Cloudless May by Storm Jameson Page A

Léonie said, glancing at her friend, “and of course, after he got here, he had to regularise his position.”
    â€œOf course,” Mme de Freppel said, smiling. Her smile was. meant to reassure M. Sadinsky: she was not one of those obtuse people who refuse to understand that a Jew must use any means he can to get himself into a country where at least he will not be persecuted, and at best may settle down and become respectable, even respected; she did not object to his slipping into the country and afterwards buying himself some sort of citizenship. He would either join the pullulating mass of refugees, living pitifully by obscure shifts. Or he would climb out, his smile, his wits, his charming voice, so many papillae to cling where they touched. Glancing at him, at his broadcloth trousers and morning coat, she saw that he was outside the anonymous crowd already; in a week or two he would remember to brush the scurf from his collar; a little later, someone would brush it off for him.
    â€œI don’t know Bucharest,” she said kindly.
    â€œA handsome city,” M. Sadinsky murmured. His eyes, looking backward, reminded you of oil-wells; they were deep, obviously, but any light falling on them was turned back at the surface; only the surface moved. He turned his palms out, offering the heat, the rich smells, the feminine luxury and brutality of eastern Europe.
    â€œWhy did you come to Seuilly? Why not Paris?”
    Rolling his lips, M. Sadinsky said softly, “I was invited to come here. You know, one needs an invitation now to enter another country. The age of freedom is over. . . . I had a relative here. And then I had a link with Mme Vayrac. I knew her son when he was in Roumania.”
    Marguerite did not look at Léonie to see whether thisreference to her son affected her. Edgar Vayrac was in prison; he had been there more than eight months; luckily for him, he was arrested six weeks before the outbreak of war: when he was arrested it was because the funds were missing of a half-political organisation he directed, a league formed to provide gymnasia for boys and youths, and blessed by the deputy for Seuilly, M. Huet: after he had been in prison a month, the rumours began. Had he in fact sold information about the garrison in Seuilly? The whole affair was heavy with judicial mystery. It was from his mother’s agitation that Marguerite suspected as much as she knew.
    â€œGive me a cigarette,” Léonie said.
    She was half lying on the couch, her legs doubled under her; her large body seemed to flow as far as her knees and there stop. Her face when she was not talking became dull, a piece of finger-marked flesh.
    â€œSadinsky is going to ask you to do something, my love. He has a scheme. We’ve discussed it together. I told him I knew you could help him. He thinks—I think, too—that we ought to be doing much more to rouse national feeling in the Department. He’s anxious to help——”
    â€œI see the dangers that threaten France,” M. Sadinsky said in a low voice. He looked in front of him.
    â€œHis idea is to form a Joan of Arc League for women. The members would pledge themselves to France; they would wear a badge, hold meetings sometimes—with banners. The League would grow, it would spread to other Departments, to Paris. It could become a big movement.”
    â€œIt will need money,” Marguerite said, frowning.
    â€œThere will be no subscription,” M. Sadinsky said quickly and firmly. “Except, of course, voluntary gifts. The members must buy their badges. That’s all. I know an artist who will design the badge. It will cost a little to manufacture. Perhaps we shall make a small, naturally a very small, profit on it—who knows?”
    He looked at her with his charming smile.
    â€œWhat Sadinsky wants you to do,” Léonie said gently, “is—You know Madame Huet, don’t you?”
    â€œThe wife