Christmas Holiday

  “What’s coming next?” he asked.

  “Cottage pie.”

  “Not one of my favourite dishes.”

  “Be thankful you have anything to eat at all,” his mother answered sharply.

  He shrugged his shoulders and gave Lydia a gay wink. Madame Berger went into the kitchen to fetch the cottage pie.

  “The old woman doesn’t seem in a very good humour to-night. What’s she been doing with herself?”

  “It was the générale’s last day of the season. She went there.”

  “The old bore! That’s enough to put anyone out of temper.”

  Madame Berger brought in the dish and served it. Robert helped himself to some wine and water. He went on talking of one thing and another, in his usual ironical and rather amusing way, but at last he could ignore no longer the taciturnity of his companions.

  “But what is the matter with you both to-night?” he interrupted himself angrily. “You sit there as glum as two mutes at a funeral.”

  His mother, forcing herself to eat, had been sitting with her eyes glued to her plate, but now she raised them and, silently, looked him full in the face.

  “Well, what is it?” he cried flippantly.

  She did not answer, but continued to stare at him. Lydia gave her a glance. In those dark eyes, as full of expression as Robert’s, she read reproach, fear, anger, but also an unhappiness so poignant that it was intolerable. Robert could not withstand the intensity of that anguished gaze and dropped his eyes. They finished the meal in silence. Robert lit a cigarette and gave one to Lydia. She went into the kitchen to fetch the coffee. They drank it in silence.

  There was a ring at the door. Madame Berger gave a little cry. They all sat still as though they were paralysed. The ring was repeated.

  “Who is that?” whispered Madame Berger.

  “I’ll go and see,” said Robert. Then, with a hard look on his face: “Pull yourself together, mother. There’s nothing to get upset about.”

  He went to the front door. They heard strange voices, but he had closed the parlour door after him and they could not distinguish what was said. In a minute or two he came back. Two men followed him into the room.

  “Will you both go into the kitchen,” he said. “These gentlemen wish to talk to me.”

  “What do they want?”

  “That is precisely what they are going to tell me,” Robert answered coolly.

  The two women got up and went out. Lydia stole a glance at him. He seemed perfectly self-possessed. It was impossible not to guess that the two strangers were detectives. Madame Berger left the kitchen door open, hoping she would be able to hear what was being said, but across the passage, through a closed door, the words spoken were inaudible. The conversation went on for the best part of an hour, then the door was opened.

  “Lydia, go and fetch me my coat and my shoes,” cried Robert. “These gentlemen want me to accompany them.”

  He spoke in his light, gay voice, as though his assurance were unperturbed, but Lydia’s heart sank. She went upstairs to do his bidding. Madame Berger said never a word. Robert changed his coat and put on his shoes.

  “I shall be back in an hour or two,” he said. “But don’t wait up for me.”

  “Where are you going?” asked his mother.

  “They want me to go to the Commissariat. The Commissaire de Police thinks I may be able to throw some light on the murder of poor Teddie Jordan.”

  “What has it got to do with you?”

  “Only that, like many others, I knew him.”

  Robert left the house with the two detectives.

  “You’d better clear the table and help me to wash up,” said Madame Berger.

  They washed up and put everything in its place. Then they sat on each side of the kitchen table to wait. They did not speak. They avoided one another’s eyes. They sat for an interminable time. The only sound that broke the ominous silence was the striking of the cuckoo clock in the passage. When it struck three Madame Berger got up.

  “He won’t come back to-night. We’d better go to bed.”

  “I couldn’t sleep. I’d rather wait here.”

  “What is the good of that? It’s only wasting the electric light. You’ve got something to make you sleep, haven’t you? Take a couple of tablets.”

  With a sigh Lydia rose to her feet. Madame Berger gave her a frowning glance and burst out angrily:

  “Don’t look as if the world was coming to an end. You’ve got no reason to pull a face like that. Robert’s done nothing that can get him into trouble. I don’t know what you suspect.”

  Lydia did not answer, but she gave her a look so charged with pain that Madame Berger dropped her eyes.

  “Go to bed! Go to bed!” she cried angrily.

  Lydia left her and went upstairs. She lay awake all night waiting for Robert, but he did not come. When in the morning she came down, Madame Berger had already been out to get the papers. The Jordan murder was still front-page news, but there was no mention of an arrest; the Commissaire was continuing his investigations.

  As soon as she had drunk her coffee Madame Berger went out. It was eleven before she came back. Lydia’s heart sank when she saw her drawn face.

  “Well?”

  “They won’t tell me anything. I got hold of the lawyer and he’s gone to the Commissariat.”

  They were finishing a miserable luncheon when there was a ring at the front door. Lydia opened it and found Colonel Legrand and a man she had not seen before. Behind them were two other men, whom she at once recognized as the police officers who had come the night before, and a grim-faced woman. Colonel Legrand asked for Madame Berger. Her anxiety had brought her to the kitchen door, and seeing her, the man who was with him pushed past Lydia.

  “Are you Madame Léontine Berger?”

  “I am.”

  “I am Monsieur Lukas, Commissaire de Police. I have an order to search this house.” He produced a document. “Colonel Legrand has been designated by your son, Robert Berger, to attend the search on his behalf.”

  “Why do you want to search my house?”

  “I trust that you will not attempt to prevent me from fulfilling my duty.”

  She gave the Commissaire an angry, scornful look.

  “If you have an order I have no power to prevent you.”

  Accompanied by the Colonel and the two detectives the Commissaire went upstairs, while the woman who had come with them remained in the kitchen with Madame Berger and Lydia. There were two rooms on the upper floor, a fairly large one which Robert and his wife used, and a smaller one in which he had slept as a bachelor. There was besides only a bathroom with a geyser. They spent nearly two hours there and when they came down the Commissaire had in his hand Lydia’s vanity-case.

  “Where did you get this?” he asked.

  “My husband gave it me.”

  “Where did he get it?”

  “He bought it off a woman who was down and out.”

  The Commissaire gave her a searching look. His eyes fell on the wrist-watch she was wearing and he pointed to it.

  “Did your husband also give you that?”

  “Yes.”

  He made no further observation. He put the vanity-case down and rejoined his companions who had gone into the double room which was part dining-room and part parlour. But in a minute or two Lydia heard the front door slam and looking out of the window saw one of the police officers go to the gate and drive off in the car that was standing at the kerb. She looked at the pretty vanity-case with sudden misgiving. Presently, so that a search might be made of the kitchen, Lydia and Madame Berger were invited to go into the parlour. Everything there was in disorder. It was plain that the search had been thorough. The curtains had been taken down and they lay on the floor. Madame Berger winced when her eyes fell on them, and she opened her mouth to speak, but by an effort of will kept silence. But when, after some time in the kitchen, the men crossed the tiny patch of garden to the pavilion, she could not p
revent herself from going to the window and looking at them. Lydia saw that she was trembling and was afraid the woman who was with them would see it too. But she was idly looking at a motor paper. Lydia went up to the window and took her mother-in-law’s hand. She dared not even whisper that there was no danger. When Madame Berger saw the yellow brocade curtains being taken down she clutched Lydia’s hand violently, and all Lydia could do was by an answering pressure to attempt to show her that she need not fear. The men remained in the room nearly as long as they had remained upstairs.

  While they were there the officer who had gone away returned. After a little he went out again and fetched two shovels from the waiting car. The two underlings, with Colonel Legrand watching, proceeded to dig up the flower bed. The Commissaire came into the sitting-room.

  “Have you any objection to letting this lady search you?” he asked.

  “None.”

  “None.”

  He turned to Lydia.

  “Then perhaps Madame would go to her room with this person.”

  When Lydia went upstairs she saw why they had been so long. It looked as though the room had been ransacked by burglars. On the bed were Robert’s clothes and she guessed that they had been subjected to very careful scrutiny. The ordeal over, the Commissaire asked Lydia questions about her husband’s wardrobe. They were not difficult to answer, for it was not extensive: two pairs of tennis trousers, two suits besides the one he had on, a dinner-jacket and plus-fours; and she had no reason not to reply truthfully. It was past seven o’clock when the search was at last concluded. But the Commissaire had not yet done. He took up Lydia’s vanity-case which she had brought in from the kitchen and which was lying on a table.

  “I am going to take this away with me and also your watch, Madame, if you will kindly give it me.”

  “Why?”

  “I have reason to suspect that they are stolen goods.”

  Lydia stared at him in dismay. But Colonel Legrand stepped forward.

  “You have no right to take them. Your warrant to search the house does not permit you to remove a single thing from it.”

  The Commissaire smiled blandly.

  “You are quite right, Monsieur, but my colleague has, on my instructions, secured the necessary authority.”

  He made a slight gesture, whereupon the man who had gone away in the car—on an errand which was now patent—produced from his pocket a document which he handed to him. The Commissaire passed it on to Colonel Legrand. He read it and turned to Lydia.

  “You must do as Monsieur le Commissaire desires.”

  She took the watch off her wrist. The Commissaire put it with the vanity-case in his pocket.

  “If my suspicions prove to be unfounded the objects will of course be returned to you.”

  When at last they all left and Lydia had bolted the door behind them, Madame Berger hurried across the garden. Lydia followed her. Madame Berger gave a cry of consternation when she saw the condition in which the room was.

  “The brutes!”

  She rushed to the curtains. They were lying on the floor. She gave a piercing scream when she saw that the seams had been ripped up. She flopped on to the ground and turned on Lydia a face contorted with horror.

  “Don’t be afraid,” said Lydia. “They didn’t find the notes. I found them and destroyed them. I knew you’d never have the courage.”

  She gave her hand to Madame Berger and helped her to her feet. Madame Berger stared at her. They had never spoken of the subject that for forty-eight hours had obsessed their tortured thoughts. But now the time for silence was passed. Madame Berger seized Lydia’s arm with a cruel grip and in a harsh, intense voice said:

  “I swear to you by all the love I bear him that Robert didn’t murder the Englishman.”

  “Why do you say that when you know as certainly as I do that he did?”

  “Are you going to turn against him?”

  “Does it look like it? Why do you suppose I destroyed those notes? You must have been mad to think they wouldn’t find them. Could you think a trained detective would miss such an obvious hiding-place?”

  Madame Berger released her hold of Lydia’s arm. Her expression changed and a sob burst from her throat. Suddenly she stretched out her arms, took Lydia in them, and pressed her to her breast.

  “Oh, my poor child, what trouble, what unhappiness I’ve brought upon you.”

  It was the first time Lydia had ever seen Madame Berger betray emotion. It was the first time she had ever known her show an uncalculated, disinterested affection. Hard, painful sobs rent her breast and she clung desperately to Lydia. Lydia was deeply moved. It was horrible to see that self-controlled woman, with her pride and her iron will, break down.

  “I ought never to have let him marry you,” she wailed. “It was a crime. It was unfair to you. It seemed his only chance. Never, never, never should I have allowed it.”

  “But I loved him.”

  “I know. But will you ever forgive him? Will you ever forgive me? I’m his mother, it doesn’t matter to me, but you’re different; how can your love survive this?”

  Lydia snatched herself away and seized Madame Berger by the shoulders. She almost shook her.

  “Listen to me. I don’t love for a month or a year. I love for always. He’s the only man I’ve loved. He’s the only man I shall ever love. Whatever he’s done, whatever the future has in store, I love him. Nothing can make me love him less. I adore him.”

  Next day the evening papers announced that Robert Berger had been arrested for the murder of Teddie Jordan.

  A few weeks later Lydia knew that she was with child and she realized with horror that she had received the fertilizing seed on the very night of the brutal murder.

  Silence fell between Lydia and Charley. They had long since finished their dinner and the other diners had gone. Charley, listening without a word, absorbed as he had never been in his life, to Lydia’s story, had, all the same, been conscious that the restaurant was empty and that the waitresses were anxious for them to go, and once or twice he had been on the point of suggesting to Lydia that they should move. But it was difficult, for she spoke as if in a trance, and though often her eyes met his he had an uncanny sensation that she did not see him. But then a party of Americans came in, six of them, three men and three girls, and asked if it was too late to have dinner. The patronne, foreseeing a lucrative order, since they were all very lively, assured them that her husband was the cook and if they didn’t mind waiting, would cook them whatever they wished. They ordered champagne cocktails. They were out to enjoy themselves and their gaiety filled the little restaurant with laughter. But Lydia’s tragic story seemed to encompass the table at which she and Charley sat with a mysterious and sinister atmosphere which the high spirits of that happy crowd could not penetrate; and they sat in their corner, alone, as though they were surrounded by an invisible wall.

  “And do you love him still?” asked Charley at last.

  “With all my heart.”

  She spoke with such a passionate sincerity that it was impossible not to believe her. It was strange, and Charley could not prevent the slight shiver of dismay that passed through him. She did not seem to belong to quite the same human species as he did. That violence of feeling was rather terrifying, and it made him a little uncomfortable to be with her. He might have felt like that if he had been talking quite casually to someone for an hour or two and then suddenly discovered it was a ghost. But there was one thing that troubled him. It had been on his mind for the last twenty-four hours, but not wishing her to think him censorious, he had not spoken of it.

  “In that case I can’t help wondering how you can bear to be in a place like the Sérail. Couldn’t you have found some other means of earning your living?”

  “I tried to. I’m a good needle-woman, I was apprenticed to a dress-maker. You’d have thought I could have got work in that business; when they found out who I was no one would have me. It meant that or starvation.”
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  There seemed nothing more to say, and Charley was silent. She planted her elbows on the red-and-white checkered table-cloth and rested her face on her hands. Charley was sitting opposite to her and she gazed into his eyes with a long reflective look that seemed to bore into the depths of his being.

  “I didn’t mind as much as you might have thought I would.” She hesitated for an instant. “I wanted to atone.”

  Charley stared at her uncomprehendingly. Her words, spoken hardly above a whisper, gave him a shock. He had a sensation that he had never had before; it seemed to him that a veil that painted the world in pleasant, familiar colours had been suddenly rent and he looked into a convulsed and writhing darkness.

  “What in God’s name do you mean?”

  “Though I love Robert with all my heart, with all my soul, I know that he sinned. I felt that the only way I could serve Robert now was by submitting to a degradation that was the most horrible I could think of. At first I thought I would go to one of those brothels where soldiers go, and workmen, and the riffraff of a great city, but I feared I should feel pity for those poor people whose hurried, rare visits to such places afford the only pleasure of their cruel lives. The Sérail is frequented by the rich, the idle, the vicious. There was no chance there that I should feel anything but hatred and contempt for the beasts who bought my body. There my humiliation is like a festering wound that nothing can heal. The brutal indecency of the clothes I have to wear is a shame that no habit can dull. I welcome the suffering. I welcome the contempt these men have for the instrument of their lust. I welcome their brutality. I’m in hell as Robert is in hell and my suffering joins with his, and it may be that my suffering makes it more easy for him to bear his.”

  “But he’s suffering because he committed a crime. You suffered enough for no fault of yours. Why should you expose yourself to suffering unnecessarily?”

  “Sin must be paid for by suffering. How can you with your cold English nature know what the love is that is all my life? I am his and he is mine. I should be as vile as his crime was if I hesitated to share his suffering. I know that my suffering as well as his is necessary to expiate his sin.”