Yet all this was nothing beside the anguish and bitter hunger of the soul that now possessed him. Greater even that his mortification and rage was this frantic intensification of jealousy and desire. Through his hurt and humiliation he still wanted her, through his hatred he still had need of her. And as he sat there with his head between his hands, he tried to find excuses for her to rationalise her conduct. After all, she was only dancing with Harry, and that surely was no crime. One often heard of dancing partners who cared nothing for each other and were united by no more than a purely impersonal fondness for the art.
The music continued intermittently until six o’clock, then the floor emptied, he could see the musicians carrying out their instruments. A long interval followed. Almost certainly Harry and Emmy had gone into the bar – he pictured them close together on high stools. Harry easy and relaxed, on the best of terms with the bartender.
They were so long in coming out, he began to fear that they had left the hotel by another exit. But at last, as dusk was falling and strings of coloured lights flashed on along the front, they appeared, and after descending the wide portico steps came along the promenade. Talking together with animation, they passed so close to him he could have hailed them. But he kept his lips shut tight, and when they had progressed some fifty yards ahead he got up, almost automatically, and followed.
They did not go far. A short distance beyond the Casino they left the promenade, turned up a side street of the Marché aux Fleurs in the Old Town, and entered a small restaurant – the Brasserie Lutetia. Dinner for two, thought Stephen grimly, and he had a sick, wavering impulse to walk in and seat himself at their table. But he had not the heart for it – instead he buttoned his coat collar and posted himself in the shadow of a doorway opposite.
Not many people went into the brasserie – it was one of those quiet places where one could be sure of complete privacy. Once a waiter came out, looked up and down as though hoping for customers, then went in again. A cat padded slowly along the pavement. From the doorway, over the roofs at the end of the street, Stephen could see the dark bulk of the mountains and high pin-points of light that might be mistaken for stars.
He had to wait there until past nine o’clock before they emerged. Only the heavy urgency of his need to discover the truth helped him to maintain that weary and degrading vigil. And the moment was approaching – a tremor went over him as he watched them standing under the lighted marquee. Surely Chester was about to say good night, or at least escort her back to the Place Pigalle.
They were talking to the waiter now, the same one, he had come out with them, and Harry said something which made them all laugh. Then a fiacre clattered up, summoned from the line in the square below, a tip was handed, Emmy and Chester got in. Quickly, as they moved off, Stephen hurried down to the rank, jumped into another cab, told the man to follow.
They drove through the deserted Flower Market into a network of old streets, and swung on to the front; then, with a sinking heart. Stephen saw that they were heading directly towards Villefranche. In no time at all they were there. At the end of the Rue des Lilas, Stephen stopped his conveyance and paid the driver. Further along the quiet thoroughfare he could see the other vehicle drawn up. Both of its occupants got out, disappeared into the courtyard. Now the two cabs had driven off, except for himself the street was empty. Instinctively he looked at his watch – the luminous dial showed half-past ten o’clock. Slowly, he came towards the Hôtel des Lilas, gazed up at Chester’s balcony apartment. The light in one room was on, he recognised it as the bedroom and could see the two figures moving behind the yellow blind. For some minutes longer the light remained on, then it suddenly went out.
How long Stephen stood there, staring dully at the dark apartment, he could not tell. At last he turned and walked away.
Chapter Thirteen
He was back at the Carabacel before midnight. Through the dull ache that lay behind his forehead he knew that he must get away. Methodically, without disturbing Jo-jo and the Croc, who were both asleep, he packed his belongings in his saddle-bag. Having tied his canvases together, he strapped them upon his back and, with a last look at his companions, pushed off on his bicycle. He rode north at a hard pace on the flat road towards St Augustin, with the dim intention of striking the route nationale which would eventually bring him to Auvergne. He felt the need to rejoin Peyrat – he should have done so weeks before. But mainly he was pressed forward by the desire to escape, to obliterate the memory of these last insufferable weeks.
Towards morning he dismounted, stretched out on a patch of heath by the roadside and closed his eyes. He could not sleep but, having rested till the sun was up, he set off again. And now he saw from a signpost that he was not on the grande route but on a subsidiary road which ran along the rocky gorges of the Var and climbed circuitously towards Touet and Colmare. Nevertheless, he would not go back. All that day and the next he toiled on, through small hill villages and remote farm communities, forcing himself beyond his strength in the effort to forget. At Entrevaux he took a wrong turning into a secondary, steeper road that wound up through thick pine-woods towards the mountains. The surface was bad, the going harder here, there was an oppressive roar of rushing water as the stream thundered over its bed of boulders, yet that strange dread of turning back kept him moving forward, snatching a meal when he could and sleeping out on the bare ground, behind haystacks, in deserted cowsheds, with his folded cape for a pillow. A morbid aversion to all human contact kept him from even the poorest inns.
The weather had broken and amongst the hills it was damp and misty. On Sunday morning as he came into Annot, a small agricultural town built on a high plateau, a cold wet wind was blowing from the Alps. He knew that it was Sunday from the ringing of the church bells and the parade of sober, black-clad inhabitants who gazed at him with open suspicion. Sick as he was with fatigue and over-exertion, this hostility nevertheless bore down on him, and although he felt desperately in need of hot coffee and had meant to stop, he did not, but put his head over the handlebars and pedalled beyond the walls. Outside the town the rain began to fall. He was obliged to rest. In getting off he almost fell from his machine. Crouched under a dripping hedge by the road, eating the remains of the cold food he had bought the night before, he felt utterly homeless, without place or shelter, unreal and separate as a ghost.
The rain continued but he went on, slower than before and with a shortness of breath that caused him to dismount upon the steeper inclines. His nose began to bleed, intermittently, and although he attributed this to the altitude and gave little heed, it was an odd sensation as the blood flowed warmly to the back of his throat.
Towards noon he began to feel extremely queer and, through the numbness that oppressed him, a shaft of reason penetrated. He would never reach the Auvergne in this fashion, it was lunacy to continue, he must get to a railroad or some convenient centre without delay. Unfolding his large-scale map, and shielding it under his dripping cape, he saw that by cutting across to the west through Barrême he could reach the junction at Digne, not more than thirty-five kilometres distant. Digne was not much, perhaps, but it was on the plain, and would let him escape from these impossible mountains.
He set off on the cross road. This was wilder, more difficult than before, with a covering of sharp metal which made his tyres bounce and skid. He had less power than ever upon the hills and the additional effort started his nose-bleed again. The sky ahead was low and overcast, the rain rapidly increased, and presently a deluge was upon him. Wet through, with darkness rapidly descending, he became alarmed, lit his carbide lamp with difficulty, and again consulted the map.
He had not peered at the sheet for more than a minute before a groan escaped him. Oh, God, what a fool … what a blind, senseless idiot. Tracing with his finger, he saw where he had gone wrong. Back at St André that right turn should have been left. And now – he checked on the sign, route accidentée, fort montée, isolée – he was on a dead-end track leading dire
ctly upwards to the Col d’AIlos.
A fit of nerves, almost of panic, shook him. He held the map closer. There must be a village of some sort in the vicinity. Then, with a relief he made out the name St Jérôme. This apparently was only a hamlet but luckily was marked by a circled red Cross of Lorraine, indicating the presence of a hostel listed by the Touring Club de France as affording lodging for cyclists and where at least he might obtain shelter for the night. If he were not completely lost he should reach it within the hour.
He pedalled off, bent forward against the wind. The salt taste in his mouth increased, and pressing his handkerchief against his lips, he felt it grow thick and sodden. His legs no longer belonged to him, a hammer was thumping in his head, but when he felt that he could go no further he saw in the hollow before him a wavering cluster of lights.
They grew nearer; a large building surrounded by smaller houses dimly took shape ahead. Completely spent, he let his machine fall and stumbled up the path of the first house – it looked like a labourer’s cottage. His knock remained unanswered for an interminable interval, then the door was opened by a small child who stared at him, then turned and ran. He stepped into the passage, hearing voices in a room at the back of the house. He was breathing irregularly and, though dripping wet, was dying of thirst. They must take me in, he thought, I am going to be ill… in fact I am damned ill.
A workman in a blue shirt came towards him, followed by a woman carrying an Argand lamp and, behind her, the child. He saw their startled faces through a shifting fog. The woman shone the lamp on him, and gave an exclamation.
‘Terribly sorry.’ With tremendous difficulty, as though from some deep well, he brought out the words. ‘Lost my way. Can you put me up?’
‘But Monsieur…’
‘Please … can I sit down? … A drink.’
Before he could speak again the man drew nearer, waved an arm excitedly.
‘Not here,’ he said. ‘You must go along.’
‘Let me stay.’ Again that fearful problem of articulation. ‘I can’t go on.’
‘No, no … further along… not here.’
The man took him by the shoulder and steered him from the house. Believing that he was being thrown out on the road, unable to resist or even to protest, Stephen, swept by a final hopelessness, felt a dry smarting behind his eyes. Then, as they reached the wicket gate, he realised that the man had not relinquished his grasp but was helping him, supporting him in a dizzy passage down the street. Indeed, as they advanced, he murmured encouragement.
‘See … it’s not far… we are nearly there.’
In the end, they reached the large building. There were thick trees on either side. The man rang a bell and, after a moment, a grille opened in the studded door. A brief conversation ensued, then they were admitted to a small whitewashed hall with a bare stone floor and scrubbed benches round the walls.
On the edge of collapse, Stephen gazed giddily about him. Everything was out of focus. The lines of the hall all ran together, then drew apart, like ripples in a pool. Even the porter who had let him in seemed blurred fantastically, dressed in a long coat and hood which gave him the look of a woman. Another man, or woman, had appeared. Then, all at once, the whole distorted pattern dissolved. The workman from the cottage, turning towards this new arrival, misguidedly removed his sustaining arm. Stephen fell forward on his face, the bundle of sopping canvases still strapped on his back.
Chapter Fourteen
The morning sun, slanting through the single, deep-set window towards the head of the trestle bunk, awakened him. He lay passive, his gaze travelling over the few objects in the narrow hermitage which, during the past three weeks, had become intimate and familiar – the single straw-bottomed chair, the Provençal armoire, the wooden prieu-dieu in the corner, the black crucifix on the white wall. Speculatively, he inspected his hand, holding it up to the light, finding the fingers still blanched, but perhaps less translucent than yesterday. It was a test he performed every morning.
A light footstep, grating slightly on the sanded corridor outside, caused him, without moving his body, to turn his head. He was gazing towards the door as it opened and the Infirmarian entered, carrying his breakfast on a tray.
‘How did you sleep?’
‘Very well.’
‘Our singing did not disturb you?’
‘No, I’m quite used to that now.’
‘Good.’ Placing the tray on the chair. Dom Arthaud produced a thermometer from the recesses of his white habit, shook it down and, with a smile, put it between Stephen’s lips. ‘This is no longer necessary. But as you are to be up today we shall make sure.’
He was a man of about fifty, of medium stature, sturdy and square-shouldered, with a broad, pleasant face, faintly blue around the chin, and intelligent, bespectacled brown eyes. His cropped head was tonsured, he wore strapped sandals upon his bare feet. At the end of a minute he removed the thermometer, read it, then with a nod of reassurance pushed the chair and tray up to the bed.
‘Do not forget your medicine.’
When he had taken, through a glass tube, the dark metallic draught, Stephen began his breakfast – a bowl of café au lait, fresh butter in an earthenware pot, sliced bread and fruit. The milky coffee was hot, smelling of chicory. As he dipped bread in the bowl he looked up with compunction at the monk standing – he would never sit down – at the end of the cot.
‘Won’t you share this with me? There’s more than enough for two.’
‘On no account. We have our meal at noon.’
‘But… this is so good.’
The Infirmarian smiled cheerfully.
‘Yes… our food is perfectly horrible. But we’re accustomed to it. And then, we have not been ill.’
Stephen took another slice of bread.
‘That’s what I’ve been meaning to ask you. What exactly was the matter with me? You’ve never said.’
‘You had an inflammation of the lung… from exposure. In addition, you overstrained yourself. As a result you had the complication of a haemorrhage. Quite severe.’
‘I thought the bleeding came from my nose.’
‘No. It was from your lung.’ He paused, glancing over his steel-rimmed spectacles. ‘Have you suffered anything of that nature before?’
Stephen reflected for a moment, then shook his head.
‘I had a cold some months ago. Bronchitis, I imagine. But it couldn’t possibly have come from that?’
The Infirmarian lowered his eyes.
‘It would not be proper for me to answer. I am not a doctor.’
‘You pulled me through all right.’
‘With God’s help.’
‘And a lot of skill. I can’t believe you’re not qualified.’
‘I studied medicine at Lyons under Professor Rolland. In my final year, no doubt as you were called to be a painter, I had the call to be a monk.’
‘Very fortunate for me.’
Dom Arthaud inclined his head, then, as Stephen had finished, he took up the empty tray. At the door he paused.
‘Do not rise just yet. This morning the Reverend Prior is coming to visit you.’
When he had gone Stephen settled back, with his hands clasped behind his head. He still felt atrociously weak. Yet his cough was almost gone and he no longer had the stabbing pain in his side. How good the sun felt on his cheek – the stirrings of convalescence had begun. He did not worry about his condition. The Infirmarian’s persistence in taking his temperature morning and evening was palpably no more than a kindly routine. Indeed he wondered calmly if his illness, with its strange depletion, had not been peculiarly opportune. He had heard of blood-letting as a remedy for fever. At least it had cured him of those pangs which had so unendurably tormented him.
Looking back, he was amazed that for all these months, he should have remained in a state of such utter subjection, cast down by a single word, grovelling for Emmy’s favour. The mere thought of it made him shudder. He rejoiced that he w
as himself again, and swore that never again would he submit to such an enslavement – indeed he went further and solemnly vowed that in future no woman would ever have any part in his life. His work alone would concern him now, and to that he would apply himself with rigorous self-discipline.
At eleven o’clock his visitor arrived. The Superior, a tall commanding figure in his white hooded robe, sat down quietly upon the chair, and studied Stephen with a grave reflectiveness.
‘So you are at last to leave your bed, my son. I am glad.’
‘And I am grateful,’ Stephen answered. ‘It was a lucky thing for me I found your cross upon my map.’
‘It is true that we have a cross. But we are not upon the map.’ The Prior barely smiled. ‘ That mark is for a cyclists’ inn in the adjoining valley. You lost your way, my son. Or, since Providence brought you here, could one say you found it?’
An odd inflection in the Prior’s tone brought a faint colour to Stephen’s pale cheek. Had he given himself away in the early days of his illness?
‘At any rate,’ he answered, ‘ it’s high time I was clearing out. I have given you a vast amount of trouble. You must want to be rid of me.’
‘On the contrary, you are most welcome to stay. You have had a severe turn, and although you are over the worst, Dom Arthaud thinks it will be several weeks before you are fit to travel.’
‘But… I’m afraid I couldn’t pay…’
‘Have we asked you for money, my son? For that matter, who would expect it from a struggling artist? Stay with us for a while. Sit in the sunshine in the garden. When you are stronger life will have a different aspect. You will be better able to face the world.’