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Forty is Beginning (Timeless Classics Collection)

Page 16

by Ursula Bloom


  ‘How lovely it is, Jean!’

  ‘It is indeed lovely here. The château is to be observed over the next hill, you will see him when we get there.’

  ‘You did not tell me that there were forests.’

  ‘They clear, m’lle, later.’ They climbed up the shady road, which gave the impression that although the brilliance of the sun touched the far mountain points, it did not touch themselves. Reaching the top, the forest suddenly vanished, and they saw lying below them an amazing valley. Jean pointed out the château itself on the opposite hill, a blur of grey stone, with the French flag above it.

  ‘That is it,’ he said.

  ‘I can hardly see it.’

  ‘You will soon. Have some fruit, m’lle, you must be hungry.’

  She was hungry, and the grapes were delicious. The car was still travelling at an immense speed, and she realised that the dust spurted up behind them in a white cloud. They passed through the little villages where men in blue cotton trousers urged obstinate mules to drag heavy carts, and where over-developed women washed linen in the stream. They climbed another hill which brought the château into view.

  ‘Jean, you didn’t tell me it was so beautiful. I … I can’t understand how you came to be my chauffeur.’

  ‘M’lle, that is the war. The war makes the great changes. I was a bad son; oh yes, maman will tell you. I flitter the money, as you say. Now the château is the hotel; it is a nice hotel, but still an hotel; one day you must stay with maman,’ and he giggled.

  ‘I should love that.’

  They swept up the approaching hill and turned under the grey stone archway of the château. Instantly there was a bold display of scarlet geraniums and starry-eyed marguerites growing in a bewildering fire of colour on either side. The drive turned to an enormous porch, and through the wide doors Lilias could see the great hall itself. There were red velvet cushions on huge carved chairs, the gleam of pewter and of crystal, and large bowls of flowers exquisitely arranged. The dignity of the place drenched her, and in a way awed her. It was larger than she had expected, far more majestic, and certainly more beautiful. A manservant was coming through the door, and he bowed low, not to her, but to Jean.

  ‘Monsieur le Comte,’ he said.

  ‘Hullo, Henri!’ Jean had flung aside his cap as he helped Lilias out, and hand in hand they went into the château. ‘You must not be scared. Maman looks terrific, as you say, but she is a simple soul. Maman is just la maman; we all have one.’

  His description was a trifle misleading. He entered a library which he said was part of his mother’s suite, and they came upon her, with a background of walls of books, lit by concealed lighting which played on scarlet and emerald and gold bindings. She was a small woman, but imperious; her white hair was delicately waved and drawn back from a face in which the most shrewd and searching dark eyes were set. She wore diamonds in her ears, large ones of a water that Lilias in her newly acquired knowledge could recognise as being exquisite. She had the typical black frock (is there ever a Frenchwoman to be found out of the ‘little black frock’?), but pearls dripped down the breast of it, and they were big, very milky pearls. Confused by what she saw, Lilias’s mind turned back to the one question, and she could only think, ‘What in the name of fortune is Jean doing as a chauffeur on the Riviera?’

  ‘This is M’lle Marvin,’ he said, ‘la maman.’

  He kissed the jewelled hand of la maman with an obsequiousness that no English son would give to his mamma, and then drawing closer he kissed her cheek and she tapped him with a delighted finger, saying, ‘Oh la la!’

  ‘Now,’ said she to Lilias in the perfect English that is just a bit too perfect, ‘you desire the refreshment? Sandwiches and wine, perhaps? Foie gras?’

  They sat down in the carved chairs which rose in canopies above them, like thrones, and overhead the ceiling was picked out in scallops of gold. Beyond the windows she could see gardens leading to a pool, and beyond them the marvellous view of the mountains slipping away into the distance.

  ‘The family lived here in 1500,’ said the Comtesse, ‘it goes from son to son, and one day mon petit méchant will have it.’

  ‘Not so méchant!’ he insisted.

  ‘Sons are more naughty than the daughters,’ said the Comtesse, pouring out wine from an enormous golden carafe with an episcopal outlook. ‘I never know what next Jean will do. He is so wicked. He make the heart of the maman go like that,’ and she apprehensively clasped the pearl-drooped breast.

  Lilias nodded. She said, ‘He drives a car too fast,’ but Jean was not listening, for he wanted to show her the château. There were, said the Comtesse, only a few guests here, for it was as yet early in the season for the mountains. There was a millionaire who had paid a fortune for his visit.

  ‘Very beneficial,’ she nodded over the carved gilt cup.

  When they had finished the wine and delicious macaroons, Lilias went out on to the terrace with Jean. The fir forests faded into the mountains; in the fields men were working, and a small village curled on the edge of a wood. They walked down the garden through a wide avenue of closely clipped trees, leading to a fountain forty feet high.

  ‘It seems to me more and more plain that the English cannot make a fountain,’ murmured Lilias.

  ‘They are mean with them; a fountain must be bouffante,’ said Jean, laughing.

  There were flowers, a little marble temple, and in the stables horses with shy eyes, and the sort of car that Lilias prayed she would never have to drive in.

  ‘All of this must belong to the millionaire,’ she said.

  ‘Oh no,’ and he laughed again. ‘I must have something sometimes.’

  ‘I thought you were hard-up?’

  ‘Oh, I am. I have not the money at all.’ He really was a most mysterious young man.

  ‘There’s something funny about you,’ said Lilias slowly. ‘Why are you acting as my chauffeur when you must be incredibly rich?’

  He leant closer; he took her arm with the intimate yet admiring gesture that a Frenchman makes so well. ‘If you ask no questions, you will have no lies for the pretty ears,’ said he.

  She ought to say something compelling, something in the same tone of voice as had paralysed earnest little girls in class, and had got the crocodile walking properly, but she couldn’t. For the moment she was only thinking of what Miss Halifax’s reactions would be, and she giggled. Miss Halifax would have been left breathless by the château; she would not have believed it possible, and would probably have stopped urging Miss Marvin to return to her job.

  Leaning on a low grey wall, with a statue of the undressed Andromeda faced by a couple of goofy-eyed fish gazing at her with smug disinterest, she had to tell Jean a little about St. Helena’s school for girls. He was interested.

  They went indoors to déjeuner. It was served in a magnificent room with a carved ceiling and mullioned windows. It was a luxurious lunch served by menservants in a blue uniform and each wearing a tiny medallion on which were emblazoned the initials of Marie Antoinette, whom the family had served.

  The Comtesse napped afterwards, whilst the two sat talking in the temple of Apollo, wreathed with wisteria. Lilias did not know how to conform herself to the new routine, for life was being very peculiar indeed, or was it herself? Coming into a lot of money was not as simple as people seemed to think. It had complications.

  Jean looked at her closely; he had none of the obsequious and deferential manner of the ordinary chauffeur, and she wondered if she ought to speak to him, or would that be like Miss Halifax? Perhaps she had better wait until they were going home? So she said nothing. Returning to the château, to tea with maman, he left them together whilst he gathered flowers for her. He was particular about flowers, there were rare orchids in the hothouses and he would see that the gardeners picked her only the best.

  The Comtesse looked benignly at Lilias. ‘This is the first time my méchant bring the lady home,’ she said. ‘The lucky lady.’


  ‘Yes, I did have luck. I know better than to go back to the casino now, because I have a hunch that it might go bad on me if I did.’

  ‘You make enough?’

  ‘I made more than enough. I have bought the hotel, and it is very pleasant there. I shall live there all my life.’

  ‘You will marry, of course,’ said la maman, her eyes twinkling.

  ‘Perhaps.’ Because there was Maxwell’s ring; she had not put it on today (she didn’t know quite why), but she had tucked it away in the handsome white pigskin dressing case which she had bought for herself.

  ‘Rich ladies always marry,’ said la maman, and then, ‘My méchant like you so much.’

  It was the way that she said it; with some women there is not so much in the words, it is the way in which they are uttered. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Lilias.

  ‘I do know. Jean is a remarkable boy. Jean is unusual. He did great work in the war. He has the Legion d’Honneur. You know that too?’

  ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘He does much work still; but I do not tell. Never think that he is as he would seem to be. Non, non. He is not chauffeur, he is not the teacher of the motor car. Oh non. Pas comme ça. He is illustrious.’ She purred with pride.

  ‘He is charming and he has been most kind to me.’

  ‘Jean is kind to everyone.’ Again she purred.

  The conversation looked like petering out, for now there were awkward moments when it seemed that there was very little they could talk about. Lilias was glad when Jean returned with a basket of glorious orchids, quite the loveliest that she had ever seen.

  ‘Oh, we grow them nicely,’ he said. ‘These are for your room,’ and then suddenly, ‘That Francis sends you orchids, n’est-ce pas?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I know something of him. Orchids for the rare bait. Roses for the less rare. Carnations for any woman. I am glad that you have orchids.’

  She could not forget that. How did he know so much about Francis? After she had said goodbye to la maman and the château and was in the car beside Jean going home, travelling at an unbelievable speed down the crazy roads where everyone went much too fast, she attacked the subject again.

  Jean was amusing about Francis. He said that gentlemen like Mr. Lorimer were always nice to watch. It was true they lived on their wits, but they must be getting money from somewhere; if so, where?

  ‘The Colonel says that he lives on lady friends.’

  ‘Not all lady friends pay so well. Oh no! Gentlemen have few principles who live that way. I know,’ and the dark eyes twinkled.

  She said, ‘Are you something to do with the police?’

  ‘God forbid!’ he replied sharply.

  ‘Your maman said something.’

  ‘Mamans talk; I know what she said; she said I am so important; maybe she give me the Legion d’Honneur.’

  ‘She did.’

  ‘Ah, she has done it before! I must speak again to the maman. She is foolish.’

  ‘But how do you know all this about Francis Lorimer?’

  ‘I watch him because he amuses me. He does funny things. But do not trust him. Oh no! He is not so safe. He is deceitful.’

  ‘He can’t do anything to me.’

  ‘He makes mischief.’

  She ought not to be discussing a friend with a chauffeur, even if the chauffeur had entertained her in the most magnificent house she had ever entered, and even if life had changed so surprisingly.

  Of course he was right, which was the maddening part, for Francis was undesirable, and probably very very deceitful.

  They got back to Les Papillons late. Jean saluted obediently before he drove the car away. There was a giggle in his eyes, his mouth turned up in defiant cupids’ bows. He had immense possibilities, of course. ‘I am crackers,’ thought Lilias as she went to her room.

  In the next few days she met Francis; he was going through a bad time; he had fastened himself on to Mrs. Goodway, believing that she would be helpful. Mrs. Goodway was having trouble over her finances, and Francis offered to introduce her to a gentleman friend who lived over a small tabac round the corner and who helped distressed English people; he charged an enormous percentage, of course, but then how well worth it it was! However, Mrs. Goodway, with her Foreign Office acquaintances, was alarmed at the idea of falling foul of the French authorities and getting into a French prison, which would be ghastly. She speedily dropped Francis, leaving him with several bottles of wine which he had bought to entertain her, and nothing at all made out of the deal. So back he turned to Lilias.

  He found her buying lingerie in a small shop which charged a fortune; the lingerie was super, but so was the billet attached.

  Francis commented that the purchase looked like a trousseau, and she, hoping to quieten him, said that it might be a trousseau. Maxwell was such a dear. She happened to be wearing the Nil Desperandum ring at the moment. Francis was horrified; then it really must be true, he thought, and he recognised a means of making a coup with the newspapers. He never missed the chance of a coup, and the French newspapers had taken to Lilias in a big way. Coldly he wished her joy, obviously wishing her the other thing, then he went off to the newspaper office, and within a few hours there were photographs of Lilias and Maxwell, set in fascinating heart-shaped lockets and headed Romance Passionelle, which was not quite true but looked well in print.

  This was infuriating.

  Lilias had thought that if they did marry (and she was still only playing with the idea) she would slip away and be married very quietly indeed. She did not want a stir. The heart-shaped photographs would go back to Manchester, where everybody would be interested, and more begging letters would appear. Maxwell was very angry. He went to the newspaper office, discovered the source whence the information had been received, and went off to Francis’s flat. But Francis had already gone to Naples with a new arrival, a lady who had won a good deal at the casino the other night, and who now wanted to see Naples and die.

  ‘If I went there with Francis, I’d die,’ said Maxwell to Lilias.

  ‘I never met people like him before.’

  ‘Lives on his wits, and some people say that he does more. There was a story that he was involved in political trouble; there was a leakage and he was suspected, but I think he is too much of a fool for that. He always strikes me as the sort of fellow who could only get muddled up with women, finding them easier to manage than politics.’

  ‘Not complimentary to my sex!’

  He laughed at that, and they dined at a restaurant in the town where they had Spanish dancers, but somehow or other they both felt disturbed and seemed to have lost their pleasant camaraderie. Lilias did not enjoy her dinner that night and did not know why. She had the feeling that this might be the beginning of the end, and she mentioned it to Jean next day when he took her for her driving lesson into the hills to see how she managed the car when climbing. She didn’t. They had three shockingly narrow escapes, after which she collapsed, and said she couldn’t do another thing.

  ‘One day we go over the precipice, bang!’ said he.

  ‘I don’t think I am mentally equipped to drive a car.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I started too old.’

  He turned and kissed her; she was so surprised that she did not know what to say, and when she had thought of a crushing reproof, it was too late.

  ‘Old? Ridicule!’ said he. ‘No one is older than he thinks he is; you are young, you are gay, and you shall drive a car better than most. We put you in for the Grand Prix? Oui?’

  ‘What do you say to a man like that?’ she asked herself. When she had got her breath back she said, ‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ but there was no vim in the remark.

  ‘You should not say you are old. Ridicule!’ and his eyes threatened her.

  She shut up. ‘This isn’t me,’ was all she could think.

  The thing to do was to take him indoors when she got back, pay him what she owed h
im, and tell him never to come back. But she did not think she could do it. Supposing she told Maxwell, he would be entirely King’s Regulations, for he had not been in the Madras Militia for nothing, and he might take this as a good opportunity, which she couldn’t stand either. When she did get back, she said to Jean, ‘I think we ought to have a talk.’

  ‘Oui, m’lle.’

  ‘So we’ve got back to that!’ she told herself. ‘Isn’t life tricky? One moment I’m Lilias, another I’m m’lle, and never Miss Marvin at all. What is happening to me?’

  In the hall was an amazon of a woman. She must have been five foot nine and designed by a worthy town planner. She stood like a policeman on duty at the Mansion House; her large face had a mottled complexion, in her youth like may blossom, in her middle years like erysipelas. She was obviously in a furious temper, for she blazed defiance. She wore the tweed suit of the English-woman, and the shirt blouse with a small watch pinned to the ample bosom, whilst her too closely shingled hair was like a man’s, and worn under the sort of felt hat that Lilias had brought here with her only because she didn’t know better.

  ‘I will see Colonel Hewlitt,’ she said, ‘or Miss Marvin, or both. I will not go until I see both of them.’

  ‘I’m Miss Marvin,’ said Lilias.

  ‘Oh! You’re older than I thought.’

  That was unexpected, and nasty! Jean came to attention, as is the habit of Frenchmen when they wish to be useful but don’t quite know how.

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ said Lilias.

  ‘Are you engaged to Colonel Hewlitt?’

  It occurred to Lilias that this might be a reporter from a London paper, or a woman wanting to sell trousseaux or cars, or something of that sort.

  ‘I believe so,’ said Lilias, ‘but you’d better come to my room.’ She led the way along the carpeted corridor to her room; Jean, who was carrying a parcel, came too. She knew instinctively that she did not like the look of this woman, and that Jean suspected that there was going to be trouble. Opening the door of her suite, she indicated that he must put the parcel down.

 

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