looked what she was, a pretty country-girl, slim and young and – just now – flushed with excitement.
‘It’s lovely, miss, it’s really lovely.’ She spun round so that the full skirt swirled and sank. She lifted a fold and fingered it almost wistfully. ‘You’ll look beautiful in it.’
‘I’ve an awful feeling it’ll look pretty home-made alongside the collection downstairs.’
‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Berthe stoutly. ‘I’ve seen some of them; Mariette and me did most of the unpacking. The prettiest frock I think belongs to the Marquise in the yellow guest-room, and she’s no oil-painting herself by a long chalk.’
‘Hush, Berthe,’ I protested, laughing, ‘you musnt’t say things like that to me!’
She began to waltz round the room, humming a tune. ‘Of course Madame’s always nice. She looks lovely in grande toilette – like a Queen. And that Madame Verlaine gets herself up very smart, doesn’t she? Hers is black.’
‘Is Monsieur Florimond here?’
‘Oh, he always comes. He says he wouldn’t miss it for worlds. He dresses half the ladies, anyway.’
I began to pick up the scattered pins, asking casually: ‘And Monsieur Raoul? Does he come to this affair as a rule?’
There was a tiny pause. At the edge of my vision I saw Berthe’s circling form check and turn. I looked up to catch a sidelong glance before her eyes slid from mine. She plucked at a fold of the skirt. ‘He hasn’t been for years. But they’re expecting him – this time.’
I said nothing, and picked up pins.
She came over to where I sat, her voice warming into naturalness again. ‘Why don’t you try it on now, miss? Don’t bother with those, I’ll pick them up after.’
‘It’s done,’ I said. ‘There, that’s the lot, I think.’
‘Don’t you believe it,’ she said darkly. ‘We’ll be finding them for weeks. Go on, miss, put it on, do. I want to see you in it, with the silver shoes and all.’
I laughed and got up. ‘All right.’
‘It’s a shame you haven’t got a decent mirror. That one in the wardrobe door’s no good at all, not for a long frock.’
‘It’s all right. I told Madame I was making a frock and she said I might use the glass in her room. I’ll just go along now and
give it the final check-up. Tomorrow night I’ll have to make do in here.’
She followed me into my bedroom, speaking a little shyly. ‘May I help you to dress tomorrow?’
‘Why, Berthe, how nice of you! But you’ll have so much to do! And I could manage quite well, really. I’m not used to luxuries, you know.’
‘I’d like to. I would really.’
‘Then thank you very much. I’d be awfully glad to have you.’
Back in her uniform, she helped me pleasedly with the dress. At last I stood surveying myself in the narrow wardrobe mirror.
‘Oh, miss, it’s lovely!’
‘We put a lot of work into it, Berthe. I’m terribly grateful to you for helping. I couldn’t have managed without you.’
I turned this way and that, eyeing the line and fall of the material, and wondering just how amateurish it was going to look against the other gowns downstairs. Then I saw Berthe’s eyes in the glass. They were brilliant with uncomplicated excitement and pleasure. Her delight, it was obvious, wasn’t fretted by the shades of Balenciaga and Florimond. ‘Oh, miss, it’s lovely! There won’t be one prettier! You’ll look a picture! Wait, I’ll get the shoes!’
She was scurrying towards a cupboard but I stopped her impulsively. ‘Berthe …’
She turned.
‘Berthe, would you like to wear it too, for your own dance on Tuesday? You’ve probably got another just as pretty, but if you’d like it—’
‘Oh, miss!’ Her eyes grew enormous and she gripped her hands together. ‘Me? Oh, but I couldn’t … Could I?’
‘Why not? You look lovely in it, and it was practically made on you, after all. If you’d really like it, Berthe, I’d be terribly pleased for you to take it. I don’t suppose anyone’ll recognise it.’
‘No, they won’t,’ she said ingenuously. ‘It’ll be hired waiters here tomorrow, and Ber – the servants won’t be about. If – if you really mean it—’ She began to thank me again, but I said quickly:
‘Then that’s settled. Fine. Now I’ll better fly if I’m to get to that looking-glass before Madame comes upstairs.’
Berthe dived once more for the cupboard.
‘Your shoes! Put on your new shoes with it!’
‘No, no, don’t bother,’ I said hastily, making for the door, ‘I must run. Thanks again, Berthe! Goodnight!’
Madame de Valmy’s bedroom adjoined a small sitting-room which she used in the mornings. I went through, leaving the connecting door ajar.
Her bedroom was a beautiful room, all soft lights and brocade and elegant Louis Seize, with a positively fabulous glitter of silver and crystal on the toilet-table. An enormous Venetian mirror flanked the bathroom door, apparently held to the silk panelling by the efforts of the whole cherub choir.
I stood in front of this. The long window-curtains mirrored behind me were of rose-coloured brocade. The lighting was lovely. As I moved I saw the gleam of the cobwebbed silver thread shift and glimmer through the white cloud of the skirt the way sunlight flies along blown gossamer.
I remember that the thought that surfaced first in my mind was that now Cinderella had no excuse to stay away from the ball. And – at midnight?
Impatiently I shook my thoughts free, angry that I could still fool around even for a moment with the myth that I knew was nonsense. I’d burned myself badly enough on that star already.
Someone was at the sitting-room door. Berthe must have come along with the silver sandals. I called: ‘Come in. I’m through here,’ and made a face at myself in the glass. Here were the glass slippers. Damn it, I didn’t stand a chance …
A quick tread across the sitting-room. Raoul’s voice said: ‘Héloïse, did you want me?’
Then he saw me. He stopped dead in the doorway.
‘Why – hullo,’ he said. He sounded a little breathless, as though he’d been hurrying.
I opened my mouth to answer him, then swallowed and shut it again. I couldn’t have spoken if I’d tried. I must just have gaped at him like a schoolgirl caught out in some escapade. I know I went scarlet.
Then I gathered up my skirts in clumsy hands and moved towards the doorway which he still blocked.
He didn’t give way. He merely leaned his shoulders back against the jamb of the door and waited, as if prepared to settle there for the evening.
I took two more hesitating steps towards him, and then stopped.
‘Don’t run away. Let me look at you.’
‘I must. I mean, I’d better—’
He said: ‘Sabine,’ very softly, and the laugh in the word brought hotter colour to my face and my eyes up to his.
I’m not sure what happened next. I think he moved a little and said: ‘All right. So you really want to run away?’ And I think I said, somehow: ‘no,’ and then ‘Raoul,’ as his shoulders came away from the doorpost in a kind of lunge, and then he was across the room and had me in his arms and was kissing me with a violence that was terrifying and yet, somehow, the summit of all my tenderest dreams.
I pushed away from him at last, both hands against his chest. ‘But Raoul, why?
‘What d’you mean why?’
‘Why me? Your father called me “Jane Eyre”, and he wasn’t far wrong. And you – you could have anyone. So … why?’
‘Do you want to know why?’ His hands turned me round to face the mirror again, holding me back against him. I could feel his heart hammering against my shoulder-blade. His eyes met mine in the glass. ‘You don’t have to be humble, ma belle. That’s why.’
An odd sensation took me, part triumphant and part forlorn. I said nothing. The cherubs peered at us blind-eyed. Behind us the rose and gold and crystal of the lovely room glowed like the Bower of Bliss. Raoul was watching my face.
He opened his mouth as if to say something, but before he could speak there came a slight sound from the other room. He turned his head sharply, and for a moment his hands tightened on my shoulders. Then he let me go and turned, saying coolly: ‘Ah, Héloïse. I was looking for you. I believe you wanted me.’
I jumped and spun round. I felt the quick heat wash and ebb in my cheeks, leaving me cold and pale. We had been standing in full view of anyone entering the sitting-room. Héloïse de Valmy was there now, just inside the door, with Albertine beside her. She was speaking over her shoulder to someone – presumably one of the guests – behind her in the corridor, beyond my range of vision.
A woman’s voice returned a soft reply and I heard skirts rustle away. It was impossible to tell if Madame de Valmy had seen Raoul holding me, but I knew Albertine had. Avoiding her dark malicious eyes I came quickly out of the bedroom with Raoul behind me.
I said, stammering: ‘Madame … I was using your glass to – to try my frock. You said I might …’
It was still impossible to tell whether she had seen. Her light-grey eyes looked me up and down without expression. As usual, they were unsmiling, but I could detect no hint of displeasure in her face.
She said, in her cold composed voice: ‘Of course. Is that the dress you have made, Miss Martin? It’s very pretty. You must be an accomplished needlewoman. Perhaps one day you might do some work for me?’
So she had seen. I felt Raoul, beside me, make a little movement. The burning colour washed back into my face. I said quickly: ‘It would be a pleasure, madame. Goodnight, madame. Goodnight, monsieur.’
I didn’t look at him. I slipped past Héloïse de Valmy into the welcome dimness of the corridor, and ran back to my room.
The next day passed in a whirl. I spent all my time with Philippe, who, alone of all the people in the house, seemed untouched by the general excitement, and was, indeed, indulging in a bout of the sulks at being left out of the Easter revels.
Luckily I didn’t have to face Madame de Valmy. Just after lunch Albertine – was there a spark of malice in the smooth voice and face as she said it? – brought me a message which asked if we could please direct our afternoon’s walk to the village to make some small purchases, as no
ne of the servants (had she or had she not hesitated on the phrase ‘other servants’?) could be spared?
I agreed politely, and chided myself, as I took a reluctant, foot-trailing Philippe down to Soubirous, for being over-sensitive. Madame de Valmy would surely not put me so brutally in my place a second time, and as for Albertine, a servant’s malice couldn’t affect me.
But I began to wonder, a few minutes later, if this last was true. As I paused in the sunshine outside Monsieur Garcin’s shop to fish in my bag for Albertine’s note, the bead curtains over the chemist’s doorway rattled aside, and Albertine herself came out. Albertine, who ‘could not be spared’ today; for whom I was playing errand-boy. She must have set out for Soubirous almost immediately after briefing me.
I stared at her in amazement. She showed no sign of confusion, but slipped by me with one of her dark sidelong looks and small-lipped Mona Lisa smiles. She went into the confiserie just beyond the café.
When I pushed through the swinging beads myself into the spicy dimness of the shop, I was tense and nervous and very ready to discover in Monsieur Garcin’s voice and attitude that same sidelong malice that I had now certainly seen in Albertine.
I told myself firmly that this was only fancy. But as I emerged from the pharmacy I came face to face with Madame Rocher, the curé’s housekeeper, and this time there was no doubt about the chilliness of the greeting. If the good Madame could have passed by on the other side she would undoubtedly have done so. As it was she simply stared, nodded once, and gave me bonjour in a tone nicely calculated (as from virtuous matron to viper-in-the-bosom) to keep me in my place, while at the same time allowing just the faintest loophole for a possibly legitimate future. Philippe she greeted, quite simply, with pity.
And later, when I bought some chocolate in the confiserie, I thought Madamé Decorzent’s fat smile was a little stiff today, and her prune-black eyes were curious, almost avid, as she said, glancing from Philippe to me: ‘And when are you leaving us, made-moiselle?’
I said coolly, through the sudden hammering of my heart: ‘We don’t go to Thonon for a good while yet, madame. Monsieur Hippolyte doesn’t get back for three more months, you know.’