‘Why not?’ I said. ‘It’s a good solid damp-proof ground-sheet anyway. And after all, who minds a little dust?’
‘It’s not a ground-sheet. It’s a boat,’ He was already rootling purposefully behind some dirty canvas in a corner.
‘Ça se voit.’ I said untruthfully, eyeing it.
‘You blow it up,’ explained Philippe patiently, emerging with an unwonted spot of colour in his face, from between an oil-drum and the unspeakable spotted horse.
‘Darling, if you think either of us has got enough blow left in them—’
‘With this.’ He was struggling with some heavy-seeming object. I took it from him.
‘What is it?’
‘A pump. It’s easy. I’ll show you.’ He was already down on the floor beside the dismal yellow mass, fitting the nozzle of the pump to the mouth of the tube. I hadn’t the heart to dissuade him. Besides … I had been uneasily aware for some minutes now of the bitter little draught that crept under the door and meandered along the boards, cutting at my ankles. Philippe was busy with the footpump, which seemed remarkably easy to work. If the blessed boat really would inflate …
It would. Presently Philippe lifted a face flushed with pride and effort and liberally festooned with cobwebs, from a business-like rubber dinghy whose fat sausage-like sides would certainly stem any wandering draughts. I praised him lavishly, managed to parry offers to blow up the horse, the duck, and the beach-ball as well (‘just to show you’), and finally got us both disposed in our draught-proof but decidedly cramped bed, curled up for warmth together in our coats and preparing to sit out the last three hours or so of our ordeal.
The ghastly minutes crawled by. The night was still, held in its pall of mist. I could hear the occasional soft drip of moisture from the boughs that hung over us, and once some stray current of air must have stirred the trees, for the budded twigs pawed at the roof. Below in the boat-house the hollow slap and suck of water told of darkness and emptiness and a world of nothing … Compared with this burial in the outer dark last night’s lodging had had a snug homely quality that I found myself remembering – Bernard or no Bernard – with longing.
And it was cold. Philippe seemed warm enough, curled in a ball with his back tucked into the curve of my body and my arms over him; at any rate, he slept almost straight away. But as the minutes halted by I could feel the deadly insidious cold creeping through me, bone by bone. It struck first at my exposed back, then, slowly, slithered through my whole body, as if the blood were literally running cold through the veins and arteries that held me in a chilled and stiffening network. Cramped as I was, I dared not move for fear of waking the child. He had had, I judged, just about as much as he could take. Let him sleep out the chilly minutes before the final rescue.
So I lay and watched the darkness beyond my canvas barrier for a glimpse of light from the villa, and tried not to think, not to think about anything at all.
It was the beach-ball that put an end to the beastly vigil. Disturbed from its winter’s rest and moved, I suppose, by some erratic draught, it finally left its place on a pile of boxes and rolled, squashily elliptical in its half-deflated state, off its perch and down onto the floor. It fell on me out of nowhere with a silent, soggy bounce, and jerked me with a yelp out of my stiff, half-dozing vigil. I sat up furiously. Philippe’s voice said, sounding scared: ‘What was that?’
I reached clumsily for the torch. ‘The beach-ball, confound it. I’m sorry, Philippe. Don’t be frightened. Let’s have a look at the time … Quarter to twelve.’ I looked at him. ‘Are you cold?’
He nodded.
I said: ‘Let’s get out of here, shall we? There’s no light up at the villa yet, so I vote we try that terrace window. Only a few minutes more now …’
The mist was thicker now. Our little torch-beam beat white against it. It lay heavy as a cloudbank among the trees, but over the lawn near the house it showed only a pale haze that thinned and shifted in the moving torchlight.
The lamp still glowed over the front door. Its circle of light seemed to have shrunk as the trees crowded and loomed closer in the mist. No other light showed.
We slipped quietly across the lawn and up the terrace steps. The long window stood ajar, and we went in.
The salon was a big room, and in the light of a cautious torch it looked even bigger. The little glow caught the ghostly shapes of shrouded furniture, the gleam of a mirror, the sudden glitter of the chandelier that moved with a spectral tinkle in the draught from the window. The meagre light seemed only to thicken the shadows and make the room retreat further into dusk. It smelt of disuse, melancholy, dry-as-dust.
We hesitated just inside the window.
I whispered: ‘We’ll go to your Uncle Hippolyte’s room. That’ll have been prepared, surely? There’ll be a fire or a stove. And is there a telephone in it?’
He nodded and led the way quickly across the salon. If he was scared he didn’t show it. He moved almost numbly, as if in a bad dream. He pushed open a massive door that gave onto the hall and slipped through it without a look to right or left into the shadowed corners. I followed.
The hall was a high dim square where I could just make out a graceful branching staircase. Tiles echoed our quick footsteps hollowly. No other sound. We fled upstairs. Philippe turned left along a wide gallery and finally stopped before a door.
‘It’s Uncle Hippolyte’s study,’ he whispered, and put a hand to the knob.
The room, sure enough, was warm. Like pins to a magnet we flew across the carpet to the big stove and hugged it as closely as we could with our chilled bodies. I said, sending the torchlight raking round the room: ‘Where does that door lead?’
‘There’s another salon. Bigger. It’s never used now.’
I went across and pushed the door open. The torchlight once more probed its way over the ghosts of furniture. Like the room downstairs, this was still shrouded in its winter covers. It smelt musty, and the silk-panelled walls, as I put up a gentle finger, felt dusty and brittle, like a dead moth’s wing. From the empty darkness above came the now familiar phantom tinkling of a chandelier.
I crossed the carpet softly and paused by a shrouded shape that seemed to be a sofa. I lifted the dust-cover and felt underneath it … damask cushions fraying a little, silk that caught on the skin and set the teeth on edge. ‘Philippe,’ I called softly.
He appeared beside me like a smaller, frailer ghost. He was shivering a little. I said very matter-of-factly: ‘I don’t suppose it’ll be needed, but every fighter has to have a possible line of retreat worked out. If for any reason we still want to hide, I’d say this is as good a place as any. Under the dust-cover. It makes a tent, see? And you’d be pretty snug underneath and quite invisible.’
He saw. He nodded without speaking. I cast him a look as I covered the sofa again and followed him back into the study. I pulled the salon door almost, but not quite, shut behind me.
I glanced at my wrist. Five minutes to twelve. One of the windows looked out over the drive. No sign of a car. I turned to Hippolyte’s desk and picked up the telephone.
19
So, uncle, there you are.
Shakespeare: Hamlet.
A man’s voice said: ‘Coq Hardi.’
At least it was not the same unpleasant and suspicious voice, but there was no harm in trying to disarm it further. It was five minutes to twelve, but just in case …
I said quickly, eagerly; ‘Guillaume? Is that you, chéri? It’s Clothilde.’
He said blankly: ‘Clothilde?’
‘Yes, yes. From Annecy. You haven’t forgotten? You told me to—’
The voice was amused. ‘Mademoiselle, a moment. Who is it you want?’
‘I – isn’t that Guillaume? Oh mon dieu, how silly of me!’ I gave a nervous giggle. ‘I am sorry, monsieur. Perhaps – if he isn’t in bed? – if you will have the goodness to fetch him—’
He was patience itself. ‘But of course. With the greatest of pleasure. But Guil
laume who, Mademoiselle Clothilde? Guillaume Rouvier?’
‘No, no. I told you. Monsieur Blake, the Englishman. Is he there? He did tell me—’
‘Yes, he’s here. Content yourself, Mademoiselle Clothilde. He’s not gone to bed. I’ll fetch him.’ I heard him laugh as he moved away from the telephone. No doubt William’s stock would soar at the Coq Hardi …
Philippe had moved up close to me. In the faint glow that the front door light cast up through the uncurtained window his face looked small and pale, the eyes enormous. I winked and made a face at him and he smiled.
William said in my ear, sounding bewildered and suspicious: ‘Blake here. Who is that, please?’
‘I’m sorry if I’ve embarrassed you,’ I said, ‘but I had to get you somehow, and that seemed the best way. Linda Martin.’
‘Oh, it’s you. The barman said it was a petite amie. I couldn’t think – what’s been going on? Where are you? Are you all right? And the boy—’
‘For heaven’s sake! Can anyone hear you, William?’
‘What? Oh yes, I suppose they can. But I don’t think they know English.’
‘Never mind, don’t risk it. I daren’t call you for long because it mayn’t be safe, but I … I need help, and I thought—’
He said quietly: ‘Of course. I heard the local version of what’s happened, and I’ve been hop – expecting you’d get into touch with me. I – I’ve been terribly worried – I mean, you being on your own, and all that. What is it? What can I do?’
I said gratefully: ‘Oh, William … Listen, I can’t explain now, it would take too long. Don’t worry any more; we’re safe, both of us, and I think the whole thing will be over in a few minutes, but … I’d be awfully grateful if you’d come along. There’s no danger now, but there’ll be … scenes, and I don’t somehow feel like facing them alone. I know it’s a lot to ask of someone you hardly know, and it’s a shocking time of night, but I wondered—’
‘Tell me where you are,’ said William simply, ‘and I’ll come. I’ve got the jeep. Is it the Cent Fleurs?’
‘No, no. So they told you I’d rung up before?’
‘Yes. I’ve just got back from Évian.’
‘Oh, William, no!’
‘Well,’ he said reasonably, ‘I thought you were there. I didn’t know anything about this business till we got in tonight, you know. I was up at the hut till late last night, working, but I was due today to go with a couple of men over to the south plantations and we had to make an early start, so I slept at the pub. We were out all day and got back lateish, and then I was told you’d rung up from the Cent Fleurs, and of course I heard all the stories that were going round. I rang up the Cent Fleurs and they didn’t remember you, so I skated down to Évian in the jeep—’
‘Did you see Raoul de Valmy there?’
‘Don’t know him from Adam,’ said William simply. ‘Is he looking for you, too?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh. I thought you might have – I mean, someone said—’ he stopped, floundering a little.
I said: ‘Whichever of the stories you heard, it isn’t true. We’re on our own.’
‘Oh. Ah. Yes. Well,’ said William cheerfully, ‘tell me where you are now and I’ll be straight over.’
‘We’re in Thonon, at the Villa Mireille. That’s Hippolyte de Valmy’s place; he’s the brother—’
‘I know. Have you seen him?’
‘He’s not back yet. Expected any minute. We’re waiting for him. I – I’ll explain when I see you why we didn’t go straight to the police. Just for the time being, will you not say anything? Just – come?’
‘Sure. I’m halfway there already. Repeat the name of the place, please.’
‘The Villa Mireille. Anyone’ll tell you. It’s on the lakeside. Take the lower road. M.I.R.E.I.L.L.E. Got it?’
‘Yes, thank you … sherry.’
‘What? Oh, I see. Is the barman listening?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you’ll have to say goodbye nicely, I’m afraid.’
‘I don’t know how.’
‘Say “à bientôt, chérie”.’
‘Ah biang toe sherry,’ said William grimly, and then laughed. ‘I’m glad you’re in such good spirits, anyway,’ he added.
‘Yes,’ I said drearily. ‘See you soon. And thank you, William. Thank you a lot. It’s nice not to be … quite on one’s own.’
‘Think nothing of it,’ said William, and rang off.
The handset was hardly back in its cradle when the car came down the road. We stood together, just back from the dark window, and watched the lights. It slowed and changed gear for the gate. Its lights swung round in the mist and slid across the study ceiling.
Philippe’s hand slid into mine, and gripped. My own was shaking.
He said inadequately: ‘Here he is.’
‘Yes. Oh, Philippe.’
He said wonderingly: ‘You have been afraid too, all the time?’
‘Yes. Terribly.’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘I’m glad of that.’
The car had stopped. Lights were cut, then the engine. Feet crunched on the gravel and the car door slammed. Steps, quick and assured, mounted to the front door. We heard the rattle of the handle. Then the sounds weren’t outside the house any longer, but inside; the slight sound of the big door opening, a step on the tiled floor …
He had come. It was over.
I said shakily: ‘Dieu soit béni,’ and made for the study door.
I hadn’t even considered what I was going to say to Hippolyte. It was possible that in some fashion he had already been greeted with the news. It was also possible that he had never even heard of me. I didn’t care. He was here. I could hand over.
I flew along the carpeted gallery and down the lovely curve of the stairs.
The hall lights were not on. The front door was ajar, and the lamp that hung outside it over the steps cast a long panel of gold across the tiles. Outside I saw the car gleaming in the mist. The newcomer stood just inside the door, one hand raised as if in the act of switching on the lights. He was silhouetted against the lamplit haze beyond, a tall, powerfully-built man, standing stock-still, as a man does when he is listening.
On the thick carpet my feet made little more noise than a ghost’s. I reached the centre stair and hesitated, one hand on the balustrade. I started slowly down the last flight towards him.
Then he saw me, and raised his head.
‘So you are here,’ he said.
That was all, but it stopped me as if he had shot me. I stood clutching the banister till I thought the wood would crack. For one crazy moment I wanted to turn and run, but I couldn’t move.
I said, in an unrecognisable voice that broke on the word: ‘Raoul?’
‘Lui-même.’ There was a click as the lights came on – a great chandelier that poured and flashed light from a thousand glittering crystals. They struck at my eyes and I flinched and put up a hand, then dropped it and looked at him across the empty hall. I had forgotten all about Philippe, about Hippolyte, about William Blake even now tearing down from Soubirous; I could see nothing but the man who stood there with his hand on the light-switch, looking up at me. There was nothing except the thing that lay between us.
He dropped his hand, and shut the door behind him. He was quite white, and his eyes were hard as stones. There were lines in his face I hadn’t seen before. He looked very like Léon de Valmy.
He said: ‘He’s here? Philippe?’ His voice was very even and quiet, but I thought I could hear the blaze of anger licking through it that he didn’t trouble to suppress.
The question was answered by Philippe himself. He had followed me as far as the gallery, and there had stopped, prompted by a better instinct than my own. At his cousin’s question he must have moved, for the stir in the shadows above him made Raoul lift his head sharply. I followed his look just in time to see Philippe, a small silent wraith, melt back into the darkness of the gallery.
>
Then Raoul moved, and fast. He took the hall in four strides and was coming upstairs two at a time. His leap out of immobility had been so sudden that I reacted without reason, a blind thing in a panic. I don’t remember moving, but as I let go the banister I fled – was swept – up the stairway in front of him, only to check desperately on the landing and whirl to face him.
I shrieked: ‘Run, Philippe!’ and put up frantic, futile hands to break the tempest.
They never touched him. He stopped dead. His arms dropped to his sides. I moved slowly back till I came up against the curve of the banister-rail and leaned there. I don’t think I could have stood unsupported. He wasn’t looking after Philippe. He was looking at me. I turned my head away.
Behind me, along the gallery, I heard the study door shut, very softly.
Raoul heard it too. He lifted his head. Then he looked back at me.
‘I see,’ he said.
So did I. I had seen even while shock reacting on weariness had driven me stupidly and headlong from him up the stairs. And now I saw the look that came down over his face, bleak bitter pride shutting down over anger, and I knew that I had turned my world back to cinders, sunk my lovely ship with my own stupid, wicked hands. I couldn’t speak, but I began to cry – not desperately or tragically, but silently and without hope, the tears spilling anyhow down my cheeks, and my face ugly with crying.
He didn’t move. He said, very evenly: ‘When I reached the Château Valmy this morning and my father told me that you had gone, he seemed to think you would have come to me for help. I told him no, you thought I was in Paris till Thursday, but I’d left my apartment there on Tuesday evening, and you couldn’t know where I was. It was only later that I found you hadn’t tried to get in touch with me there at all.’ His voice was quite expressionless. ‘There was only one reason I could think of why you hadn’t telephoned me. When I … put this to my father he denied that any harm had come to you. I didn’t believe him.’
He paused. I couldn’t look at him. I put up a hand to wipe away the tears that streaked my face. But they kept falling.