But he shook his head, still smiling. “It is a bare half kilo, if I take the track through the woods. And I shall enjoy walking after sitting for so many hours. Good night, little one, and sleep well!”
A smaller feminine figure appeared from the house, and he pulled her swinging pony-tail as she bent to pick up Jane’s cases.
“And how is it with you, Clarri? How is the stalwart Jacques?”
“Oh, monsieur, he is very well,” Clarri replied, and giggled.
Jane made a last attempt to detain Etienne, although she didn’t know quite why. “You have been very kind,” she said. “I don’t know what I would have done without you. I would almost certainly have fallen asleep at the wheel and hit a hedge, or a house, or something.”
“Instead of which you are here all in one piece, and so is Mademoiselle Sandra’s car.” He opened the door nearest him and slipped back into the driving-seat. “Good night, mademoiselle” - with cheerful suaveness.
“But your own car ... How will you collect it?”
“I shall collect it,” he answered.
“And I ... Will I see you again?”
“It is possible,” he replied. “Nothing in this life is ever quite definite, but it is possible.” He repeated his recommendation to her to sleep well, and then the car slid away through the darkness that was like the velvety bloom on grapes now that the sky no longer reflected the afterglow, and she saw the rear light vanishing round an angle of the house.
“The flags of the house are uneven, mademoiselle,” the dour voice of Jeanne Bethune warned her at her elbow. “Monsieur Delaroche prefers to keep them that way in order to preserve the antiquity of the house, but with high heels it is sometimes possible to trip.”
Jane sensed infinite displeasure in the voice, but she was too weary to ponder over it.
“My heels are not very high,” she heard herself saying rather foolishly; and then stumbled as soon as she set foot in the hall, and had to be steadied by a hard, horny hand.
“Was Monsieur Etienne speaking the truth when he said he hadn’t far to go?” she asked, looking up into a colourless mask of a face revealed by a swinging bronze lantern.
“I have known Monsieur Etienne for many years, and he normally speaks the truth,” the housekeeper answered.
“He is perhaps a near neighbour?”
“You can put it like that if you wish, mademoiselle.”
In the morning Jane awakened to find brilliant sunshine streaming into her room. It was to be another perfect September day, and she wanted to leap from her bed and look out of the window. But second thoughts prevailed, and a feeling of lassitude, and she lay looking about the room itself, and thinking that this was the most delightful bedroom she had ever occupied.
The ceiling sloped a little, but only just a very little; and between the great beams that crossed it the plaster-work was painted duck-egg blue to match the walls and the paintwork. The carpet was off-white, and the curtains with their frilly pelmets had harebells and tiny moss-rosebuds entwined on a background of highly glazed primrose chintz. The dressing-table stood in a petticoat of pale ivory net, and the unusual four-poster bed had drapings of ivory net also.
Jane just had time to observe that there was an ivory telephone beside the bed when it rang, and she heard Sandra’s voice at the other end of the line saying a little sleepily, as if she, too, was speaking from her bed; “Honey, I’m not going to be able to make it for a few days. You know how it is. I’ve met some people I don’t want to say good-bye to, too soon, and Paris always gets me when I’m over here. I thought I’d do some shopping and have a new hair-do, and so on ... And have the French got something!”
“Have they?” Jane enquired.
Sandra chuckled, the throaty chuckle that gave her so much appeal on the screen, and had made her highly popular amongst American television audiences. “Honey, don’t sound like a dry English schoolmarm! You’re not, you know! Even if your father was a schoolteacher.”
“He, too, thought the French had something,” Jane told her.
“Well, there you are! Tell me, how do you like Rene’s farmhouse?”
“I haven’t had time to look over it yet,” Jane admitted. “I only arrived last night, when it was already dark. But I should say it, too, has something.”
“Rene’s very proud of it, and he says his housekeeper will make you absolutely comfortable. He’s very proud of her, too.”
“Why? Is she unique?”
“She’s his cook as well as his housekeeper, and you know how the French value a first-class cook. Well, sweetie, enjoy your rural peace, and don’t become too much of a rustic yourself by the time I arrive. I’m looking forward to turning dairymaid when I get there.”
But Jane decided it was completely unlikely Sandra would have any opportunities to turn dairymaid once she arrived at La Cause Perdue. If there were cows in the neighbourhood they were orderly cows who were kept well out of sight, and amongst the outbuildings she discovered later in the day those that had once served the purpose of cow-byres were now converted into luxurious modern garages. There were no fewer than half a dozen garages, each capable of accommodating a couple of cars apiece - large cars at that; and therefore the owner had no need to discourage visitors because he was unable to offer suitable protection for their means of transport.
La Cause Perdue was E-shaped, without the central division. There was a fine courtyard at the back, and in the centre of the courtyard there was an ornamental pool with water-lilies floating on it, and a bronze faun, or satyr, in the middle of it. The courtyard was tree-shaded, and an extremely pleasant place on a hot afternoon, and from it the formal gardens could be seen, with clipped yew-hedges, and a maze of twisting paths.
There was nothing English about the lay-out of the gardens; no rolling lawns, or wide borders. But there were plenty of little flower-smothered arbours, and the river ran through the grounds and tumbled down several feet to form a weir, and another ornamental pool. This pool was much larger, and could be used as a swimming pool, particularly as it was deliciously shaded by trees, and very secluded. In fact, every part of the grounds provided one with the sensation of being cut off from civilization as understood by anyone who lived within easily coverable miles of a city, or a large-sized town.
Here the surrounding forest had the whole place in its grip, and as the forest extended in every direction there was a barrier of trees wherever one looked. They were giant trees, chestnut and elm and ash, with a sprinkling of lesser giants where the cool waters ran. Jane could imagine the green glades of the forest in spring, carpeted with every variety of wild flower, and in a few weeks from now they would be ablaze with the fires of autumn.
Madame Bethune had all her vegetables provided by the kitchen-garden, and there was a wonderful orchard where the fruit hung ripe and tempting. There was a huge granary that had been retained for its picturesqueness and turned into a kind of annexe for dancing and diversion, and it, too, nestled in the protection of trees.
Tree, trees, trees ... Jane thought, and wondered whether she would have the sensation, if she remained here long enough, that she was being swallowed up by the trees. For the moment she was in love with the beauty of it all.
She spent the first part of her first morning roaming about the grounds, and then the house drew her, and she went back to inspect it in detail. There was no one to hinder her, no one whom she need consult, for Joanne was shut away in the kitchen quarters, and only Clarri - whose full name she understood was Clarisse - to bring her a pot of English tea at eleven o’clock.
It really was beautifully made English tea, and the china and the silver cream-jug and sugar-bowl looked exquisitely dainty on the little round tray decorated with a pale-blue linen cloth. The china was Sevres, and on examination the little squat teapot proved to be of William-and-Mary pattern. Jane, who had shared a passion with her father for antiques, and beautiful china and glass, was handling the teapot lovingly when Clarri informed her brightly th
at she had done all her unpacking for her, and that one or two things that were creased she had pressed before putting them away in the wardrobes.
“Oh, that’s very good of you indeed, Clarri,” Jane told her appreciatively.
“Not at all, mademoiselle,” Clarisse of the swinging pony-tail returned. “Monsieur Delaroche has many visitors to La Cause Perdue, and such a lot of them are ladies that I have become accustomed to doing little things for them. Monsieur likes me to make myself as useful as possible and I love handling pretty things - the gowns for the evening, and the ravissante nightwear!” She made a little gesture with her hands, and her eyes glowed. “Is it true that Sandra Van Doone is coming to stay here, mademoiselle? We see many film-stars, but she is an American film-star, and so full of the appeal! Ma foi, if I could only look like her!” - the eyes rolling a little.
Jane smiled. “You are an admirer of hers?”
“Oh, yes, mademoiselle!”
“Then you had better show me the room she is to occupy, and I will decide whether everything is as it should be for the reception of your favourite film-star.”
“You will not be able to find one single thing wrong with it, mademoiselle,” Clarisse assured her, in an awed whisper. “It is our finest bedroom, and monsieur insisted that it was to be given to Mademoiselle Van Doone!”
“You intrigue me,” Jane admitted. “Lead on, and let me see this magnificent bedroom!”
Clarisse watched her face as she stood aside from the doorway of the room when they reached it, and she was not surprised that Jane registered surprise as well as admiration. For the room was ten times more luxurious than the one she herself had been allocated, and the most striking feature about it was that it was all white. White carpet - a pure white carpet - low French bed draped in white moire silk, and with a canopy of white velvet above it drawn into a gilded apex.
The bathroom adjoining it was black and silver, and the bath was sunk in the floor, with steps leading down to it, so that Sandra would feel like Cleopatra going down to bathe each time she took a bath. The wall mirrors would keep her familiar with her own appearance once the necessary weight-scales had reassured her about her all-important measurements.
“And this is the room Monsieur Delaroche keeps for his most important visitors?” Jane asked, when she had examined the commodious wardrobe and drawer-space, and felt satisfied that even Sandra’s vast amount of baggage would find the right amount of receptacles once she arrived at La Cause Perdue. “Lady visitors. For one couldn’t imagine a man sleeping in this room.”
“That is so, mademoiselle,” Clarisse agreed. “Naturellement,” she added.
When they emerged into the rose-carpeted corridor, that wound all over the house on this floor, it was she who suggested Jane should peep into the various other rooms, and only in one instance did a surprising departure from positive, arresting luxury send Jane’s eyebrows up again. Sandra’s bedroom had sent them up once, but Monsieur Delaroche’s own private apartments sent them up still more.
She didn’t realize she was peeping into her host’s private rooms until Clarri whispered in her ear: “That is monsieur’s daughter’s portrait beside the bed. It is always there!”
Jane glanced at it, but was too impressed with the room itself to do more than notice that it was an unimaginative photograph of a little girl who reminded her vaguely of someone. The frame was plain silver; a very ordinary frame, even a trifle dinted. As for the bed, it looked narrow and hard, and the coverlet was simple cotton folkweave. The floor was polished, and there were only a few rugs, and on the stark white walls hung one or two delicate etchings. There was a writing-desk and a solitary chair and a dressing-table, and under the west window stood the only beautiful thing the room contained, a graceful little prie-dieu with a kneeling pad of dark-red velvet.
Jane felt for a moment bewildered, What manner of man was Rene Delaroche when he fitted up a room like this for himself, while his guests slept in luxury?
Jeanne was calling Clarisse when they went downstairs, and Jane wandered into the big main salon, and thought how very modern it was with deep armchairs and couches, and a cocktail cabinet in the corner that was more like a small cocktail-bar. Then in turn she examined the salle de manger, where Jeanne had promised her lunch at one o’clock, with its baronial fireplace and faded coat-of-arms on the chimney breast, proving that the house had once been something more than a farmhouse, and the library. The library fascinated her because it was full of golden light, perhaps because the chairs were all covered in chrome leather, and the inch-deep pile of the carpet was the colour of autumn leaves. But it was the bookcases that held her. Rene Delaroche was evidently a collector of rare volumes, for there was an early and very beautiful set of Shakespeare, as well as some extremely early editions of French classical authors. There were all the modern authors and playwrights a Frenchman might be expected to be interested in, and several collections of verse that looked as if they were frequently made use of. Also a volume of quotations that Jane found frequently underlined.
Marriage, with peace, is this world’s paradise; with strife, this life’s purgatory, was underlined in red ink.
The library contained such a collection of photographs and snapshots as she had ever seen before in her life. In most cases they were framed appropriately and expensively, quite unlike the little girl who sat beside her father’s bed. There were so many beautiful women that Jane found herself wondering whether Sandra was as exquisite as she had always thought her after all. Women with blonde hair, with dark hair, with short hair, with long hair. Women with languishing expressions and provocative smiles. They had scrawled messages across the foot of their photographs ... Such messages as: To Rene with love. Je vous adore. Always thinking of you!
There were men’s photographs, too, personalities in the theatre and film worlds, some who had been personalities for years, whom Jane recognised instantly. Such a personality as Maurice Chevalier, for instance, with his irresistible smile.
There was still an hour before lunch, and Jane decided to kill time by opening up the radio-gramophone, and putting on some records. She found there were vast quantities of records, but only a very few of Delaroche’s own. She selected the ones that were her favourites; his less sophisticated recordings, the ones which charmed her.
She didn’t know what it was about his voice, and judged solely as a voice it probably hadn’t a great deal to commend it. It was lightly baritone, almost a whispering baritone at times, deep, and personal at others. There was a note of gaiety in it at one moment, melancholy the next. Occasionally it cracked a little, as if he wanted to laugh, and then all at once it was smooth as silk. When he sang in English his accent was intriguing, in French he was very French.
She loved the absurd schoolchildren’s ditties he put over so well.
Pouvez-vous planter les choux,
A la mode, a la mode.
His love songs were disturbing. They weren’t just crooner’s efforts - they were something that reached out and disturbed.
She was sitting in the middle of the library floor, with her arms wrapped round her knees, when Jeanne came to inform her in precise tones that her meal was served, and she thought Jeanne looked at the gramophone disapprovingly. She shut it up and went in to her lonely lunch and thought of the day before when she had lunched with Monsieur Etienne.
She knew that ever since she opened her eyes that morning she had been thinking about him. One of the first things she did when she was dressed was to go and make sure the car was in the garage, and when she saw it there she didn’t merely feel relief, but a curious sensation as if she was being thwarted. She had asked him whether she would see him again, and he had replied so casually that it might well be she would never see him again; although on the other hand, if he lived near, and was a visitor to the house - as he obviously was - then there was a very strong possibility that she would see him again.
She had never met anyone quite like him before. At first she had
been repelled by his hard, accusing manner, and then all at once he had smiled, and she knew she would never think of him as hard and accusing again Whatever he said, whatever he did, the knowledge that he could smile in a way that was a complete metamorphosis would prevent her from being entirely deceived by his mood of the moment. Anyone who could smile like that, with gentleness, with humour, with a most curious kind of sweetness, could never be really hard at heart. Not unswervingly hard.
After lunch she knew she was secretly hoping he would put in an appearance, but there was no reason that she could think of why he should even trouble to do so. She went upstairs to her room and changed her little oatmeal linen suit for a dress of leaf-green brocade - a dress with a very full, short skirt, and a tiny upstanding collar like a Medici collar, and sleeves that hugged her slender arms - and brushed her hair until it shone and looked like a coppery cap. When she went downstairs, and outside, the sun was slanting towards its setting, and the coppery cap seemed to have a great deal of actual red in it. Her skin, by comparison, had that blanched-almond pallor red-heads are noted for.
She made her way towards the little parterre that was so much like an Elizabethan parterre, and there beside another of the grinning bronze satyrs like the one in the lake she saw him standing.
He was wearing black slacks and white shirt open at the neck, and he had a blue and white spotted silk handkerchief knotted carelessly about his throat. His hair looked very black, and the tan he had acquired the previous day showed up noticeably.
Enchanted Autumn Page 3
