else. We met in Le Mans last night, and changed clothes, and he has disappeared in my car, heaven knows where, and I am here in his place. You must admit it’s an extraordinary situation.’
I expected an outburst from the fair woman, but instead she sighed again, gazing a moment at the single smouldering log on the hearth. Ignoring me she yawned, and turning towards the other woman said, ‘Was Paul going to be late this evening? He did not tell me.’
‘After a rotary club dinner of course he’ll be late,’ the dark one replied. ‘Have you ever known Paul back early on those occasions?’
‘He was not in much of a mood to enjoy himself,’ said the other, ‘and seeing Jean come home in this sort of condition won’t have improved his temper.’
Neither of them glanced in my direction. My remark, which they must have interpreted as some tasteless joke, had fallen so flat that they had not even thought it worthwhile to make a crushing retort. This surely proved that deception was complete.I could behave as I pleased, say anything, do anything: they would merely believe me to be drunk or mad. The sensation was indescribable. Driving the Renault had been the first moment of intoxication, but now that I had passed the test of speaking to de Gué’s family, embracing them, even, and still they had sensed nothing unusual, the feeling of power was overwhelming. I could, if I chose, do incalculable harm to these people whom I did not know – injure them, upset their lives, put them at odds one with another – and it would not matter to me because they were dummies, strangers, they had nothing to do with my life. When Jean de Gué left me sleeping in the hotel in Le Mans, did he realize the danger? Was his action not the wild prank it appeared, but a deliberate desire that I might wreck the home which he said possessed him?
I was aware of the dark woman’s eyes upon me, brooding, suspicious. ‘Why don’t you go upstairs as Françoise suggests?’ she said. Her manner was peculiar. It was as though she wanted to get me out of the room, afraid that I might say something out of place.
‘Very well, I will,’ I said, and then I added, ‘You were both right. I drank much too much in Le Mans. I spent the day there senseless in a hotel.’
The fact that it was true added flavour to deception. Both women stared. Neither said anything. I crossed the floor and went out of the half-open door into the hall beyond. I heard the one called Françoise break into a torrent of words as soon as I left the room.
The hall was empty. I listened at the other door, on the further side of the great cabinet, and could hear the distant sound of kitchen noises, running water, the clatter of plates. I decided to try the stairs. The first flight ended in a long corridor, leading left and right, and above me was a further flight to a second floor. I hesitated, then turned left along the corridor. It was dark, lighted by a single electric bulb without a shade. The boards creaked under my feet. I was seized with a furtiveexcitement as I put out my hand and turned the handle of the door at the far end of the corridor. The room was dark. I felt for a switch. The light revealed a bleak high room, dark red curtains drawn across the windows, a high single bed also draped with red, above which hung a large reproduction of Guido Reni’s ‘Ecce Homo’. I could see by its shape that this was a room in one of the towers, for the windows were circular, forming as it were an alcove, and this had been adapted as a place for prayer, with a prie-dieu, a crucifix, even a stoup for Holy Water. This little cell was bare but for its sparse religious trimmings, and the rest of the room was furnished with a bureau, chairs, and a table, besides the heavy chest-of-drawers and wardrobe, suggesting its uncomfortable use as sitting-room and bedroom combined. Another religious picture faced the bed, a tortured reproduction of the Scourging of Christ, and on the wall
I expected an outburst from the fair woman, but instead she sighed again, gazing a moment at the single smouldering log on the hearth. Ignoring me she yawned, and turning towards the other woman said, ‘Was Paul going to be late this evening? He did not tell me.’
‘After a rotary club dinner of course he’ll be late,’ the dark one replied. ‘Have you ever known Paul back early on those occasions?’
‘He was not in much of a mood to enjoy himself,’ said the other, ‘and seeing Jean come home in this sort of condition won’t have improved his temper.’
Neither of them glanced in my direction. My remark, which they must have interpreted as some tasteless joke, had fallen so flat that they had not even thought it worthwhile to make a crushing retort. This surely proved that deception was complete.I could behave as I pleased, say anything, do anything: they would merely believe me to be drunk or mad. The sensation was indescribable. Driving the Renault had been the first moment of intoxication, but now that I had passed the test of speaking to de Gué’s family, embracing them, even, and still they had sensed nothing unusual, the feeling of power was overwhelming. I could, if I chose, do incalculable harm to these people whom I did not know – injure them, upset their lives, put them at odds one with another – and it would not matter to me because they were dummies, strangers, they had nothing to do with my life. When Jean de Gué left me sleeping in the hotel in Le Mans, did he realize the danger? Was his action not the wild prank it appeared, but a deliberate desire that I might wreck the home which he said possessed him?
I was aware of the dark woman’s eyes upon me, brooding, suspicious. ‘Why don’t you go upstairs as Françoise suggests?’ she said. Her manner was peculiar. It was as though she wanted to get me out of the room, afraid that I might say something out of place.
‘Very well, I will,’ I said, and then I added, ‘You were both right. I drank much too much in Le Mans. I spent the day there senseless in a hotel.’
The fact that it was true added flavour to deception. Both women stared. Neither said anything. I crossed the floor and went out of the half-open door into the hall beyond. I heard the one called Françoise break into a torrent of words as soon as I left the room.
The hall was empty. I listened at the other door, on the further side of the great cabinet, and could hear the distant sound of kitchen noises, running water, the clatter of plates. I decided to try the stairs. The first flight ended in a long corridor, leading left and right, and above me was a further flight to a second floor. I hesitated, then turned left along the corridor. It was dark, lighted by a single electric bulb without a shade. The boards creaked under my feet. I was seized with a furtiveexcitement as I put out my hand and turned the handle of the door at the far end of the corridor. The room was dark. I felt for a switch. The light revealed a bleak high room, dark red curtains drawn across the windows, a high single bed also draped with red, above which hung a large reproduction of Guido Reni’s ‘Ecce Homo’. I could see by its shape that this was a room in one of the towers, for the windows were circular, forming as it were an alcove, and this had been adapted as a place for prayer, with a prie-dieu, a crucifix, even a stoup for Holy Water. This little cell was bare but for its sparse religious trimmings, and the rest of the room was furnished with a bureau, chairs, and a table, besides the heavy chest-of-drawers and wardrobe, suggesting its uncomfortable use as sitting-room and bedroom combined. Another religious picture faced the bed, a tortured reproduction of the Scourging of Christ, and on the wall
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