A Favourite of the Gods and a Compass Error

by Sybille Bedford

  “Only you! The dear little girl, Catherine the Great, isn’t in it.” Before Flavia could find her bearings, she went on, “Only what involves them is sacred?”

  “Why do you want to know so much where they are?” Flavia said soberly.

  “Why should I want to know where Michel is? You are being stupid and impertinent, you’re beginning to irritate me.”

  Still soberly, Flavia said, “I’ve thought about it hard, do believe me. Belonging to Michel’s family doesn’t mean that you have to know where he is. My mother’s aunts and cousins in Italy don’t know where she is and I wouldn’t tell them if they asked. Please, try to look at it the way I have to—you must know that it’s an important matter because of Michel’s divorce; if it were known, if it could be proved, that he is,” Flavia looked at Andrée and continued firmly, “living with my mother, the divorce could still be stopped. You must also know that there is a time limit and that it is nearly up. These are critical days. If Michel had wanted you to have his address he would have sent it; he must have yours. Now don’t you agree? I have no right to go against what I must presume to be his wishes?” She added, “I’m sure it’s only because of safety in the smallest possible number, only his lawyers and my mother’s father have the address, aside from me, and I only have it because they didn’t like to leave me here without one.”

  Quite soberly too, Andrée said, “I can follow your argument. As far as it goes. Now let me present you with another one. Yes, I do happen to know that these are critical days. Though that was not my subject at Aix, I’ve made rather a point of knowing a certain amount of French Civil Law. Assuming now that I was aware of one or two facts of which you, my dear, could not be, assuming that I had something of importance to communicate to Michel, would you still stick to your stubborn refusal?”

  “You mean that you do know something that may help them?” “Might that not be the motive for my request? Imagine my being in a position to tell Michel something that he ought to know—that may be vital for him to know.”

  “Couldn’t you reach him through his lawyers?”

  “By way of Paris? When time may be of the essence? You don’t know what lawyers are, seldom a constructive force in private affairs.”

  Flavia said, “Could you . . . would you consider sending your message through me? Would you trust me with it?”

  “As much as you trust me?”

  “Oh, what ought I to do?” said Flavia.

  “Follow for once the judgement of your elders. I know for certain that your giving me Michel’s address will make a very great difference to the two of them. How will you feel about that afterwards? Think for a minute.”

  “May I have some time?”

  “Six more rounds of the room? Go on.”

  Presently Flavia said, “All the same, I can’t do it. I promised.”

  “He made you do that?”

  “He did nothing of the kind, he wouldn’t even ask me.”

  “So we promised mummy. And now we’re more concerned with our little rules than with what’s going to happen to mummy in the future. And don’t make faces at me.”

  Flavia controlled herself. “It’s not a rule, it’s . . .”

  “What?”

  “A kind of instinct.”

  “Do you believe in instinct? Your own instincts?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Andrée said not unreasonably, “Why not do as I ask you and let me look after the consequences?”

  “You may be right,” Flavia said, “that’s the devil of it.”

  Andrée said, “Look at me—you don’t look at me any more.”

  With candour and concentration, Flavia did.

  Andrée gave her a mocking, almost tender smile. “Mon bel éphèbe——?”

  Flavia cried out, “Your . . . looks have nothing to do with it. Should have nothing to do with it.”

  “Haven’t they, though?” said Andrée.

  With a coldness, a remoteness, a knowledge, that seemed to have descended on her without volition, Flavia heard herself say, “You are making a mistake.”

  An expression of open delight appeared on Andrée’s face. “Oh, but I court them, the way I play my game!”

  “I don’t know what you mean, I don’t want to know.”

  With an instant return to sweet reasonableness, Andrée said, “Admitted that I’ve been trying to seduce you, doesn’t that only go to show how desperate I am to get my way? Desperate to get my message to Michel? Well, it will be on your head.”

  Flavia said, “I’m getting confused, please give me time, let me sleep over it.”

  “No, you may not. I’ve had enough of you. Who do you think you are? Let’s have no more nonsense, miss—give me that address.”

  “Please don’t make me,” Flavia said.

  “I am going to make you. I insist—or.”

  “Yes?”

  “I shall never see you or speak to you again.”

  “Do you mean it?” said Flavia.

  “I mean it.” Andrée got up and went to the door. Then in her full, sad, serious voice, “Perhaps I shall regret it, more perhaps than you will ever know, you foolish girl. But I do mean it: if you do not give me my answer now, I shall have to go, for ever.”

  Flavia said, “Then you will have to go.”

  “Is it over then?” Andrée said, turning away.

  Flavia sat down in the chair beside the desk. She said slowly, “It was over.” But Andrée had already left.

  5.

  Flavia woke feeling sadder and wiser; such was her sense of escape, of relief, that she felt free to grieve.

  She spent half of her morning crying. Crying for the stranger, crying for the lost face—She was so beautiful—crying again. And now for picking up the bits. The day was Thursday, the start of the academic week; Flavia combed her hair, washed her eyes and marched herself to the tower.

  She let herself in, went up the stairs, set the shutters; she had meant to leave all behind but was seized then with the oppressive memory of Andrée in that room. She might have been present now. Still resolute, she turned to the desk: something was wrong, her books and papers did not seem to be in their usual place. They were still neat, aligned and stacked precisely, even to the point of pedantry, they were in perfect order, only it was an order that made no sense whatsoever, an order in which Flavia had not left them.

  She felt fear. She opened a drawer: the same deliberate rearrangement of envelopes, pencils, pens. She opened the drawer where she kept the letters she received. They were there. Her tutor’s in one bundle; the three thin sheaves, Mr. James’s, Constanza’s, Michel’s. On top of Michel’s last a piece of paper had been clipped. It read,

  Mission accomplished. A.

  7. THURSDAY

  1.

  IT WAS a quarter to eleven by her wristwatch and she ran all the way into St-Jean. There was a taxi on the front and she took it telling the man to drive her to the hotel in Bandol and be quick; she was still trembling. She was seen by Fournier, who was starting on his apéritifs across the road; he signalled the driver to wait and came over; putting his head into the taxi, he said without a greeting, “If you want Andrée Devaux, you will find her up at our house.” He turned away before Flavia could say thank you.

  Like the last time Andrée and Rosette were on the verandah. They were standing and Rosette was stuffing something into her bag. She did not look at Flavia as she came in. Andrée did.

  “You brought my taxi, so you did manage to capture one. Such perfect timing—just what you need, Rosette.”

  The taxi was turning in the drive.

  “Tell him to wait.” Flavia made no move. Andrée gave a shout herself. She turned to Rosette. “That’s understood then, you’ve got it all clear?”

  Rosette Fournier left them and was borne off.

  “That came in handy, the post office shuts like a drum at noon sharp.”

  “I’ve got to talk to you,” Flavia said.

  “Suit y
ourself.”

  Voices from the drawing-room, voices in the house. “Not here. Privately.”

  “As you please.”

  “Follow me,” said Flavia.

  They went through the passage and across the yard. Flavia, with Andrée’s eyes upon her, looked for and produced the key to the out-house.

  “One of your hide-outs?”

  Flavia shut the door behind them.

  “There’s nowhere to sit,” said Andrée.

  Flavia pulled out the stool from under Fournier’s filing cabinet. Andrée sat down fastidiously. She did not appear to see the toy landscape spread before them.

  Flavia said, “It is a hoax, isn’t it?”

  Andrée had a smile upon her face.

  “You’ve got what you wanted, you are not going to . . . misuse it? It is all right?”

  Andrée said nothing.

  “You are not going to . . . interfere?”

  Andrée said loud and clear, “Poste-restante, Almuñecar, Alicante.”

  Flavia put her hands over her face.

  “Rosie-Posie is on her way with the telegrams.”

  “Telegrams?”

  “To inform the detectives.” Flavia made a move to the door. “Stay—we know you’re fast on your feet but you’re not going to catch her up now. That’s not the way to stop it. Besides there is much that I’ve been waiting to tell you, much.”

  Flavia said, “What is going to happen?”

  “It’s a tiny place—we looked it up—only one possible hotel, they should be able to get the evidence in no time. Waiters, chambermaids, you know. You’ve heard how these things are done?”

  “And then?”

  “In due course the evidence is going to reach the court in Paris who’ll adjourn the suit for desertion by Michel Devaux sine die.”

  “You mean that the divorce will be held up?”

  “A way of putting it.”

  “For long?”

  “Forever.”

  “My God,” said Flavia. “Oh my God, my God.”

  Andrée looked at her with detached interest.

  “You are doing that?”

  “With your help, and Rosie’s.”

  “Because . . . you are against the divorce?”

  “Because I am against the divorce.”

  “But, Andrée, it’s they who count—it cannot mean as much to you.”

  “That has been your view throughout our brief relationship. I am aware how consistently you’ve been disregarding my feelings and position.”

  “Your position?”

  “My position.” That mystifying look of near enjoyment Flavia had so often seen appear on Andrée’s face now crystallized. She said lightly, “I am Michel’s wife.”

  •

  “Did you not know?”

  •

  “The technicality, the obstacle—the partner of the unhappy marriage.”

  •

  “The impediment he ought to have got rid of long ago.”

  •

  “You are looking at me with new eyes as they say—well, go on, do.”

  At last Flavia spoke. “Is it true?”

  “Ostrich.”

  “You didn’t tell me.”

  “Was it necessary? I thought we were introduced? Oh perhaps we weren’t, careless of Rosie.”

  “I thought she . . . the wife . . . I mean you were shut up somewhere?”

  “What did you say?”

  “They told us she suffered from nerves.”

  “That is your crowning touch,” said Andrée. “Well, you are going to pay for it. As for the rest. Who told you this rubbish?”

  “As a matter of fact it was the Fourniers when we first met them.”

  “Le juste retour des choses d’ici bas.” Andrée’s tone had gone back into voluptuous nonchalance. “Didn’t I tell you never to rely on Rosie’s information?”

  “You told me you were his cousin.”

  “And so I am,” said Andrée. “One doesn’t prevent the other. I don’t think I told you one single straight lie (that would have been too easy). I made a point of always telling you the truth, the limited truth, shall we call it? I was sailing near the wind often enough—Oh, there were quite a few warning signals. You will see what I mean when you cast back your mind on our conversations as I am sure you will do a good many times in the future.”

  “If only someone had told me!”

  “I was afraid that Therese had. That was a nasty moment.”

  “I’m beginning to understand,” said Flavia. “Therese must have taken for granted that I knew who you were.”

  “You did not pay much attention to her warning.”

  Flavia said, “Did you come here just . . . for this? Did you come on purpose?”

  “What I do I usually do on purpose. (Unlike you, my dear.) If you mean, did I come here foreseeing our entertaining little game? I must say, no. That was sheer bonus. I came here in the hope of picking up a trail that would let me put a stop to Michel’s divorce.”

  “But why? For God’s sake, why? You have been living separated from him for years. What difference can it make to you? I don’t believe you even like Michel?”

  “Like Michel? I? That failure? That self-righteous bore? They go on about how unhappy I made him, how wretched he was with me—well, I was wretched with him, and bored! Stuck with a man for whom nothing counts more than his own integrity!

  “You look disapproving? Time you were told a few facts of life, you slobbering little moralist. ‘Behave better?’ ” she mocked Flavia’s voice, “ ‘Isn’t that all to the . . . good?’ Time you learnt a thing or two about your own behaviour. I’ve been longing to tell you some home-truths, God how fed up I was with having to flatter you. I know you had more rough than smooth—it wasn’t what everybody would call flattery—I did it in my style; but wasn’t my attention flattering enough? Pretending to take you seriously, listening to you, throwing you scraps about politics and Saint-Simon? ‘Do come and talk to me,’ ” she mocked her own voice. “ ‘Don’t underrate yourself.’ You fell for it, didn’t you, you conceited little fool?

  “You thought that I chose to talk to you, chose to spend evening after evening with you? The pretensions you have, I imagine you got them from your precious mother—what a pair you must make.” Andrée laughed. “But I suppose you can’t see yourselves as others see you? The adventuress, the divorcée—I hear your father couldn’t wait to kick her out—without house or home or country.”

  Flavia said, “I’m going to hit you, I’d hit you if you weren’t a woman.”

  “You mean,” Andrée said, “if you weren’t a woman. You really must get these things straight. Society may accept women going to bed together, but not fist-fights, dear, ever. To resume, the divorcée with her young daughter to tout for her, or shall we call a spade a spade? Weren’t you sent out to lure Michel into the parlour? Shall we say with her young daughter to pimp for her? A masculine role which for once you filled, while grandma—who appears to have been the one respectable member of the family——”

  “Andrée! Stop it!”

  “You—ordering me? Let me tell you something, little girl, you cannot. Because you cannot afford to. You are in my hands, your precious mummy is. These detectives are my detectives, I hired them, I pay for them, I can do with that evidence whatever I choose, or might be persuaded to choose—you are following me? I could change my mind. I am warning you: be nice to me, listen to me; don’t spoil my fun now, don’t interrupt my little homily.

  “I see that you have understood. Hope springs eternal. It was you who brought me here, who insisted on the tête-à-tête. So here we are and you will hear me out. And if you please, none of your canine scowls.”

  “Blackmailer.”

  “You are crude. I don’t mind. The exercise of blackmail isn’t appreciated nearly enough, it’s almost its own reward. Provided you do the dirty work yourself; I never do it by letters unless I can be certain of a personal follow-up.”


  “Andrée,” Flavia cried, “you are putting it on? Nobody is like that.”

  “Smile and smile and be a villain? Am I too bad to be true? That’s what we’re being taught by modern literature.”

  Flavia said, “You are play-acting. You have been all the time that I’ve known you.”

  For a second Andrée showed anger, then she said, sounding as aloof as ever, “And what difference would that make? Since it’s my play and I’ve forced you all to take a part in it.

  “Now where was I? Oh, yes, the respectable old lady who I was told committed suicide more or less on your doorstep after she had learnt about the goings-on.”

  “You are unspeakable.”

  “Feeble, my dear, feeble. But the verbal weapons against the wicked are so limited. If I’m wholly wicked—have you decided yet? Perhaps you will let me give you a resumé of my side of the . . . campaign (I’m catching your stammer)? You like dotting the i’s, so I’ll begin at the beginning.

  “Well, I knew that they had been to Paris but wasn’t able to find out where they’d actually stayed; they had been seen but nobody was going to swear to it, a conspiracy of loyal friends no doubt. After Paris they appeared to have vanished into the proverbial thin air. Rosie—faithful soul—wrote to suggest Rome. A blank of course. Then she tried to get it out of you, but you didn’t respond. She urged me to come down myself and try my hand. Rosie thinks I’m irresistible because I have snob appeal for her; you’d have to be fairly expert about the social structure of our bourgeoisie to appreciate that point; these things don’t export and wouldn’t have cut much ice with you. At any rate I wasn’t thinking of you at that stage—Rosie can’t make you out and her descriptions weren’t very helpful—I expected I would get a servant in your house to go through your desk for me. Then it turned out that there weren’t any servants. I was told about the way you live. The Fourniers thought it was because your mother was hard up. They said that before the Loulous came and took you up you had to have your meals in the cheapest place, they were sorry for you about that: Poor girl, much too thin, if you give her an apple it’s gone in two bites. And so your mother was after Michel’s money.