Now, for the first time in my life, I recognized dislike. The effect was strange. I was angry for the sake of Jean de Gué. Whatever he might have done to incur hostility, I was on his side.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Your opinion doesn’t worry me. As a matter of fact, I feel extremely well.’
He turned on his heel, walking towards the door, and Gaston caught my eye and smiled. I realized with amazement that I had said what was expected of me, and the answering
‘tu’
, which I had never used before, had come naturally, without effort.
I followed the man named Paul into the house. The hall was small and surprisingly narrow, leading to another, wider passage whence I could see a twisting stairway going to the floors above. There was the clean, cold smell of polish, bearing no relation to the faded deck-chairs stacked against the wall in odd juxtaposition to the Louis Seize chairs beside them. At thefar end of the wider passage hall there was a great cabinet between two doors, the sort of graceful, fluted thing one sees roped off from the public in museums, and facing it, upon a stuccoed wall, a tortured, blackened picture of Christ crucified. The murmur of voices came from one of the half-open doors.
Paul crossed the passage and called through the first of them, ‘Here is Jean arrived at last,’ his voice betraying the exasperation he had already shown to me. ‘I’m off, I’m late already,’ he went on, and glancing at me once again, ‘I can see you are in no fit state to tell me anything tonight. We can discuss things in the morning.’ He turned, and went out again by the door leading to the terrace.
Gaston, the two valises in his hand, was mounting the stairs. I wondered if I should follow him, when a woman’s voice called from the room beyond, ‘Are you there, Jean?’, the note in the voice high, complaining, and once again the chauffeur glanced down at me in sympathy. Slowly, with lagging steps, I passed through the open door into the room. I had one swift impression of vastness, heavy curtains, papered walls. Standard lamps, masked by ugly shades with beaded fringes, dimmed the light. An exquisite chandelier, glittering through a veil of dust, the candles broken, swung unlit from the high ceiling. One long window, still unshuttered, betrayed acres of tangled grassway disappearing into alleyways of trees, and cropping grass, almost beneath the window itself, were black-and-white cattle, their shapes ghostly in the falling light.
Three women were sitting in the room. As I entered they looked up, and one of them, tall as myself, with hard, clear-cut features and a narrow mouth, her hair strained back and twisted in a bun, immediately rose to her feet and left the room. A second, with dark hair and eyes, handsome, almost beautiful, yet marred by a sallow skin and a sullen mouth, watched me without expression from the sofa where she sat, some sewing or embroidery beside her, and when the first woman left the room she called over her shoulder without turning round, ‘Ifyou must go, Blanche, please shut the door. I mind draughts, if nobody else does.’
The third woman had faded, rather colourless blonde hair. She might have been pretty once, and perhaps was still, with small, delicate features and blue eyes, but her expression of defeat, of petulance, destroyed the first impression of charm. She did not smile. She gave a little laugh of exasperation, as the man Paul had done, and then, rising to her feet, came towards me across the polished floor.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘aren’t you going to kiss either of us?’
4
I bent my head and kissed her on both cheeks, and, still saying nothing, crossed the floor and kissed the other woman in the same fashion. The first, the fair, blue-eyed one – it was she who had called when I was in the hall, for I recognized the voice – then came and took my arm, leading me to the open hearth on which one log smouldered.
‘You may well look ashamed of yourself,’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Your opinion doesn’t worry me. As a matter of fact, I feel extremely well.’
He turned on his heel, walking towards the door, and Gaston caught my eye and smiled. I realized with amazement that I had said what was expected of me, and the answering
‘tu’
, which I had never used before, had come naturally, without effort.
I followed the man named Paul into the house. The hall was small and surprisingly narrow, leading to another, wider passage whence I could see a twisting stairway going to the floors above. There was the clean, cold smell of polish, bearing no relation to the faded deck-chairs stacked against the wall in odd juxtaposition to the Louis Seize chairs beside them. At thefar end of the wider passage hall there was a great cabinet between two doors, the sort of graceful, fluted thing one sees roped off from the public in museums, and facing it, upon a stuccoed wall, a tortured, blackened picture of Christ crucified. The murmur of voices came from one of the half-open doors.
Paul crossed the passage and called through the first of them, ‘Here is Jean arrived at last,’ his voice betraying the exasperation he had already shown to me. ‘I’m off, I’m late already,’ he went on, and glancing at me once again, ‘I can see you are in no fit state to tell me anything tonight. We can discuss things in the morning.’ He turned, and went out again by the door leading to the terrace.
Gaston, the two valises in his hand, was mounting the stairs. I wondered if I should follow him, when a woman’s voice called from the room beyond, ‘Are you there, Jean?’, the note in the voice high, complaining, and once again the chauffeur glanced down at me in sympathy. Slowly, with lagging steps, I passed through the open door into the room. I had one swift impression of vastness, heavy curtains, papered walls. Standard lamps, masked by ugly shades with beaded fringes, dimmed the light. An exquisite chandelier, glittering through a veil of dust, the candles broken, swung unlit from the high ceiling. One long window, still unshuttered, betrayed acres of tangled grassway disappearing into alleyways of trees, and cropping grass, almost beneath the window itself, were black-and-white cattle, their shapes ghostly in the falling light.
Three women were sitting in the room. As I entered they looked up, and one of them, tall as myself, with hard, clear-cut features and a narrow mouth, her hair strained back and twisted in a bun, immediately rose to her feet and left the room. A second, with dark hair and eyes, handsome, almost beautiful, yet marred by a sallow skin and a sullen mouth, watched me without expression from the sofa where she sat, some sewing or embroidery beside her, and when the first woman left the room she called over her shoulder without turning round, ‘Ifyou must go, Blanche, please shut the door. I mind draughts, if nobody else does.’
The third woman had faded, rather colourless blonde hair. She might have been pretty once, and perhaps was still, with small, delicate features and blue eyes, but her expression of defeat, of petulance, destroyed the first impression of charm. She did not smile. She gave a little laugh of exasperation, as the man Paul had done, and then, rising to her feet, came towards me across the polished floor.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘aren’t you going to kiss either of us?’
4
I bent my head and kissed her on both cheeks, and, still saying nothing, crossed the floor and kissed the other woman in the same fashion. The first, the fair, blue-eyed one – it was she who had called when I was in the hall, for I recognized the voice – then came and took my arm, leading me to the open hearth on which one log smouldered.
‘You may well look ashamed of yourself,’
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