She was laughing, looking happier and more animated than I had seen her since I came to Valmy. I realised sharply how lovely she had been before time and tragedy had drained the life from her face.
On the thought, she turned and saw myself and Philippe by the door, and the gaiety vanished. The boredom and annoyance that shut down over it were humiliatingly plain to see. I could have slapped her for it, but then realised that Philippe had probably not noticed. He was advancing solemnly and politely on Florimond, who surged to his feet with noises indicating quite sufficient delighted pleasure to counter Héloïse’s obvious irritation.
‘Philippe! This is delightful! How are you?’
‘I am very well, thank you, m’sieur.’
‘H’m, yes.’ He tapped the boy’s cheek. ‘A little more colour there, perhaps, and then you’ll do. Country air, that’s the thing, and the Valmy air suits you, by the look of it!’ He didn’t actually say ‘better than Paris’, but the words were there, implicit, and Philippe didn’t reply. It wasn’t easy to avoid mistakes just then with him. Florimond registered this one, I could see, but he merely added amiably: ‘Mind you, I don’t wonder that Valmy’s good for you! When one is lucky enough to have a beautiful young lady as one’s constant companion, one must expect to flourish!’
The perfect politeness of Philippe’s smile indicated how completely this gallant sally went over his head. It had perforce, since they were speaking French, to go over mine too. I looked as noncommittal as I could and avoided Florimond’s eye.
Héloïse de Valmy said from the sofa: ‘Don’t waste your gallantries, Carlo. Miss Martin’s French improves hourly, so I’m told, but I don’t think she’s reached the compliment stage yet.’ Then, in English: ‘Miss Martin, let me introduce Monsieur Florimond. You will have heard of him, I don’t doubt.’
I said composedly as I shook hands: ‘Even in my English orphanage we had heard of Monsieur Florimond. You reached up perhaps some six years late, monsieur, but you did reach us.’ I smiled, remembering my own cheap ready-made. ‘Believe it or not.’
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand me. He made a largely gallant gesture with the book which was, I saw, The Tale of Genji, and said: ‘You, mademoiselle, would adorn anything you wore.’
I laughed. ‘Even this?’
‘Even that,’ he said, unperturbed, a twinkle in the blue eyes.
‘The size of that compliment,’ I said, ‘strikes me dumb, monsieur.’
Madame de Valmy said, sounding amused now, and more naturally friendly than I had yet heard her: ‘It’s Monsieur Florimond’s constant sorrow that only the old and faded can afford to be dressed by him, while the young and lovely buy dresses prêtes à porter – there’s a phrase … (my English is slipping in the excitement of talking to you, Carlo) – what’s the phrase you have for “ready-made”?’
‘“Off the peg”?’ I suggested.
‘Yes, that’s it. You buy your dresses off the peg, and still show us up.’
‘Your English is slipping, Madame,’ I said. ‘You’re getting your pronouns all wrong.’
As she lifted her eyebrows Florimond said delightedly: ‘There, chère madame, a real compliment! A compliment of the right kind! So neat you did not see it coming, and so subtil that you still do not see it when it has come.’
She laughed. ‘My dear Carlo, compliments even now aren’t quite so rare that I don’t recognise them, believe me. Thank you, Miss Martin, that was sweet of you.’ Her eyes as she smiled at me were friendly, almost warm, and for the first time since I had met her I saw charm in her – not the easy charm of the vivid personality, but the real and irresistible charm that reaches out halfway to meet you, assuring you that you are wanted and liked. And heaven knew I needed that assurance … I was very ready to meet any gesture, however slight, with the response of affection. Perhaps at last …
But even as I smiled back at her it happened again. The warmth drained away as if wine had seeped from a crack and left the glass empty, a cool and misted shell, reflecting nothing.
She turned away to pick up her embroidery.
I stood with the smile stiffening on my lips, feeling, even more sharply than before, the sense of having been rebuffed for some reason that I couldn’t understand. A moment ago I could have sworn the woman liked me, but now … in the last fleeting glance before the cool eyes dropped to her embroidery I thought I saw the same queerly apprehensive quality that I had noticed on my first day at Valmy.
I dismissed the idea straight away. I no longer imagined that Madame de Valmy feared her husband; on the contrary. Without any overt demonstration it was obvious that the two were very close: their personalities shared a boundary as light and shadow do: they marched. It was probable (I thought pityingly and only half-comprehendingly) that Hélosïse de Valmy’s keep-your-distance chilliness was only a by-product of the sort of Samurai self-control that she must have learned to practise elsewhere. With the inability of youth to imagine any temperament other than my own, I felt that life must be a good deal easier for Léon de Valmy himself than for his wife …
And her attitude to me – to Philippe as well – must only be part of the general shut-down … It would take time for the reserve to melt, the door to open. That look of hers wasn’t apprehension: it was a kind of waiting, an appraisal, no more. It would take time. Perhaps she was still only wondering, as I was, why Léon de Valmy thought she’d made ‘a very great mistake …’
She was setting a stitch with delicate care. There was a lamp at her elbow. The light shone softly on the thin white hand. The needle threaded the canvas with moving sparks. She didn’t look up. ‘Come and sit by me, Philippe, on this footstool. You may stay ten minutes … no, Miss Martin, don’t slip away. Sit down and entertain Monsieur Florimond for me.’
The mask was on again. She sat, composed and elegant as ever over her needlework. She even managed to appear faintly interested as she put Philippe through the usual catechism about his day’s activities, and listened to his polite, painstaking replies.
Beside me Florimond said: ‘Won’t you sit here?’
I turned gratefully towards him, to find him watching me with those mild eyes that nevertheless seemed to miss nothing. He may have noticed the ebb-and-flow of invitation and rebuff that had left me silent and stranded; at any rate he now appeared to lay himself out to amuse me. His repertoire of gently scandalous stories was extremely entertaining and probably at least half true, and – as I knew his Paris better than he realised – I was soon enjoying myself immensely. He flirted a very little, too – oh, so expertly! – and looked slightly disconcerted and then delighted when he found that his gallantries amused instead of confusing me. He would have been even more disconcerted if he’d known that, in a queer sort of way, he was reminding me of Daddy: I hadn’t heard this sort of clever, over-sophisticated chatter since I’d last been allowed in to one of Daddy’s drink-and-verses jamborees nine years before. I may be forgiven if I enjoyed every moment of the oddly nostalgic rubbish that we talked.
Or would have done, if every now and again I hadn’t seen Héloïse de Valmy’s cool eyes watching me with that indefinable expression which might have been appraisal, or wariness, or – if it weren’t fantastic – fear.
And if I hadn’t been wondering who had reported on the ‘hourly’ improvement of my French.
* * *
The entry of Seddon with the cocktail tray interrupted us. I looked inquiringly at Madame de Valmy, and Philippe made as if to get to his feet.
But before she could dismiss us Florimond said comfortably: ‘Don’t drive the child away, Héloïse. Now he’s said his catechism perhaps you’ll deliver him over to me.’
She smiled, raising her delicate brows. ‘What do you want with him, Carlo?’
He had finally put down The Tale of Genji on the extreme edge of a fragile-looking coffee table, and was fishing in one untidy pocket with a large hand. He grinned at Philippe, who was watching him with that guarded look I hated to se
e, and I saw the child’s face relax a little in reply. ‘Last time I saw you, my lad,’ said Florimond, ‘I was trying to initiate you into the only civilised pastime for men of sense. Ah, here we are …’ As he spoke he fished a small folded board out of one pocket. It was a traveller’s chess-set, complete with tiny men in red and white.
Madame de Valmy laughed. ‘The ruling passion,’ she said, her cool voice almost indulgent. ‘Very well, Carlo, but he must go upstairs at a quarter past, no later. Berthe will be waiting for him.’
That this was not true she knew quite well, and so did I. Though the conversation was now in French, I saw her give me a quick glance, and kept my face noncommittal. It was interesting that I wasn’t the only one who schemed to keep Philippe out of his uncle’s way.
Philippe had dragged his stool eagerly enough across to Florimond’s chair and the two of them were already poring over the board.
‘Now,’ said Florimond cheerfully, ‘let’s see if you can remember any of the rules, mon gars. I seem to recollect some erratic movements last time you and I were engaged, but there’s a sort of wild freshness about your conception of the game which has its own surprising results. Your move.’
‘I moved,’ said Philippe demurely, ‘while you were talking.’
‘Did you, pardieu? Ah, the king’s pawn. A classic gambit, monsieur … and I, this pawn. So.’
Philippe bent over the board, his brows fiercely knitted, his whole small being concentrated on the game, while above him Florimond, leaning back vast in his chair, with cigar-ash spilling down his beautifully-cut jacket, watched him indulgently, never ceasing for a moment the gentle, aimless flow of words, of which it was very obvious that Philippe, if indeed he was listening at all, would understand only one in three.
I sat quietly and watched them, feeling a warm, almost affectionate glow towards this large and distinguished Parisian who, among all his other preoccupations, could bother to make a lonely small boy feel he was wanted. From the couturier’s talk you would suppose that he had had nothing to do for the past year but look forward to another game with Philippe.
I noticed then that Madame de Valmy wasn’t sewing. Her hands lay idle in the tumble of embroidery in her lap. I thought that she was interested in the game until I saw that she wasn’t watching the board. Her eyes were fixed on the back of Philippe’s down-bent head. She must have been deep in some faraway thoughts, because when Philippe made a sudden exclamation she jumped visibly.
He gave a little whoop of glee and pounced on the board. ‘Your queen! Your queen! Monsieur, I’ve got your queen!’
‘So I see,’ said Florimond, unperturbed. ‘But will you kindly tell me, Capablanca, by what new law you were able to move your piece straight down the board to do so?’
‘There was nothing in the way,’ explained Philippe kindly.
‘No. But the piece you moved, mon vieux, was a bishop. I’m sorry to be petty about it, but there is a rule which restricts the bishop to a diagonal line. Nugatory, you will say; trifling … but there it is. Medes and Persians, Philippe.’
‘A bishop?’ said Philippe, seizing on the one word that made sense.
‘The ones with the pointed hats,’ said Florimond tranquilly, ‘are the bishops.’
‘Oh,’ said Philippe. He looked up at his opponent and grinned, not in the least abashed. ‘I forgot. You can have your queen back then.’
‘I am grateful. Thank you. Now, it’s still your move and I should suggest that you observe again the relative positions of your bishop and my queen.’
Philippe concentrated. ‘There is nothing between them,’ he said, uncertainly.
‘Exactly.’
‘Well – oh!’ The small hand hastily scooped the lawless bishop out of the queen’s path. ‘There. I move him there.’
Florimond chuckled. ‘Very wise,’ he said. ‘Very wise.’ From the way he leaned forward to scan the board through a thoughtful cloud of tobacco-smoke you would have thought he was matched with a master instead of a small boy who didn’t even know the rules.
I glanced at the clock. Sixteen minutes past six. I looked in surprise at Madame de Valmy, whom I had suspected of a clock-watching nervousness almost equal to my own. She had dropped her hands in her lap again and was staring at the fire. She was a hundred miles away. I wondered where … no pleasant place, I thought.
I said: ‘Madame.’
She started, and picked up her embroidery so quickly that she pricked her finger. I said: ‘I’m sorry, madame, I startled you. I think it’s time I took Philippe upstairs, isn’t it?’
I had my back to the door so I neither saw nor heard it open. It was the quick turn of Philippe’s head and the widening of the black eyes that told me. Léon de Valmy’s beautiful voice said:
‘Ah, Philippe. No, don’t move. Carlo, how delightful! Why don’t we see you more often?’
The wheelchair glided silently forward as he spoke. For such a quiet entrance the effect was remarkable enough. Philippe jumped off his footstool and stood staring at his uncle like a mesmerised bird, Monsieur Florimond hoisted himself again to his feet, Héloïse de Valmy dropped her embroidery and turned quickly towards her husband, while I slid out of my place as his chair passed me and retired towards my usual distant window-seat.
I didn’t think Léon de Valmy had noticed me, but Philippe had. He, too, made a movement as if to escape, but was netted, so to speak, with a word.
‘No, indeed, Philippe. It’s all too rarely that I get a chance to see you. We must thank Monsieur Florimond for bringing me in early. Sit down.’
The child obeyed. The wheelchair slid up beside the sofa and stopped. Léon de Valmy touched his wife’s hand. ‘Your devotion to duty touches me, Héloïse. It does really.’
Only an ear that was tuned to it could have detected the taunt in the smooth voice. I saw their eyes meet, and Héloïse de Valmy smiled, and for the second time that evening I felt the scald of a little spurt of anger. Did they find even half-an-hour out of the day intolerably much to give to Philippe? And did they have to make it plain? This time Philippe didn’t miss it. I saw the swift upward slant of his lashes at his uncle, and the too-familiar sullenness settle on the pale little face, and thought: why don’t you pick someone your own weight, damn you …?
The next second the incident might have been illusion. Léon de Valmy, obviously in the best of spirits, was welcoming Monsieur Florimond almost gaily. ‘It’s very nice of you to look us up, Carlo. What brought you to Geneva?’
Florimond lowered himself once more into his chair. ‘I came on the track of a material.’ He made another of his large gestures, this time towards The Tale of Genji, which promptly fell onto the floor. ‘Take a look at those pictures some time, Héloïse, and tell me if you ever saw anything to touch that elegance, that courteous silverpoint grace just on the hither side of decadence. … Ah, thank you, mon lapin.’ This to Philippe, who had quietly picked up the book and was handing it to him. ‘Give it to your aunt, p’tit. C’est formidable, hein?’
She glanced at it. ‘What’s this, Carlo?’
‘A threat to your peace of mind and my pocket,’ said Léon de Valmy, smiling. ‘The “mandarin” line, or some such thing, I don’t doubt, and just on the hither side of decadence at that. I confess I can’t see you in it, my dear. I doubt if I shall permit it.’
Florimond laughed. ‘Only the material, I do assure you, only the material! And that’s as much as I shall tell you. Rose Gautier and I have concocted something between us that ought to flutter the dovecotes next November, and I came up to keep a father’s eye on it in the making.’ He grinned amiably at his host. ‘At least, that’s the excuse. I always try to desert Paris at this juncture if I possibly can.’
‘How’s the collection going?’ asked Madame.
Florimond dropped a gout of ash down his shirt-front, and wiped it placidly aside across his lapel. ‘At the moment it’s hardly even conceived. Not a twitch, not a pang. I shall not be in labour for many months t
o come, and then we shall have the usual lightning and half-aborted litter to be licked into shape in a frenzy of blood and tears.’ Here his eye fell on Philippe, silent on his stool, and he added, with no perceptible change of tone: ‘There was thick mist lying on the road between here and Thonon.’
Léon de Valmy was busy at the cocktail tray. He handed his wife a glass. ‘Really? Bad?’
‘In places. But I fancy it’s only local. It was clear at Geneva, though of course it may cloud up later along the Lake. Ah, thank you.’
Léon de Valmy poured his own drink, then as his chair turned again into the circle round the hearth he caught sight of the chessboard on the low table.
The black brows rose. ‘Chess? Do you never move without that thing, Carlo?’
‘Never. May I hope you’ll give me a game tonight?’
‘With pleasure. But not with that collection of dressmakers’ pins, I beg of you. I don’t play my best when I’ve to use a telescope.’
‘It’s always pure joy to play with that set of yours,’ said Florimond, ‘quite apart from the fact that you’re a foeman worthy of my steel – which is one way of saying that you beat me four times out of five.’
‘H’m.’ Léon de Valmy was surveying the board. ‘It would certainly appear that Red was playing a pretty short-sighted game in every sense of the word. I knew you were not chessminded, Héloïse, my dear, but I didn’t know you were quite as bad as that.’
She merely smiled, not even bothering to deny it. There was no need anyway. He knew who’d been playing, and Philippe knew he knew.