The Girl at the Lion D'Or

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Nearly fourteen.’

  Doing rapid calculations in her head, Anne wondered whether Hartmann and Christine would soon have children.

  Through the open door there came the sound of laughter from downstairs.

  ‘They do make themselves laugh, don’t they?’ smiled Isabelle.

  ‘I wonder who they’re pulling to pieces,’ said the Countess.

  ‘It sounded smutty to me.’

  They returned to the morning-room for coffee. Anne had never seen Hartmann like this before. She could see that he was happy and she found that she had begun to enjoy the evening herself. In any reckless undertaking, such as she considered the whole weekend to be, there was likely to be a mixture of anxiety and adventure. The latter, she decided, seemed to have gained the upper hand.

  When one or two of the other couples had decided to go to bed, she went upstairs also. Her bed had been neatly turned back and there was a carafe of water on the table beside it. Her clothes had been put away and her nightdress was folded on the pillow, the recently mended tear above the hem rendered tactfully invisible. She undressed and sank beneath the covers, where she fell asleep at once, on her back, without moving.

  In her dream that night she saw a man die. She screamed and ran home, where Hartmann angrily berated her for making such a fuss.

  She awoke, still lying on her back, and found herself gasping for breath. There was a small window just near her head, which she pushed open. At once there was the sound of crickets and a torrent of heavy night air, filled with different scents, and cold on her face. In seconds her head was clear, and she rolled on to her side, away from the window, and fell asleep again, her dark hair splayed on the pillow.

  Hartmann, whose room was above the kitchen, was disturbed early by the sound of activity. A dog howled; pans were thrown down gleefully on stone flags; cups and saucers were rhythmically beaten together by a skilled cymbalist. His head ached. The dog, or was it Etienne, barked instructions to the staff while overhead he heard the gasping of the water tank as it frantically refilled itself against the depletion caused by rushing taps and cranking cisterns whose every activity was relayed along the rafters by the strained and rattling pipes. How kind of Etienne, he reflected, to have given him this room, between wind and water.

  In the middle of the morning they set off for Merlaut. It was not clear to Anne whether this was the name of a house or of a village, but it was a word spoken with great awe by Etienne. Everything at Merlaut would be perfect, unimaginable, beautiful – ah, but they must see for themselves.

  Earlier that morning Anne had found that her hands were swollen with small blisters, and that one of her fingers was bleeding where she must have scratched it while asleep. The itching was intolerable, even after she had held her hands under scalding water in the bathroom. She scratched them until they were raw, scraping the palms against the waistband of her skirt.

  It had stopped raining, though the air remained damp and cool for all the efforts of a thin sun. Hartmann attempted to let down the hood of the car, but succeeded only in emptying a gathered pool of water on to his trousers. Anne began to laugh. They were in a convoy of cars, set between a shiny Citroën driven by Marcel and an ugly black thing called a Rosengart that carried Armand the butler and two maids. Armand, who had been entrusted with the driving of it, had not mastered the movement of the gear lever, with the result that it emitted an even harsher grinding sound than was standard with the machine.

  Merlaut turned out to be a shooting lodge, set in thick woods. It was intended that the party stay the night: four, plus the servants, could sleep in the main lodge, and the remaining eight in out-buildings and cottages on the estate.

  The guests separated; some walked over the wooded hills, some went to see where they would be staying and others sat on the balcony outside the lodge, reading or listening to Etienne. Anne walked with Hartmann, who was still suffering from a headache. She teased him a little, the first time she had dared do such a thing, and he seemed not to mind.

  ‘They’ve been very kind, so far, these people,’ she said. ‘They’re not as frightening as I’d expected.’

  ‘I told you it would be all right. They’re not small-town people, you see. Most of them are Parisians who are pretending not to be. Like me. Paris makes you more tolerant, don’t you think?’

  ‘I suppose so. There’s one woman who gave me a terrible look last night. I’m sure she must be a countess or something. I think she’s called Mireille.’

  ‘A countess, yes . . .’ Hartmann looked up over the fields in front of them. ‘Mireille used to be a singer. She was in the chorus of a cabaret in Paris that was so bad it became something of a cult. It had a snake-charmer who couldn’t charm and a muscleman who claimed once to have been in a show with Josephine Baker. Mireille used to appear with several other women wearing feathers down their fronts. One night she had a note backstage from a man wanting to take her to dinner. She refused, being a nice girl, but he persisted. He turned out to be a manufacturer of pneumatic tyres from Clermont Ferrand. He was about sixty, but I suppose he was kind, because she married him. Unfortunately he died soon afterwards.’

  Anne was amazed. ‘Poor woman.’

  ‘Yes. Though the blow was softened when it transpired that he’d left her several million francs. Now she’s married again – that man with the glasses, Pascal.’

  ‘Not a countess, then.’

  ‘No, not a countess.’

  There was excitement back at the lodge where the others were taking pre-lunch drinks on the balcony. Even Marcel, the saturnine brother-in-law, was showing signs of animation. The cause of it was a shaggy German shepherd dog called Oscar who had recently arrived with his handler, a short woman in a waterproof coat.

  ‘He came second in the competition this year. Second out of all the dogs in France,’ said Marcel.

  ‘Second at what?’ said Anne.

  ‘At truffle-hunting, of course. What else? What other reason could there be for us to gather here at the end of a long summer in this remote little spot?’

  ‘And what draws a dog like Oscar to the truffles in the first place?’ Hartmann intervened, to deflect attention from Anne.

  ‘Oh, there are many theories, you know. One scientist maintains that with pigs there is something in the truffle that resembles the smell of a male pig. This is why sows are drawn to search for them.’

  ‘Do they do much better than male pigs?’

  ‘No, about the same.’

  ‘So what does this tell us of the love-life of the pig, Marcel?’

  ‘No, no, I am serious,’ said Marcel, crossly, as everyone seemed to be laughing. ‘And Oscar, he is formidable. When he goes into the field he is like a virtuoso. His body stiffens and tunes to the one pressing thing that animates him . . . the little black diamonds. Out of all the dogs in France, he’s the second best. And he’s only four years old. Next year, he will be the winner. Am I not right, madame?’

  ‘But of course, monsieur,’ the dog’s handler nodded.

  ‘When can we see the maestro?’ said someone.

  ‘Why, this afternoon. After lunch.’

  ‘Lunch,’ boomed Etienne. ‘A good idea.’

  They sat on benches at a long table inside the lodge and an old woman materialised from the scullery with some bread and a tureen of soup. Etienne deferred here to Marcel, who sat at the top of the table. Jugs of wine were passed round and the talk was of the afternoon’s expedition. The old woman cleared the plates and brought some salad, and later some slabs of thick greasy terrine. Anne was sitting next to Marcel, who continued to lecture her on the history of the truffle. On the other side was Oscar’s handler or, more accurately, Oscar, who rested his furry head on the table between them. When she thought no one was looking Anne slipped him her portion of terrine, which he swallowed at a gulp.

  ‘In 1900 there were four hundred thousand people living in this region. And now?’ asked Marcel, since
no one else had. ‘Less than half that number.’

  ‘Where have they gone?’ said Anne dutifully.

  ‘The Germans killed a good number of them. The rest have gone to the cities. Bordeaux, Paris, Clermont. The villages are empty now.’

  The old woman brought omelettes with what looked like mushrooms stuck in them. Marcel carved open the dark yellow mass and served his end of the table. Anne already felt quite full from what she had eaten. She managed to slide part of her portion on to the wooden floor, where the dog pounced on it, before returning his head to the table and gazing fixedly up at her.

  ‘But it’s getting harder and harder to find these little beauties,’ said Marcel, forking a piece of truffle from his omelette.

  Anne, who hadn’t realised she had been feeding the dog with anything more than a strange mushroom omelette, was frightened that someone might have seen her throwing this delicacy on the floor. To quell a panicky desire to laugh, she asked Marcel about the training of the dogs.

  A dish of boiled chicken was placed on the table and the jugs of wine were refilled.

  ‘When they begin,’ said Marcel, ‘the trainer will wrap the truffle in meat and bury it. The amount of meat gets less and less until the dog will go for the smell of the truffle alone. Then sometimes they give him a little reward.’

  ‘Have you seen your lodgings tonight?’ Etienne interrupted, turning to Anne. ‘You’re in what used to be a granary. It’s very small, I’m afraid, just a couple of rooms, but it’s got a pleasant view. You can’t get the car all the way down, I’m afraid. The path’s too narrow.’

  Anne was by now not sure if the meal was finishing or beginning, and the arrival of plates of carrots, celery and potatoes made the situation no clearer. The old woman went stoically about her work, giving no indication of enjoyment or distaste. The din of laughter grew and Anne found herself caught up in it. Only one thing still worried her: the way Hartmann had behaved towards her in her dream. But she would tax him with it later.

  After a green salad came a tray of cheeses which made her think of Bruno and his taste for the goat’s cheeses of the Vaucluse; but the dining-room of the Hotel du Lion d’Or had ceased to exist for her. All the world seemed concentrated in this small wooden lodge in the hills, in the mingled sound of speech and laughter. She looked down into her refilled glass of wine and her eyes seemed to penetrate the bright reflecting liquid into the atoms that made it.

  Before the coffee the old woman had one more surprise: an enormous open flan with a yellowish egg filling. For this she brought fresh plates, and Isabelle would take no denials from the guests as she sliced it into equal pieces. Oscar was once more Anne’s private beneficiary.

  After lunch they set off to see the dog perform. Hartmann walked with Etienne, who was sweating as the sun bore down on them. He glanced back towards the three women.

  ‘My God, Charles, you’ve done all right there,’ he said.

  ‘All right?’

  ‘Don’t be coy, you old badger. How’s it going?’

  ‘To tell you the truth, Etienne, it’s not going at all.’

  ‘Too young, eh? Too religious? You’ll soon talk her out of that.’

  ‘I’m a married man now.’

  ‘Don’t talk nonsense. What did you bring her down here for? I tell you, if you don’t want to sleep in the granary tonight there’s others who’d like to use it.’

  ‘It’s difficult, Etienne. I can’t explain.’

  ‘Listen, Charles. For well over five years I saw you capering about in Paris. I know you. Now either you’ve lost your touch or the girl’s stringing you along in the hope of bigger presents than you’ve so far given her. You have given her presents, haven’t you?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking, I –’

  ‘Well, there you are. Girls with her looks can extract a good price.’

  ‘She’s not like that. She’s very innocent.’

  ‘She looks innocent, I admit, but you know what women are like.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Stop pulling my leg, Charles. Are you in love with her or something?’

  ‘I don’t think so, no. I don’t know her well enough to be.’

  ‘Well, if it’s not that, what is it? You do want her, I take it.’

  ‘Yes, you could say that.’ Hartmann laughed. ‘Listen, Etienne, I want that girl more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life.’

  ‘So what on earth is stopping you?’

  ‘I don’t know!’

  They tramped up the hill towards a coppice of oaks, where the search for truffles was due to take place.

  ‘I suppose,’ said Hartmann, offering his handkerchief to Etienne so he could wipe his brow, ‘I suppose it’s some sort of instinct. A certain kind of delicacy.’

  ‘Scruples?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Well, I can imagine that to you, Hartmann, such feelings must seem extraordinary.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Etienne gave him back the handkerchief. ‘Perhaps you’re growing up at last,’ he puffed as they reached the top of the hill.

  ‘Is this where we see the champion dog at work?’

  ‘Yes. Just over there. Where the earth is scorched. That’s how you can tell that there are truffles. It’s an interaction between the oak and the soil.’

  ‘You and Marcel should write a book about all this.’

  ‘Be quiet, Hartmann. How could I expect a city dweller like you to understand the beauties of our country life?’

  The dog-handler arrived with Oscar and a smaller, grey-muzzled bitch she said was his mother. While the guests stood round in a clearing she handed the lead of the second dog to Etienne and herself took charge of Oscar. She gave a continuous series of calls to encourage him in his search and told Etienne what to do with the mother. Oscar rambled over the dry ground, sniffing here and there, before sitting down and turning to look at his handler with a long accusing stare. The mother, who was called Gyp, had a faster working style, keeping her muzzle well down among the twigs and scorched earth and suddenly digging fiercely with her front legs. Etienne pulled up what looked like a clump of earth, about the size of a conker, and displayed it in triumph to his guests, who nodded and murmured appreciatively. Gyp pulled him back to work with a tug on the lead, and was soon scrabbling at the surface of the earth again with her paws. ‘What a beauty,’ said Etienne, as he again held up the result.

  ‘You look at Oscar now,’ said Marcel. ‘He takes his time, it’s true, but when he gets the scent there’s no holding him.’

  Anne looked at Oscar, and he looked back at her. His handler made some more encouraging noises and pulled him over to a different tree, against which he lifted his leg.

  ‘In this competition they buried six truffles deep in the ground in an area of twenty-five metres,’ said Marcel, ‘and Oscar, he got all but one of them in record time.’

  As Oscar sniffed around the bottom of the dampened tree his mother unearthed another truffle and Etienne gave charge of her to one of his guests. The dog seemed barely to notice the change of handler but continued on her workmanlike course.

  ‘I don’t know about you, but I find myself slightly disappointed in Oscar’s performance,’ said Hartmann to Anne, while Marcel continued his eulogy of the dog. ‘I wonder if perhaps he may have over-indulged at lunch time.’

  ‘Oh, I expect he’s just getting warmed up,’ said Anne. ‘It was a big lunch, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I wonder,’ said Hartmann, ‘whether Oscar should have sampled all the courses.’

  ‘All the courses?’ said Anne. ‘I only saw her feed him some chicken.’

  ‘And the terrine, and the omelette and the –’

  ‘Oh my God,’ said Anne, ‘did you see? Did everyone else?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Despite Marcel’s increasingly irritated urging, Oscar had moved from a sitting to a lying position and closed both eyes. He was only roused from his torpor by the arrival of
an old man with a pig. The memory of his lunch seemed to leave him, and the sight of the pig fired his limbs with all the animation Marcel had predicted in his truffle-hunting. He had to be restrained by two men as he leapt and snarled at the fat pink intruder.

  ‘The pig and the dog,’ said Marcel, who had a developed sense of the obvious, ‘together they make a bad household.’

  The box was finally filled with the labours of the grey-muzzled bitch, and whatever could be rescued from the jaws of the pig.

  ‘Branches too heavy, not enough light and air for the truffle,’ muttered Marcel, ‘and that wretched pig. Dying out, the pig, you know. Once everyone’s got cars you won’t see them used any more. Too nasty to transport.’

  After the truffle hunt they went off to their separate resting places. Hartmann drove down a narrow track that forked away from the road behind the lodge. The car juddered as its axles took the strain of the uneven ground. Finally the road petered out into a glade of pine-shaded grass and they stopped beneath a tree. In front of them was a path through the woods that dropped steeply out of sight. Hartmann took the suitcases and walked ahead as Anne looked round about her, up through the overhanging branches. Although such dense countryside was quite familiar to her from her childhood, she looked at it in wonder. Hartmann, who must have been more at home in the long carved boulevards and tangled sidestreets of Paris, remarked only that it would have been difficult getting carts full of grain up and down such a steep and narrow path: perhaps that was why they had turned the building into sleeping quarters. The path at last issued into a flagged yard on to which backed a small stone granary.

  The inside was simple. The original floor ran throughout the building, though it had mats on it in the sitting-room, which had had a fireplace installed, and in the bedroom from which double doors opened out on to a recently and roughly built terrace. This gave a view down over a patch of grass to a fence with an apple tree, and thence into a valley that stretched as far as the eye could see. They could look down its whole length, seeing both flanks steeply converge in their hectic fertility, with bushes and trees tumbling and milling together into the valley floor.