I remembered, then, that Philippe had been writing to his uncle Hippolyte when I called him to come downstairs. He must have come hurriedly away, the pen still open in his hand, and have put it down there before going into the drawing-room. He was clutching it now in an ink-stained fist, and staring white-faced at his uncle.
For this time of all times he hadn’t managed to avoid Monsieur de Valmy. The wheelchair was slap in the middle of the corridor, barring escape. Philippe, in front of it, looked very small and guilty and defenceless.
Neither of them appeared to notice me. Léon de Valmy was speaking. That he was angry was obvious, and it looked as if he had every right to be, but the cold lash of his voice as he flayed the child for his small-boy carelessness was frightening; he was using – not a wheel, but an atomic blast, to break a butterfly.
Philippe, as white as ashes now, stammered something that might have been an apology, but merely sounded like a terrified mutter, and his uncle cut across it in that voice that bit like a loaded whip.
‘It is, perhaps, just as well that your visits to this part of the house are restricted to this single one a day, as apparently you don’t yet know how to behave like a civilised human being. Perhaps in your Paris home you were allowed to run wild in this hooligan manner, but here we are accustomed to—’
‘This is my home,’ said Philippe.
He said it still in that small shaken voice that held the suggestion of a sullen mutter. It stopped Léon de Valmy in full tirade. For a moment I thought the sentence in that still little voice unbearably pathetic, and in the same moment wondered at Philippe, who was not prone to either drama or pathos. But then he added, still low, but very clearly: ‘And that is my chair.’
There was a moment of appalling silence. Something came and went in Léon de Valmy’s face – the merest flick of an expression like a flash of a camera’s shutter – but Philippe took a step backwards, and I found myself catapulting out of the doorway like a wildcat defending a kitten.
Léon de Valmy looked up and saw me, but he spoke to Philippe quietly, as though his anger had never been.
‘When you have recovered your temper and your manners, Philippe, you will apologise for that remark.’ The dark eyes lifted to me, and he said coolly but very courteously, in English: ‘Ah, Miss Martin. I’m afraid there has been a slight contretemps. Perhaps you will take Philippe back to his own rooms and persuade him that courtesy towards his elders is one of the qualities that is expected of a gentleman.’
As his uncle spoke to me, Philippe had turned quickly, as if in relief. His face was paler than ever, and looked pinched and sullen. But the eyes were vulnerable: child’s eyes.
I looked at him, then past him at his uncle.
‘There’s no need,’ I said. ‘He’ll apologise now.’ I took the boy gently by the shoulders and turned him back to face his uncle. I held him for a moment. The shoulders felt very thin and tense. He was shaking.
I let him go. ‘Philippe?’ I said.
He said, his voice thin with a gulp in it: ‘I beg your pardon if I was rude.’
Léon de Valmy looked from him to me and back again.
‘Very well. That is forgotten. And now Miss Martin had better take you upstairs.’
The child turned quickly to go, but I hesitated. I said: ‘I gather there’s been an accident to that chair, and that Philippe’s been careless; but then, so have I. It was my job to see that nothing of the sort happened. It was my fault, and I must apologise too, Monsieur de Valmy.’
He said in a voice quite different from the one with which he had dismissed Philippe: ‘Very well, Miss Martin. Thank you. And now we will forget the episode, shall we?’
As we went I was very conscious of that still, misshapen figure sitting there watching us.
I shut the schoolroom door behind me, and leaned against it. Philippe and I looked at one another. His face was shuttered still with that white resentment. His mouth looked sulky, but I saw the lower lip tremble a little.
He waited, saying nothing.
This was where I had to uphold authority. Curtain lecture by Miss Martin. Léon de Valmy had been perfectly right: Philippe had been stupid, careless, and rude …
I said: ‘My lamb, I’m with you all the way, but you are a little owl, aren’t you?’
‘You can’t,’ said Philippe, very stiffly, ‘be a lamb and an owl both at the same time.’
Then he ran straight at me and burst into tears.
After that I did help to keep him out of his uncle’s way.
5
Ay, now the plot thickens very much upon us.
Buckingham: The Rehearsal.
The spring weather continued marvellous. There was still snow on the nearer hills, and the far high peaks that unrolled below the clouds were great dazzling beds of white as yet untouched by the spring. But the valley was green, and yet greener; the violets were out along the ditches, and all the urns and stone tubs that lined the château terraces held their constellations of narcissus and jonquil that danced with the wind.
Philippe and I went out every afternoon, coated and scarved against the breeze that blew off the snow. The mountain air seemed to be doing him good; colour came into the sallow cheeks: he even, occasionally, laughed and ran a little, though for the most part he walked stolidly at my side, and answered in his slow but excellent English my dutiful attempts at conversation.
One of our walks was a steep but easy track down through the meadows towards the village. At the foot of the slope a narrow wooden bridge crossed the Merlon, deep here and placid in its wandering from one wide and gleaming pool to the next. From the bridge the track led straight through water-meadows and budding orchards to the village.
On the occasions when it was known that our walk would take us to Soubirous, we were given small commissions to execute there, usually for Mrs. Seddon or Berthe, and sometimes for Albertine, but occasionally for Madame de Valmy herself.
One morning – it was the first of April – Philippe and I set out for the village soon after breakfast. It was Monday, and as a rule on Monday morning Monsieur St. Aubray, the curé of Soubirous, came up to the château to instruct the young Comte in Latin, Greek and the Roman Catholic religion. But M. le Curé had twisted an ankle, and, since it did not seem desirable for Philippe to miss his instruction, I took him down to the presbytery beside the church and left him there.
It was the first time I had been on my own in the village, with time to spare. I stood in the little square outside the church and looked about me.
The day was warm, the sunlight as it beat up from flags and cobbles was bright and almost hot. There was a white cat sunning itself on top of a low wall below which someone had planted primulas. The single bistro had put out its red-and-black striped awning, and in spite of faded paint and peeling walls the houses looked gay with their open doors and the coloured shutters fastened back from the windows. A canary, in a small cage hanging outside a shop, sang lustily. Some small children, black-haired and brown-limbed, were intent on something in a gutter. Outside a food-shop cabbage and cheeses and tired-looking oranges made a splash of colour. A boy on a bicycle shot past me, with a yard or so of bread under one arm.
It was a pleasant, peaceful, light-hearted little scene, and my own heart was light as I surveyed it. It was a lovely morning; I was free to do as I wished with it for two hours; I had some money in my pocket; the shadow of the Constance Butcher Home for Girls dwindled and shrank to nothing in the warm Savoyard light. It was also – as a stray warm breeze stirred fragrance from the primulas and brought a shower of early cherry-blossom floating out over the presbytery wall – it was also spring.
I walked slowly across the square, made sure that it was only marbles, and not a frog or a kitten, that was occupying the children in the gutter, then turned into the pharmacy beside the bistro to carry out what commissions I had for the day.
‘Mademoiselle Martin?’ The apothecary came out of his dark cave at the back. He knew me well
by this time. Mrs. Seddon, in the intervals of anti-histamine, seemed to live exclusively on aspirin and something she called Oh Dick Alone, while I (after half a lifetime of White Windsor) had developed a passion, which had to be satisfied frequently, for the more exotic soaps.
I said gaily, in my most English French: ‘Oh, good morning, Monsieur Garcin. It is a fine day, is it not? It was a fine day yesterday. It will be a fine day tomorrow. Not? I am looking at the soaps, as usual.’
I said par usuel, and the chemist’s thin lips pursed. It was his weekly pleasure to correct my French, always with that pained, crab-apple face, and I didn’t see why I should deny him anything.
‘Comme d’habitude,’ he said sourly.
‘Plaît-il?’ I said, very fluently. He had taught me that one last week.
‘Comme d’habitude,’ said Monsieur Garcin, raising his voice as to the slightly deaf.
‘Comme quoi? I do not understand,’ I said carefully. I was behaving badly and I knew it, but it was a heavenly day and it was spring, and Monsieur Garcin was prim and dry and a bit musty, like herbs that have been kept too long, and besides, he always tried to put me in what he thought was my place. I raised my voice, too, and repeated loudly: ‘I said I was looking at the soaps, par usuel.’
The chemist’s thin nose twitched, but he restrained himself with an effort. He looked at me dourly across a pile of laxatives. ‘So I see. And which do you want?’ He heaved up a box of Roger and Gallet from behind the counter. ‘There is a new box this week. Rose, violet, cologne, sandalwood, clove pink—’
‘Oh, yes, please. The clove pink. I love that.’
A slight gleam of surprise showed in the oyster-like eyes. ‘You know what flower that is? Oeillet mignardise?’
I said composedly: ‘The name is on the soap. With a picture. Voilà.’ I reached across to pick the tablet out, sniffed it, smiled at him, and said kindly: ‘C’est le plus bon, ça.’
He rose to that one. ‘Le meilleur.’
‘Le meilleur,’ I said meekly. ‘Thank you, monsieur.’
‘You are doing quite well,’ said Monsieur Garcin, magnanimously. ‘And have you any little commissions for your employers today?’
‘Yes, if you please. Madame de Valmy asked me to get her medicine and the tablets – her pills for sleeping.’
‘Very well. Have you the paper?’
‘Paper?’
‘You must give me the paper, you understand.’
I puckered my brows, trying to remember if Albertine had given me a prescription along with the shopping-list. The chemist made a movement of ill-concealed impatience, and his mouth drew up and thinned till it disappeared. He repeated very slowly, as to an imbecile: ‘You – must – have – a paper – from – the – doctor.’
‘Oh,’ I said evilly. ‘A prescription? Why didn’t you say so? Well, she didn’t give me one, monsieur. May I bring it along next year?’
‘Next year?’
‘I mean next week.’
‘No,’ he said curtly. ‘I cannot give you the drugs without the prescription.’
I was already regretting having teased him. I said distressfully: ‘Oh, but Madame asked specially for the medicine. I’ll bring the paper as soon as I can, or send it or something, honestly I will! Please, Monsieur Garcin, can’t you trust me for a day or two?’
‘Impossible. No.’ His bony fingers were rearranging the tablets of soap. ‘And what else do you want?’
I glanced down at the list in my hand. There were various things on it, listed – luckily for Monsieur Garcin’s patience and my own ingenuity – in French. I read them out to him carefully: someone wanted tooth-powder and Dop shampoo: someone else (I hoped it was the sour-faced Albertine) demanded corn-plasters and iodine, and so on to the end, where came the inevitable aspirin, eau-de-cologne, and what Mrs. Seddon simply listed as ‘my bottle’.
‘And Mrs. Seddon’s pills,’ I said finally.
The chemist picked up the packet of aspirin.
‘No,’ I said, ‘the others.’ (I wouldn’t know the word for asthma, would I? And I genuinely didn’t know the word for anti-histamine.) ‘The pills for her chest.’
‘You got them last week,’ said Monsieur Garcin.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I know you did.’
His voice was curt to rudeness, but I ignored it. ‘Perhaps,’ I said politely, ‘she has need of more?’
‘She cannot have, if she got them last week.’
‘Are you so sure she did, monsieur? She put them herself on the list today.’
‘Did she give you the paper – the prescription?’
‘No,’ I said.
He said impatiently: ‘I told you she got them last week. You took them yourself. You were in a hurry and you handed me a list with a prescription for Madame Sed-don. I sent the tablets. Perhaps you forgot to give them to her. I have an excellent memory, me; and I remember handing them to you. Moreover, I have a record.’
‘I am sorry, monsieur. I just don’t remember. No doubt you’re right. I thought – oh, just a minute, here’s a paper in my bag! Here it is, monsieur, the prescription! Voyez-vous. Is this it?’
I handed him the paper, carefully keeping anything of I-told-you-so out of my voice. Which was just as well, because he said tartly: ‘This is not for Madame Sed-don. It is the paper for Madame de Valmy’s heart-medicine.’
‘Oh? I hadn’t realised I had it. It must have been with the list. I came out in a hurry and didn’t notice. I’m so sorry.’ I smiled winningly at him. ‘Then you can give me the medicine after all, monsieur. I’ll get the tablets in Thonon on Friday.’
He shot me a queer look out of those oyster eyes, and then, by way of teaching me (I suppose) that servants shouldn’t argue with their betters, he proceeded to put on his spectacles and read the prescription through with exaggerated care. I watched the sunlight beyond the doorway and waited, suppressing my irritation. He read it again. You’d have thought I was Madeleine Smith asking casually for half a pound of arsenic. Suddenly I saw the joke and laughed at him.
‘It’s all right, monsieur. It’s quite safe to let me have it. I’ll see I deliver it promptly where it belongs! I don’t often eat digitalis, or whatever it is, myself!’
He said sourly: ‘I don’t suppose you do.’ He folded the paper carefully and pushed my purchases towards me. ‘There you are then. I’ll give you the drops, and perhaps you will also see that Madame Seddon gets the tablets I sent up on Wednesday?’ As I gathered the things up without replying I saw him throw me that queer, quick look yet again. ‘And I must congratulate you on the way your French has improved, mademoiselle,’ he added, very dryly.
‘Why, thank you, monsieur,’ I said coolly. ‘I try very hard and study every day. In another three weeks you won’t even guess that I’m English.’
‘Anglaise?’ The word was echoed, in a man’s voice, just behind me. I looked round, startled. I had heard nobody come in, but now realised that a newcomer’s large body was blocking the door of the pharmacy, while his enormous shadow, thrown before him by the morning sun, seemed to fill the shop. He came forward. ‘Excuse me, but I heard you say ‘Je suis anglaise’. Are you really English?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, I – that is a relief!’ He looked down at me half-shyly. Seen properly now, and not just as a colossal silhouette framed in the shop door, he still appeared a very large young man. He was dressed in khaki shorts and a windcheater. His head was bare, and covered with an untidy thatch of fair hair, very fine and thick. His eyes were blue in a tanned face. His hands and legs were tanned, too, and on them in the sunlight the fair hair glinted, pale as barley in September.
He groped in an inner pocket and produced a tattered old envelope. ‘I wonder – could you possibly help me, d’you think? I’ve got a whole list of stuff to get, and I was wondering how on earth to ask for it. My French is nonexistent, and yours seems terribly good—’
I said firmly: ‘My French may sound won
derful to you, but it sounds like nothing on earth to Monsieur Garcin.’
I sent a bright smile to the chemist, who still watched me, sourly, from behind the stack of laxatives. No response. I gave it up and turned back to the Englishman, who was saying, unconvinced: ‘It seems to get results anyway.’ He gestured towards my purchases.
I grinned. ‘You’d be surprised what a fight it is sometimes. But of course I’ll help – if I can. May I see your list?’
He surrendered it relievedly. ‘This is awfully good of you to let me bother you.’ He gave his disarmingly shy grin. ‘Usually I just have to beat my breast like Tarzan and point.’
‘You must be very brave to come holidaying here without a word of French.’
‘Holidaying? I’m here on a job.’
‘Paid assassin?’ I asked, ‘or only M.I.5?’
‘I–I beg your pardon?’
I indicated the list. ‘This. It sounds a bit pointed.’ I read it aloud. ‘Bandages; three, one-and-a-half, and one-inch. Sticking-plaster. Elastoplast. Burn-dressing. Boracic powder …’ I looked at him in some awe. ‘You’ve forgotten the probe.’
‘Probe?’
‘To get the bullets out.’
He laughed. ‘I’m only a forester. I’m camping off and on in a hut at four thousand feet, so I thought I’d set up a first-aid kit.’
‘Do you intend to live quite so dangerously?’
‘You never know. Anyway I’m a confirmed hypochondriac. I’m never happy till I’m surrounded by pills and boluses and thermometers marked in degrees Centigrade.’
I looked at his six-feet-odd of solid bone and muscle. ‘Yes. One can see that you should take every care. Do you really want me to struggle with sticking-plaster and burn-dressings for you?’
‘Yes, please, if you’d be so good, though the only item I’m really sure I shall need is the last one, and I could ask for that myself at a pinch.’
‘Cognac? Yes, I see what you mean.’ Then I turned to Monsieur Garcin and embarked on the slightly exhausting procedure of describing by simple word and gesture articles whose names I knew as well as he did himself. Monsieur Garcin served me reservedly, and as with Philippe, his reserve sometimes bore a strong resemblance to the sulks. I had twice tried the amende honorable of a smile, and I was dashed if I would try again, so we persevered in chilly politeness to the last-but-one item on the Englishman’s list.