We were dancing at the edge of the room, near the french windows which stood open to the mild night.
‘As,’ he finished, ‘I am about to neglect it now …’
And before I knew quite what he was about we were out of the ballroom and on the loggia, slipping as easily and unnoticeably out of the throng as a floating twig slides into a backwater. The music followed us through the long windows; and there was the Easter moon and the ghosts of jonquils dancing in the dark garden. My skirt brushed the narcissi on the terrace’s edge. Raoul’s shoulder touched jasmine and loosed a shower of tiny stars. We didn’t speak. The spell held. We danced along the moonlit arcade of the loggia, then in through the dark windows of the salon, where firelight warmed the deserted shadows, and the music came muted as if from a great way off.
We were in the shadows. He stopped and his arms tightened round me. ‘And now …’ he said.
Later, when I could speak, I said shakily: ‘I love you. I love you. I love you.’ And, of course, after that singularly ill-advised remark it was impossible to speak or even breathe for a very long time indeed.
When at length he let me go and spoke, I hardly recognised his voice. But, slurred and unsteady as it was, it still held that little undertone of laughter that was unmistakably his. ‘Well, aren’t you going to ask it?’
‘Ask what?’
‘What every woman in the world asks straight away. The vow returned. “Do you love me?”’
I said: ‘I’ll settle for whatever you want to give.’
‘I told you before not to be humble, Linda.’
‘I can’t help it. It’s the way you make me feel.’
He said: ‘Oh God!’ in that queer wrenched voice and pulled me to him again. He didn’t kiss me but held me tightly and spoke over my head into the darkness. ‘Linda … Linda, listen.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘This love thing. I don’t know. This is honest. I don’t know.’
Something twisted at my heart that might – if it were not absurd – have been pity. ‘It doesn’t matter, Raoul. Don’t.’
‘It does. You have to know. There’ve been other women – you know that. Quite a few.’
‘Yes.’
‘This is different.’ A silence. The ghost of a laugh. ‘I’d say that anyway, wouldn’t I? But it is. It is.’ His cheek moved against my hair. ‘Linda. That’s the hell of a name for a Frenchwoman, isn’t it? So now you know. I want you. I need you, by God I do. If you’d call that love—’
‘It’ll do,’ I said. ‘Believe me, it’ll do.’
Another silence. The fire burned steadily, filling the room with shadows. In one of the logs I could hear the whine and bubble of resin.
He gave a queer little sigh and then loosed me, holding me at arm’s length. His voice was his own again, cool, casual, a little hard. ‘What were you and Carlo talking about?’
The question was so unexpected that I started. ‘I – why, I hardly remember. Things. And – oh, yes, my frock. Yes, we talked about my frock.’
I saw him smile. ‘Come now, confess. You talked about me.’
‘How did you know?’
‘Second sight.’
‘Oh, murder,’ I said. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve got it as well.’
‘As well?’
‘Your father’s a warlock; didn’t you know?’
‘Oh? Then shall we just say that I’ve got excellent hearing. Did Carlo warn you that my intentions were sure to be dishonourable?’
‘Of course.’
‘Did he, by God?’
‘More or less. It was done by implication and with the nicest possible motives.’
‘I’m sure of it. What did he say?’
I laughed at him and quoted: ‘“You and Raoul, no and no and no.’ And you are not to be angry. I adore Monsieur Florimond and he was only talking to me for my own good.’
He was looking down at me soberly. ‘I’m not likely to be angry. He was too damned near right. I don’t mean about my motives, but that probably you and I—’ He stopped. ‘I’ve told you how I feel. But you; you say you love me.’
I said: ‘Yes and yes and yes.’
I saw him smile. ‘Again thrice. You’re very generous.’
‘I was cancelling Carlo out. Besides, we have a poem in English which says: “What I tell you three times is true”.’
Another pause. Then he said, still holding me: ‘Then you will take a chance on marrying me?’
I began to tremble. I said huskily: ‘But your father—’
His hands moved so sharply that they hurt me. ‘My father? What’s it to him?’
‘He’ll be so angry. Perhaps he’ll do something about it – make you leave Bellevigne, or—’
‘So what? I’m not tied to him or to Bellevigne.’ He gave a short, half-angry laugh. ‘Are you afraid of harming my position? My prospects? By God, that’s rich!’
I said falteringly: ‘But you love Bellevigne, don’t you? You told me you did, and Mrs. Seddon said—’
‘So she’s been talking about me, too, has she?’
‘Everybody does,’ I said simply.
‘Then did she tell you I hadn’t any future except Bellevigne, and that only until Philippe gets Valmy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, she’s right.’ He added more gently: ‘Does that three-times-true love allow you to take a chance on a barren future?’
‘I said I’d settle for what you had to give, didn’t I?’
Another of those little silences. ‘So you did. Then you’ll marry me?’
‘Yes.’
‘In the teeth of the warnings?’
‘Yes.’
‘And without prospects?’
‘Yes.’
He laughed then, still on that curious note of triumph. ‘You needn’t worry about that,’ he said cryptically. ‘Fair means or foul, I’ll always have prospects.’
‘An adventurer, that’s what you are,’ I said.
He was looking down, and the black eyes were veiled again. ‘Aren’t you?’
I said slowly: ‘Yes, I believe I am.’
‘I know you are,’ said Raoul. ‘Diamond cuts diamond, my darling. Kiss me and seal the bargain.’
Afterwards he let me go. I said uncertainly: ‘Do we have to – tell them?’
‘Of course. Why not? I’d like to shout it from the house-tops now, but if you like we’ll wait till tomorrow.’
‘Oh yes, please.’
I saw his teeth gleam. ‘Does it need so much hardihood, ma mie? Are you afraid of my father?’
‘Yes.’
He gave me a quick, surprised look. ‘Are you? You’ve no need. But I’ll tell them myself if you’d rather. You can just keep out of the way until it’s done.’
I said: ‘They’ll be – so very angry.’
‘Angry? You undervalue yourself, my dear.’
‘You don’t understand. I’m – I was due to be sacked anyway. That doesn’t make it any easier to tell them.’
‘Due to be sacked? What on earth do you mean?’
‘What I say. I was rather expecting to be told tomorrow. That’s why I didn’t want to come down to the dance.’
‘But – why? What’s the crime?’
I looked up at him and gave a little smile. ‘You.’
It took him a moment to assimilate this. ‘Do you mean because Héloïse saw me kissing you? You were to be sacked for that? Rubbish,’ he said curtly.
‘It’s true. At least I think so. You – well, you heard how Madame spoke to me just afterwards, and when I went into Soubirous today it was quite obvious that the story had got round.’ I told him about the reception I had had in the village. ‘Albertine – the maid – may just have been scandalmongering because she doesn’t like me, but I think she probably knows what Madame intends to do.’
He lifted a shoulder indifferently. ‘Well, it doesn’t matter, does it? You needn’t let it worry you now. In any case I’m sure you’re wrong. Héloïse
would never want to let you go.’
I said rather shyly: ‘I thought that myself. I did think it – odd, because of Philippe.’
He said quickly: ‘Philippe?’
‘Yes. I – don’t get me wrong; I don’t think I did anything very great for Philippe. The shooting business in the wood was nothing. I just didn’t lose my head and fuss him too much, but I – well, I did save him the time he nearly fell off the balcony, and your father said—’
Raoul said: ‘What time? What are you talking about?’
‘Didn’t you know?’ I said, surprised. I told him about the grim little incident that had crowned my shopping trip to Thonon. He listened, his face turned away from me towards the fire. In the flickering light I couldn’t read his expression. He reached abstractedly for a cigarette and lit it. Over the flare of the match I could see he was frowning. I finished: ‘And your father knew that night that you’d kissed me. I’m sure he did. You remember?’
A glint through the frown. ‘I remember.’
‘There wasn’t any talk then about sending me away. But there is now, really.’
He laughed: ‘Well, my love, we’ve given them more cause, haven’t we? Let that be a comfort to you. It’s very probable that everybody in the ballroom knows by this time that you’ve gone out with me, and is speculating wildly on the whys and wherefores.’
I said tartly: ‘I don’t suppose they have any doubt at all about the whys and wherefores. It’s all very well you carrying off your love affairs en grand seigneur, Monsieur de Valmy, but I’m only the governess. No, don’t laugh at me. I’ve got to face them tomorrow.’
‘With me, chérie, remember. And now let’s forget tomorrow. This is tonight, and we are betrothed.’ He took my hands. ‘If we can’t shout it from the housetops at least we can celebrate it to ourselves. Let’s go and get some champagne.’
‘And some food,’ I said.
‘You poor child! Haven’t you fed?’
‘Not a bite. I sat in my corner while you danced and drank and enjoyed yourself—’
‘More fool you,’ said Raoul unsympathetically. ‘You had only to show yourself to be trampled to death by partners avid to let you dance and drink and enjoy yourself with them. Come on, then. Food.’
The great dining-room was brilliant with people and gay with chatter and the popping of corks. Raoul made his way through the crowd with me in his wake. Several people hailed him, and I saw a few curious glances cast at me, but he didn’t stop. As we reached the big table all a-gleam with silver I remembered something and touched his sleeve.
‘Raoul, I’d forgotten. I promised to go up and see Philippe halfway through the dance. I must go.’
He turned quickly, almost as if I had startled him. ‘Philippe? What on earth for?’
‘I think he felt left out of things. At any rate I did promise to go up at “dead of night”. I can’t disappoint him.’
‘You … do look after him a little beyond the line of duty, don’t you?’
‘I don’t think so. Anyway I think I ought to go straight away, in case he goes to sleep and thinks I’ve forgotten.’
‘But I thought you were starving?’
‘I am.’ I looked wistfully at the laden table. There was a silver dish of crab patties just beside me, creaming over pinkly under their crimped fronds of parsely. ‘But a vow’s a vow.’
‘And you always keep your vows?’
‘Always.’
‘I’ll remember that.’
I laughed. ‘They’re only valid if you’ll let me keep the one I made to Philippe. His came first.’
‘Then I suppose I must. But I insist on coming too, and I’m not letting you faint with hunger by the way-side.’ He glanced at his wrist. ‘It’s close on midnight – that’s “dead of night”, isn’t it? Why don’t we break a few more rules and take some food upstairs. Then Philippe will get his excitement and we our celebration.’
‘Oh, Raoul, that’s a wonderful idea! Let’s do that!’
‘All right. I’ll fix some food and drink. What d’you like?’
I looked again at the table. ‘Everything,’ I said simply.
He looked startled. ‘You must be hungry!’
‘I am. Even if I weren’t’ – I sighed – ‘I couldn’t by-pass that. I never saw anything so wonderful in my life.’
He was looking at me with a curious expression. ‘Do you mean to say you’ve never been to a dance before?’
‘This sort of thing? Never.’
‘One forgets,’ he said.
‘I try to,’ I said lightly, ‘at any rate the dreary past never produced anything like this. May I have one of those meringues?’
‘If you must. And I suppose you’ve never had champagne either? That’s a thought … Well, you shall have it tonight. Meringues and champagne, may God forgive me. Well, you go along up to Philippe and I’ll follow as soon as I’ve organised the food. I’ll bring a bit of everything.’
‘That’s a vow,’ I told him, and made my way out through the crowd.
My main fear was of coming across Léon de Valmy. I turned away from the hall and main staircase and ran down a corridor towards the secondary stair that Philippe and I commonly used.
But I needn’t have worried. I reached the stairs unnoticed and mounted them hurriedly, holding up my filmy skirts. The staircase gave onto the upper corridor almost opposite Madame de Valmy’s bedroom door. I was nearly at the top when I half-tripped as the catch of my sandal came loose. The sandal came off. I had to stop to pick it up.
As I straightened up, sandal in hand, two women came out of Madame de Valmy’s sitting-room. My heart seemed to catch in mid-beat, then I saw that neither was Héloïse. They were elderly women who had not been dancing. I recognised one of them as an inveterate eyebrow-raiser – first at the blonde, then at me. I wondered how high her overworked brows would go if she knew I had an assignation with Raoul upstairs, however closely chaperoned by Philippe.
The sandal was my alibi. I waited politely for them to pass me before I proceeded to my own room for the ostensibly-needed repairs. I smiled at them, receiving in return two courteous and beautifully-calculated inclinations as they sailed by me, making for the main staircase.
The corridor emptied itself of the last rustle. With a wary eye on Héloïse’s door I picked up my skirts again and turned towards Philippe’s room.
Somewhere a clock whirred to strike. Midnight. I smiled. Dead of night exactly. I hoped Philippe was still awake.
The clock was beating twelve as I moved quietly along the corridor. Then a thought touched me out of nowhere and I stopped short, staring down at the sandal in my hand. Midnight. The dropped slipper. The escape from the ball.
I realised that I was frowning. The thing was so absurd as to be obscurely disquieting. Then I laughed and shrugged.
‘Bring on your pumpkins,’ I whispered cheerfully, and laid a hand on Philippe’s door.
12
These delicates he heaped with glowing hand
On golden dishes and in baskets bright
Of wreathed silver; sumptuous they stand
In the retired quiet of the night.
Keats: Eve of St. Agnes.
Drink to heavy Ignorance!
Hob-and-nob with brother Death!
Tennyson: The Vision of Sin.
Philippe was awake. When I let myself quietly into his bedroom I found him sitting bolt upright in bed in his dressing-gown, with his eyes on the door. The fire, which should have been out hours ago, was burning merrily. The curtains over the long balcony windows were drawn back, so that the moonlight flowed in bright dramatic slant across the head of the bed.
Full in its path sat the little boy, his skin blanched to a waxy pallor by the white light, the black eyes huge and brilliant. He looked very frail.
But he seemed animated enough. He said immediately: ‘You’ve been ages.’
‘You said “dead of night”, remember. It’s just midnight now.’
‘
Midnight? Is it really?’ He looked pleased. ‘I kept the fire on. I knew you’d come.’
‘Of course I came. How d’you manage to be so wide awake at this hour?’ I saw the untouched tumbler of chocolate on the bedside table, and laughed. ‘Oh, I see. Cunning, aren’t you? Didn’t you feel sleepy at all?’
‘I did a bit,’ he confessed, ‘but it kept me awake looking after the fire.’
‘Is that why you kept it on?’
The big eyes slid sideways from mine and he plucked at the coverlet. ‘I sort of hoped – I wondered if you’d stay for a bit now you’ve come.’
I sat down on the bed. ‘Why, Philippe? Is anything the matter?’
A vigorous shake of the head was followed by one of those little sidelong looks that contradicted it. I reached out and laid a hand over his. ‘What is it, brat?’
He said in a sort of furious mutter: ‘Nightmares.’
‘Oh dear, I didn’t know. How beastly! What sort of nightmares?’
‘People coming in,’ said Philippe, ‘and touching me.’
This, oddly enough, was more shocking than any more usual horror of pursuit and desperately hindered flight could be. I shifted my shoulders a little, as if with cold, and said rather too heartily: ‘Oh well, it’s only dreams, after all. It’s not real – unless you mean me. I come in sometimes after you’re asleep.’
‘No,’ said Philippe rather wanly, ‘not you. I wouldn’t mind you.’
‘Do you have the same dream often?’
He nodded.
‘It doesn’t wake you up? If it does, you should call. I’d come.’
‘I do call, but there’s no noise.’
I patted the hand. It seemed very small and cold. ‘That means you’re still asleep. It’s a horrid feeling, but it is only a dream. And it might easily be me, Philippe; I usually do look in last thing at night. You’re always sound asleep.’
‘Am I?’
‘Like a top. Snoring.’
‘I bet I’m not.’
‘I bet you are. Now listen, I’ve a treat for you, Monsieur le Comte de Valmy. Since your honour wouldn’t deign to come down for supper on the night of the ball, would you like supper to come up to you?’