The Birds and Other Stories

  "You know what it is with children," she said. "For a few minutes it is a novelty, then they are sick of it, they want something else. You have been very patient, Monsieur Paul."

  She broke off a rose from the balcony, and cupping it in her hands bent her lips to it.

  "Please," he said with urgency, "if you would permit me, I scarcely like to ask you..."

  "What?" she said.

  "Would it be possible for me to take one or two photographs of you alone, without the children?"

  She laughed. She tossed the rose over the balcony to the terrace below.

  "But of course," she said, "I am at your disposal. I have nothing else to do."

  She sat down on the edge of the chaise longue, and leaning back against the cushion rested her head against her arm. "Like this?" she said.

  He disappeared behind the velvet cloth, and then, after an adjustment to the camera, came limping forward.

  "If you will permit me," he said, "the hand should be raised a little, so... And the head, just slightly on one side."

  He took her hand and placed it to his liking; and then gently, with hesitation, put his hand under her chin, lifting it. She closed her eyes. He did not take his hand away. Almost imperceptibly his thumb moved, lingering, over the long line of her neck, and his fingers followed the movement of the thumb. The sensation was featherweight, like the brushing of a bird's wing against her skin.

  "Just so," he said, "that is perfection."

  She opened her eyes. He limped back to his camera.

  The Marquise did not tire as the children had done. She permitted Monsieur Paul to take one photograph, then another, then another. The children returned, as she had bidden them, and played together at the far end of the balcony, and their chatter made a background to the business of the photography, so that, both smiling at the prattle of the children, a kind of adult intimacy developed between the Marquise and the photographer, and the atmosphere was not so tense as it had been.

  He became bolder, more confident of himself. He suggested poses and she acquiesced, and once or twice she placed herself badly and he told her of it.

  "No, Madame la Marquise. Not like that. Like this."

  Then he would come over to the chair, kneel beside her, move her foot perhaps, or turn her shoulder, and each time he did so his touch became more certain, became stronger. Yet when she forced him to meet her eyes he looked away, humble and diffident, as though he was ashamed of what he did, and his gentle eyes, mirroring his nature, would deny the impulse of his hands. She sensed a struggle within him, and it gave her pleasure.

  At last, after he had rearranged her dress the second time, she noticed that he had gone quite white and there was perspiration on his forehead.

  "It is very hot," she said, "perhaps we have done enough for today."

  "If you please, Madame la Marquise," he answered, "it is indeed very warm. I think it is best that we should stop now."

  She rose from the chair, cool and at her ease. She was not tired, nor was she troubled. Rather was she invigorated, full of a new energy. When he had gone she would walk down to the sea and swim. It was very different for the photographer. She saw him wipe his face with his handkerchief, and as he packed up his camera and his tripod, and put them in the case, he looked exhausted and dragged his high boot more heavily than before.

  She made a pretense of glancing through the snapshots he had developed for her from her own film.

  "These are very poor," she said lightly. "I don't think I handle my camera correctly. I should take lessons from you."

  "It is just a little practice that you need, Madame la Marquise," he said. "When I first started I had a camera much the same as yours. Even now, when I take exteriors, I wander out on the cliffs above the sea, with a small camera, and the effects are just as good as with the larger one."

  She put the snapshots down on the table. He was ready to go. He carried the case in his hand.

  "You must be very busy in the season," she said. "How do you get time to take exteriors?"

  "I make time, Madame la Marquise," he said. "I prefer it, actually, to taking studio portraits. It is only occasionally that I find true satisfaction in photographing people. Like, for instance, today."

  She looked at him and she saw again the devotion, the humility, in his eyes. She stared at him until he dropped his eyes, abashed.

  "The scenery is very beautiful along the coast," he said. "You must have noticed it, when walking. Most afternoons I take my small camera and go out onto the cliffs, above the big rock that stands there so prominent, to the right of the bathing beach."

  He pointed from the balcony and she followed the direction of his hand. The green headland shimmered hazily in the intense heat.

  "It was only by chance that you found me at home yesterday," he said. "I was in the cellar, developing prints that had been promised for visitors who were to leave today. But usually I go walking on the cliff at that time."

  "It must be very hot," she said.

  "Perhaps," he answered. "But above the sea there is a little breeze. And best of all, between one and four there are so few people. They are all taking their siesta in the afternoon. I have all that beautiful scenery to myself."

  "Yes," said the Marquise, "I understand."

  For a moment they both stood silent. It was as though something unspoken passed between them. The Marquise played with her chiffon handkerchief, then tied it loosely round her wrist, a casual, lazy gesture.

  "Some time I must try it for myself," she said at last, "walking in the heat of the day."

  Miss Clay came onto the balcony, calling the children to come and be washed before dejeuner. The photographer stepped to one side, deferential, apologizing. And the Marquise, glancing at her watch, saw that it was already midi, and that the tables below on the terrace were filled with people and the usual bustle and chatter was going on, the tinkle of glasses, the rattle of plates, and she had noticed none of it.

  She turned her shoulder to the photographer, dismissing him, deliberately cool and indifferent now that the session was over and Miss Clay had come to fetch the children.

  "Thank you," she said. "I shall call in at the shop to see the proofs in a few days' time. Good morning."

  He bowed, he went away, an employee who had fulfilled his orders.

  "I hope he has taken some good photographs," said Miss Clay. "The Marquis will be very pleased to see the results."

  The Marquise did not answer. She was taking off the gold clips from her ears that now, for some reason, no longer matched her mood. She would go down to dejeuner without jewelry, without rings; she felt, for today, her own beauty would suffice.

  Three days passed, and the Marquise did not once descend into the little town. The first day she swam, she watched the tennis in the afternoon. The second day she spent with the children, giving Miss Clay leave of absence to take a tour by charabanc to visit the old walled cities, further inland, along the coast. The third day, she sent Miss Clay and the children into the town to inquire for the proofs, and they returned with them wrapped in a neat package. The Marquise examined them. They were very good indeed, and the studies of herself the best she had ever had taken.

  Miss Clay was in raptures. She begged for copies to send home to England. "Who would believe it," she exclaimed, "that a little photographer, by the sea like this, could take such splendid pictures? And then you go and pay heaven knows what to real professionals in Paris."

  "They are not bad," said the Marquise, yawning. "He certainly took a lot of trouble. They are better of me than they are of the children." She folded the package and put it away in a drawer. "Did Monsieur Paul seem pleased with them himself?" she asked the governess.

  "He did not say," replied Miss Clay. "He seemed disappointed that you had not gone down for them yourself; he said they had been ready since yesterday. He asked if you were well, and the children told him maman had been swimming. They were quite friendly with him."

  "It's
much too hot and dusty, down in the town," said the Marquise.

  The next afternoon, when Miss Clay and the children were resting and the hotel itself seemed asleep under the glare of the sun, the Marquise changed into a short sleeveless frock, very simple and plain, and softly, so as not to disturb the children, went downstairs, her small box camera slung over her arm, and walking through the hotel grounds onto the sands she followed a narrow path that led upwards, to the greensward above. The sun was merciless. Yet she did not mind. Here on the springing grass there was no dust, and presently, by the cliff's edge, the bracken, growing thicker, brushed her bare legs.

  The little path wound in and out among the bracken, at times coming so close to the cliff's edge that a false step, bringing a stumble, would spell danger. But the Marquise, walking slowly, with the lazy swing of the hips peculiar to her, felt neither frightened nor exhausted. She was merely intent on reaching a spot that overlooked the great rock, standing out from the coast in the middle of the bay. She was quite alone on the headland. No one was in sight. Away behind her, far below, the white walls of the hotel, and the rows of bathing cabins on the beach, looked like bricks, played with by children. The sea was very smooth and still. Even where it washed upon the rock in the bay it left no ripple.

  Suddenly the Marquise saw something flash in the bracken ahead of her. It was the lens of a camera. She took no notice. Turning her back, she pretended to examine her own camera, and took up a position as though to photograph the view. She took one, took another, and then she heard the swish of someone walking towards her through the bracken.

  She turned, surprised. "Why, good afternoon, Monsieur Paul," she said.

  He had discarded the cheap stiff jacket and the bright blue shirt. He was not on business. It was the hour of the siesta, when he walked, as it were, incognito. He wore only the vest and a pair of dark blue trousers, and the gray squash hat, which she had noticed with dismay the morning he had come to the hotel, was also absent. His thick dark hair made a frame to his gentle face. His eyes had such a rapturous expression at the sight of her that she was forced to turn away to hide her smile.

  "You see," she said lightly, "I have taken your advice, and strolled up here to look at the view. But I am sure I don't hold my camera correctly. Show me how."

  He stood beside her and, taking her camera, steadied her hands, moving them to the correct position.

  "Yes, of course," she said, and then moved away from him, laughing a little, for it had seemed to her that when he stood beside her and guided her hands she had heard his heart beating and the sound brought excitement, which she wished to conceal from him.

  "Have you your own camera?" she said.

  "Yes, Madame la Marquise," he answered, "I left it over in the bracken there, with my coat. It is a favorite spot of mine, close to the edge of the cliff. In spring I come here to watch the birds and take photographs of them."

  "Show me," she said.

  He led the way, murmuring "Pardon," and the path he had made for himself took them to a little clearing, like a nest, hidden on all sides by bracken that was now waist-high. Only the front of the clearing was open, and this was wide to the cliff face, and the sea.

  "But how lovely," she said, and passing through the bracken into the hiding place she looked about her, smiling, and sitting down, gracefully, naturally, like a child at a picnic, she picked up the book that was lying on top of his coat beside his camera.

  "You read much?" she said.

  "Yes, Madame la Marquise," he answered. "I am very fond of reading." She glanced at the cover, and read the title. It was a cheap romance, the sort of book she and her friends had smuggled into their satchels at the lycee, in old days. She had not read that sort of stuff for years. Once again she had to hide her smile. She put the book back on the coat.

  "Is it a good story?" she asked him.

  He looked down at her solemnly, with his great eyes like a gazelle's.

  "It is very tender, Madame la Marquise," he said.

  Tender... What an odd expression. She began to talk about the proofs of the photographs, and how she preferred one to another, and all the while she was conscious of an inner triumph that she was in such command of the situation. She knew exactly what to do, what to say, when to smile, when to look serious. It reminded her strangely of childhood days, when she and her young friends would dress up in their mothers' hats and say, "Let's pretend to be ladies." She was pretending now; not to be a lady, as then, but to be--what? She was not sure. But something other than the self who now, for so long, was in truth a real lady, sipping tea in the salon at the chateau, surrounded by so many ancient things and people that each one of them had the mustiness of death.

  The photographer did not talk much. He listened to the Marquise. He agreed, nodded his head, or simply remained silent, and she heard her own voice trilling on in a sort of wonder. He was merely a witness she could ignore, a lay figure, while she listened to the brilliant, charming woman that had suddenly become herself.

  At last there came a pause in the one-sided conversation, and he said to her, shyly, "May I dare to ask you something?"

  "Of course," she said.

  "Could I photograph you here, alone, with this background?"

  Was that all? How timid he was, and how reluctant. She laughed.

  "Take as many as you want," she said, "it is very pleasant sitting here. I may even go to sleep."

  "La belle au bois dormant," he said quickly, and then, as if ashamed of his familiarity, he murmured "Pardon" once more and reached for the camera behind her.

  This time he did not ask her to pose, to change position. He photographed her as she sat, lazily nibbling at a stem of grass, and it was he who moved, now here, now there, so that he had shots of her from every angle, full-face, profile, three-quarter.

  She began to feel sleepy. The sun beat down upon her uncovered head, and the dragonflies, gaudy and green and gold, swung and hovered before her eyes. She yawned and leaned back against the bracken.

  "Would you care for my coat as a pillow for your head, Madame la Marquise?" he asked her.

  Before she could reply he had taken his coat, folded it neatly, and placed it in a little roll against the bracken. She leaned back against it, and the despised gray coat made a softness to her head, easy and comfortable.

  He knelt beside her, intent upon his camera, doing something to the film, and she watched him, yawning, between half-closed eyes, and noticed that as he knelt he kept his weight upon one knee only, thrusting the deformed foot in the high boot to one side. Idly, she wondered if it hurt to lean upon it. The boot was highly polished, much brighter than the leather shoe upon the left foot, and she had a sudden vision of him taking great pains with the boot every morning when he dressed, polishing it, rubbing it, perhaps, with a wash-leather cloth.

  A dragonfly settled on her hand. It crouched, waiting, a sheen upon its wings. What was it waiting for? She blew upon it and it flew away. Then it came back again, hovering, insistent.

  Monsieur Paul had put aside his camera but he was still kneeling in the bracken beside her. She was aware of him, watching her, and she thought to herself, "If I move he will get up, and it will all be over."

  She went on staring at the glittering, shivering dragonfly, but she knew that in a moment or two she must look somewhere else, or the dragonfly would go, or the present silence would become so tense and so strained that she would break it with a laugh and so spoil everything. Reluctantly, against her will, she turned to the photographer, and his large eyes, humble and devoted, were fixed upon her with all the deep abasement of a slave.

  "Why don't you kiss me?" she said, and her own words startled her, shocked her into sudden apprehension.

  He said nothing. He did not move. He went on gazing at her. She closed her eyes, and the dragonfly went from her hand.

  Presently, when the photographer bent to touch her, it was not what she expected. There was no sudden crude embrace. It was just as though the dra
gonfly had returned, and now with silken wings brushed and stroked the smooth surface of her skin.

  When he went away it was with tact and delicacy. He left her to herself so that there should be no aftermath of awkwardness, of embarrassment, no sudden strain of conversation.

  The Marquise lay back in the bracken, her hands over her eyes, thinking about what had happened to her, and she had no sense of shame. She was clear-headed and quite calm. She began to plan how she would walk back to the hotel in a little while, giving him good time to gain the sands before her, so that if by chance people from the hotel should see him they would not connect him with her, who would follow after, say, in half an hour.

  She got up, rearranged her dress, took out her powder compact from her pocket, with her lipstick, and, having no mirror, judged carefully how much powder to put upon her face. The sun had lost its power, and a cool breeze blew inland from the sea.

  "If the weather holds," thought the Marquise as she combed her hair, "I can come out here every day, at the same time. No one will ever know. Miss Clay and the children always rest in the afternoon. If we walk separately and go back separately, as we have done today, and come to this same place, hidden by the bracken, we cannot possibly be discovered. There are over three weeks still to the holiday. The great thing is to pray for this hot weather to continue. If it should rain..."

  As she walked back to the hotel she wondered how they would manage, should the weather break. She could not very well set out to walk the cliffs in a mackintosh, and then lie down while the rain and the wind beat the bracken. There was of course the cellar, beneath the shop. But she might be seen in the village. That would be dangerous. No, unless it rained in torrents the cliff was safest.

  That evening she sat down and wrote a letter to her friend Elise. "... This is a wonderful place," she wrote, "and I am amusing myself as usual, and without my husband, bien entendu!" But she gave no details of her conquest, though she mentioned the bracken and the hot afternoon. She felt that if she left it vague Elise would picture to herself some rich American, traveling for pleasure, alone, without his wife.

  The next morning, dressing herself with great care--she stood for a long while before her wardrobe, finally choosing a frock rather more elaborate than was usual for the seaside, but this was deliberate on her part--she went down into the little town, accompanied by Miss Clay and the children. It was market day, and the cobbled streets and the square were full of people. Many came from the countryside around, but there were quantities of visitors, English and American, who strolled to see the sights, to buy souvenirs and picture postcards, or to sit down at the cafe at the corner and look about them.