Authors: Rose Burghley
“He could sell the cottages before they collapse altogether— and the house!”
“But that would not please his ancestors!”
Caroline looked at him a little suspiciously.
“Does the Comte de Marsac ever bother about ancestors?” He looked back at her with all sorts of little lights dancing in his eyes.
“Sometimes I feel sure he does, mademoiselle “ he told her. “Sometimes I am convinced they intrude on him at moments when he would be happy if they would remain quietly in their vaults in the churchyard here, and allow him to forget that he is
the last of a long and illustrious line! For it is not enough nowadays to be the last of a line, and—again!—how may a man concentrate on writing plays (doubtful plays, as we are agreed, which nevertheless please the mob!) while his ancestors keep whispering to him over his shoulder of the mouldering condition of his chateau, and the tenants who press for watertight roofs? I ask you?” and he spread his slim and shapely hands.
Caroline regarded him thoughtfully.
“Doesn’t it occur to him that the tenants have a right to water-tight roofs?”
He shook his head at her.
“Doesn’t it occur to you, mademoiselle, that I do not know whether the roof beneath which I am to sleep to-night is watertight?”
And then he indicated the coffee cups, and suggested carrying them into the small salon.
“At least we shall be more comfortable there, and it is a little less like a museum than most of the larger rooms. The good Marthe may enjoy this distinctly bare kitchen, but to me this naked electric light is a little depressing.” He insisted that she put her feet up on a striped Empire couch once they entered the small salon, and having placed her coffee cup at her elbow on a little table inlaid with delicate woods went and stood in the opening of the french window. The scent of the climbing white roses reached them, and stars pricked the velvety gloom of the night outside. An owl hooted, and this time Caroline thought the sound a little melancholy—perhaps because she knew she was so soon to be alone.
“Isn’t it rather late?” she said diffidently. “If you are going to your cottage, oughtn’t you to be on your way?” “All in good time,” he replied. “And if the cottage fails there is always the inn in the village.”
“How far is the village from here?”
“About a mile and a half—two kilos, as we would say. Two
kilos too far away when you are to be left alone here,” turning and regarding her thoughtfully.
“I don’t mind,” she assured him, while the owl hooted again. “I don’t mind at all”
“Don’t you?” But she thought that his eyes gleamed a little with a queer sort of amusement. “You are not afraid to be left alone in an old house, so full of the ghosts of which I thought you were one when I came upon you in the drive earlier this evening?”
“If there are ghosts here,” she replied, to give herself confidence, “I am quite sure they are all very kindly ones.” His smile appeared, and grew slightly mocking.
“That is because you know nothing at all about de Marsac’s family. In the past there have been good de Marsacs and bad de Marsacs, rather wayward de Marsacs, reprehensible de Marsacs. But never one, I should say, quite like the present Comte.”
He came and sat beside her in a Louis XV armchair. “Do you think he would object to—to my being here?” she asked, with even greater diffidence. “I mean—a friend of his housekeeper, and that housekeeper not here...” “Why should he?” de Bergerac returned softly. “If there is one thing about Armand that none of his friends would dispute it is that he has an eye for a pretty face! Yours, Mademoiselle Darcy, would enchant him, I feel sure!”
He could almost feel her stiffen on the settee.
“Perhaps I had better explain,” she said, in rather a prim tone, “that Marthe took it upon herself to invite me here because of my illness. She thought that I needed a change, and also to be looked after. But the Comte de Marsac might not approve of having his house turned into a kind of unofficial convalescent home.”
“Without any staff to do the necessary looking after,” de Bergerac murmured. “Nevertheless, since you are here we must see to it that someone takes you under their wing.” He blew a cloud of fragrant cigarette smoke towards the gilded ceiling, and without answering her latest query asked more abruptly: ‘‘What did Marthe tell you about the owner of this chateau, mademoiselle? Apart from passing on to you the information that you would not approve of his plays!”
Caroline hesitated a moment, unwilling to involve Marthe, and realising that this was a friend of the Comte who was trying to extract information.
“It wasn’t so much what she said,” she hedged, “but what I gathered.... And naturally Marthe has a certain loyalty towards her employer.”
“Naturally—being Marthe!”
“But when I arrived here ------- ”
“And saw the desolation!” He shook his head sadly. “The proof of the pudding was in the eating, as you might say! The absentee-owner who does not care that his home is more or less falling about his ears! All this I understand, Mademoiselle Caroline—although if you will forgive me I will call you Mademoiselle Carol, for it suits you better, and is not nearly so severe—and there is no reason why you should attempt to conceal your opinions from me, or to soften them, close friend though I may be of de Marsac.” “Yes, but—how close?” she queried a little uncertainly. “We went to school together.”
“I see.”
“And we were both at one time very hard up together, and we share an interest in a little bookshop in the Rue de Rivoli—and it is from this bookshop that I derive the bulk of my income. But do not be misled about the size of this bulk, for it is very light bulk indeed, and without Armand’s assistance I would undoubtedly starve.”
“You mean that he helps you?”
“He is of a very generous disposition, and prevents me thinking longingly sometimes of ending my days in the river.”
“The—the Seine?”
“There is only river that we Frenchmen think of as worthy of being called a river, and that is of course the Seine!”
Caroline regarded him under eyelids that were growing a little heavy again, and the long eyelashes that fringed them looked as if they wanted to flutter down and remain lying limply on her cheeks. She was conscious of weariness dragging over her, washing over her brain so that she began to feel confused, and in the midst of this confusion she decided that their conversation was a little odd. For there was a twinkle in his eyes that had nothing to do with ending anyone’s days in any sort of a river.
“You—you must like one another,” she said, rather feebly.
He made one of his exaggerated French gestures.
“But that is not to say that we approve of one another! Armand’s reputation is not, you understand, above reproach? It is, as you would say in England, a little ‘blown upon’! By which I mean it is a little besmirched, and when those who lead the exemplary life discuss him in their exemplary circles many heads are shaken a little sadly. For he is the last of his name, unmarried, and with not even a close male relative to whom the title can descend...! It is really very sad!” He shook his own head sadly. “Wine, women and song! Late nights and later risings the next day...! Long hours spent wrestling with those eternal plays, and nothing more worthwhile to do anything at all for his reputation!”
“But the plays are highly successful?”
“They bring him in a lot of money—yes!”
“Which he shares with you.”
“I receive the occasional odd cheque—and we mustn’t forget the bookshop!”
She looked at him through eyes that were swimming with tiredness, trying to prevent his figure from actually blurring in front of her.
“You look fairly successful yourself to me,” she remarked. “Your clothes are expensive, your car ---------------------- ”
“Borrowed!” he exclaimed. “And, of course, Armand’s!”
“Really?”
“I assure you—really!”
“Then in that case you ought to be very grateful!” She felt rather strongly that he had cause to be extremely grateful “And however the Comte behaves you must approve of him. You haven’t any right to criticise!” “Dear little lady,” he assured her, in a slightly melancholy fashion, “it is not one of my weaknesses to criticise. Wasn’t it one of your own protestant martyrs who said: ‘But for the grace of God there goes John Bradford’... ?
I cannot claim to be as worthy as John Bradford, but------------”
Then, for the second time that day, he caught her as she swayed slightly and put out a groping hand towards him. He lifted her off the settee and swung her up into his arms, and as he carried her out into the hall and up the stairs she thought drowsily that in spite of his slender build he must be very strong, and very fit, for he bore her with ease, moving swiftly along the ill-lighted corridors and not even breathing quickly when he finally set her down on her bed.
It was a huge four-poster, with cherubic faces peering at her from the mahogany columns that supported the tester; and he tugged back the faded brocade curtains so that she should have plenty of air. Then he went to the window and opened that wide for her, and returned to the bed and switched on the bedside light. He looked down at her a little anxiously.
“Can you manage?” he asked. “Or ought I to fetch someone to look after you?”
She sent him a sleepy, grateful smile.
“No, I’ll be perfectly all right. But I’m simply dropping with sleep.”
“You’re sure? You’re not afraid to be left here alone?” The violet-blue eyes rewarded him with an even softer smile, and she barely shook her head.
“You wouldn’t like me to curl up like a dog on the mat? Outside your room, of course!”
She shook her head more vigorously.
But once he had left her alone she found herself thinking: Those eyes of his, so brown and velvety, were a little dog-like when he wasn’t actually provoking her with a slightly teasing smile. They were slightly audacious eyes at times, whimsical at others, calm and confident at others. They never looked away; she had noticed that they always sought to hold her glance.
It would be comforting to have him on the mat, but he had to be on his way to his cottage.
And then, feeling more than ever confused by her thoughts, and by the languor that had clamped down on her like a leaden weight, she struggled out of her clothes and into bed.
CHAPTER IV
THE following morning, when she awakened, the sun was streaming into her room. When she looked from her window all the promise of the night before seemed to have materialised and paraded itself before her eyes, and she uttered a little gasp of sheer pleasure.
There was the overgrown tangle of garden, shut in and enclosed by high yew hedges. There were the secret walks, the little arbours, the fish-pond that was probably nowadays empty of fish, the garden statuary. Leaning a little from her window Caroline made out and admired a graceful Pan-like figure poised on the brink of a rectangular pool that was a thicket of spreading water-lily leaves and opening buds; and at the foot of a flight of time-worn steps leading down to a sunken rose-garden, a nymph stood complacently amongst the roses.
The moat with its reflected towers was not visible on this side of the house, but when Caroline made her way outside at last her breath caught again as something like a pang of admiration actually shook her a little. For she had stepped out on to the terrace that created an illusion of being a platform poised high in space, and she could look down into the limpid water that slapped murmurously against the lower arches of the bridge that crossed it. Beneath the bridge a flotilla of moorhens was passing, and amongst the reeds on the farther bank a procession of tame ducks kept pace with it. Caroline, who had slept well and was feeling wonderfully refreshed, felt laughter bubble up in her at the way the ducks waddled, and they were plainly attempting to supplement the breakfast which they might, or might not, have received, Marthe being no longer on hand to feed them.
Caroline had been horrified when she looked at her watch on waking and discovered that it was nearly ten o’clock. And now she heard a slight noise behind her and turned to see Pierre emerging through the little low arched doorway she had made use of herself, and beneath his arm was a check table-cloth, and he carried a handful of cutlery.
“Monsieur le—Monsieur de Bergerac has asked me to serve petit dejeunerout here in the open,” he said, a little ungraciously Caroline thought—until she also recognised that he looked a little harassed as he shuffled forward to a table that had already been set up near the parapet. She said quickly, sympathising with him:
“Oh, but I was coming through to the kitchen to attend to myself. There is no need for you to wait on me, Pierre.... I can look after myself.”
“Monsieur’s orders,” Pierre muttered, and spread the cloth with her assistance, and in spite of a freakish wind. He scratched the top of his head and looked a little vague. “Monsieur says it is too fine a morning to waste indoors. He is from Paris, and in Paris naturally the mornings are not as fine as this! But I am concerned about the poor Madame Giraud....”
“You have news of her?” Caroline asked quickly. “How —how is she?”
“Monsieurhas telephoned the hospital, and she is much as she was.”
“Oh!” And then something struck her as out of keeping, and she added: “Monsieur telephoned the hospital? Then he has already been here... ?”
“He is here now, mademoiselle!” Even as he spoke, a slim figure came round a projecting round tower that abutted on to the terrace, and he was looking very comfortable and casual in well-tailored slacks and a silk shirt open at the neck. The opening in the neck was filled with a dark blue silk neckerchief decorated with white spots and knotted carelessly about his bronzed throat, and with the morning sunlight pouring over his sleek head and drawing attention to his swarthiness he looked rather gipsyish, although it was at once obvious that he was meticulously shaved.
“Ah, Mademoiselle Darcy!” he exclaimed, his brown eyes positively lighting up at sight of her. “There is no need to ask whether you slept well!”
She was wearing strawberry-pink linen, with a white belt and sandals, and her hair was a lovely shining cloak falling almost to her shoulders. The sunlight discovered golden lights amongst the beech-brownness, and her eyelashes were several degrees darker than her hair. Her eyes were such a very deep blue this morning that they made him think of a patch of gentians he had once climbed a mountain to pick before breakfast.