The Scapegoat by Daphne du Maurier Page A

she said, using the familiar
‘tu’
just as Paul had done. ‘We have been worried sick that you might have had an accident, but as usual you didn’t give that a thought. What have you been doing all day, and why didn’t you go to the Hôtel de Paris? They told Paul on the telephone that they hadn’t seen you at all. I begin to think you do this sort of thing on purpose, just to frighten us and make us imagine the worst.’
    ‘And what would that be, the worst?’ I asked her.
    My retort, coming so quickly, gave me confidence. The dream, or rather nightmare, was something completely out of my experience. I felt that it did not matter what I said or did: however outrageous, these people would have to accept it.
    ‘You knew perfectly well we must have been anxious,’ the woman said, dropping my arm, giving me a little push. ‘When you are away from home you are capable of anything, and you never think of anybody but yourself. You talk too much, you drink too much, you drive too fast …’
    ‘I do everything, in fact, to excess?’ I interrupted.
    ‘You do everything you can to make us miserable,’ she said.
    ‘Oh, leave him alone,’ called the other woman. ‘It is obviousfrom his manner that he isn’t going to tell you anything. You are just wasting your time.’
    ‘Thank you,’ I said.
    She looked up from her work, flashing me a look of understanding. We were allies, perhaps? I wondered who she was. She bore no resemblance to Paul, though both were dark. The other woman sat down again and sighed. I realized now, from her figure, that she must be expecting a child.
    ‘You could at least tell us what happened in Paris,’ she said. ‘Or is that to remain a mystery too?’
    ‘I have no idea what happened in Paris,’ I said carelessly. ‘I’m suffering from loss of memory.’
    ‘You are suffering from too much to drink,’ she answered. ‘I can smell it on your breath. It would be a good idea if you went up to bed and slept it off. Don’t go near Marie-Noel – she has some fever, and it might be catching. They had a case of measles in the village, and if I were to get that …’ she paused and looked at both of us significantly, ‘you can imagine what might happen.’
    I went on standing with my back to the hearth, wondering how I could escape and find the right room. I should recognize the valises, of course, unless they had been unpacked. Even so, in one of the rooms I should be able to find the hairbrushes with the initials J. de G. Bed was at least a refuge, a place to think and plan. Or did I no longer want to think or plan? Laughter, uncontrolled, rose in my throat.
    ‘What is it now?’ asked the fair woman, resentful, complaining.
    ‘It’s an extraordinary situation,’ I said. ‘You neither of you know how extraordinary.’
    The freedom of saying this acted like a charm on my own lingering consciousness of self. It was like being invisible, or possessing a ventriloquist’s voice.
    ‘I see nothing funny in infection,’ said the fair woman, ‘and certainly not at the present moment. I have no desire to bringa blind or perhaps crippled child into the world, which can happen to someone in my condition who catches measles. Or do you mean the situation in Paris was extraordinary? I hope, for everyone’s sake, that you came to some agreement, though I can hardly believe it.’
    I turned from her questioning, reproachful eyes to those of the other woman, but her expression had changed. A wave of colour had come into her sallow complexion, adding to her beauty, but she looked wary, and before she dropped her eyes again to her work she shook her head, imperceptibly, as if in warning. She and de Gué were undoubtedly allies, but in what cause? And in what relationship were the three of them, one to the other? I decided suddenly to tell the truth as a test of my courage, and also because I was no longer sure of my own sanity.
    ‘Actually,’ I said, ‘I am not Jean de Gué at all. I am someone