Crusader's Tomb

by A. J. Cronin

  After coffee and cakes, of which Philip, excusing himself by delicate literary allusion to Stevenson’s young man with the cream puffs, ate five, they sat out upon the balcony. Continuing to monopolise the conversation, Lambert described, with ironic fastidiousness, the facial and social deficiencies of the elderly woman he was at present painting.

  ‘In fact,’ he concluded airily, ‘all that one would expect of a Chicago hog-packer’s widow.’

  ‘I imagine her cheque was good,’ Stephen said stiffly.

  Lambert looked pained.

  ‘Well… naturally.’

  Although he tried to throw off his dullness, time passed for Stephen with interminable slowness. But at last, towards three o’clock, taking advantage of a lull in the conversation, he looked at Emmy.

  ‘I’m afraid we must go now.’

  ‘Oh, nonsense,’ Chester protested. ‘ The afternoon’s young. You can’t possibly leave us yet.’

  ‘If I don’t I shall be late for my job.’

  ‘Then why don’t you stay, Emmy?’ Harry smiled genially. ‘I’ll take you back later.’

  There was a pause. Stephen saw her hesitate, then she shook her head brusquely.

  ‘No. I’ll go now.’

  They said good-bye, the porter downstairs found them a fiacre. As they turned the corner of the street, out of sight of the hotel, Stephen leaned towards her.

  ‘It was good of you to come away with me. I do appreciate it.’

  ‘I don’t care to make myself cheap.’

  It was not the answer he had hoped for, nevertheless, encouraged by the recent indication of her consideration, he drew closer to her and, under cover of the apron of the carriage, sought for her hand.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said, pushing him away pettishly. ‘ Can’t you see how I am?’

  And as he gazed at her in surprise she gave, with vulgar frankness, a physical excuse which, if it were true, had perhaps occasioned her premature departure.

  Chapter Eleven

  After the rush and excitement of cross-country transit, most members of the Cirque Peroz found it agreeable to be settled in their winter quarters on the Côte d’Azur. This was their base; many had relations in Nice, Toulouse and Marseilles, and with more time on their hands were at liberty to visit them. Although business kept steady, the schedule had been reduced to five performances a week and, after the big night on Sunday, Monday and Tuesday were entirely free.

  Already Stephen’s friends were settled in the new routine. Max had resumed his violin lessons and could be seen, every afternoon, with the black pear-shaped case under his arm, departing at the brisk rolling trot enforced by his diminutive legs. The Croc, on the other hand, spent most of his time in the Bibliothèque Nationale, bowed over thick volumes, returning to expound to Stephen and Jo-jo a novel version of Schopenhauer, while Fernand, looking worn and wistful, went every morning arm in arm with his wife to a Cimiez homeopath for the daily irrigation prescribed for his flux intestinal. More practical, Jo-jo had found a spare-time occupation at the Negresco livery stables, where, in the pretence of washing down carriages, he spent most of his afternoons gossiping with the grooms and chauffeurs, making a small book on the local races and commenting satirically, out of the corner of his rat-trap mouth, on the visitors moving in and out of the hotel.

  Stephen, on his part, had begun the preliminary design for a painting wherein he meant to utilise the individual studies made in the big tent, and which he proposed to name Circus. Such a complex arrangement, a grouping of innumerable figures with their matching and contrasting colour tones, was difficult and, since he had neither studio nor canvas large enough, he proposed to follow the precedent of the old masters and build up his composition, first of all, upon a smaller and less exacting scale. The idea grew upon him as he progressed, he began to feel that such material, the result of weeks of patient observation, must yield a magnificent result.

  Since the day of the luncheon at the Hôtel des Lilas the barometer of Emmy’s moods had gradually turned fair. Following that event, they had seen nothing of Chester or the Lamberts and it appeared as if the connection were finally broken. At the back of Stephen’s mind, perhaps from a remark of Glyn’s, there had always been the idea that an attachment had existed between Chester and Emmy. It gratified him that Emmy should accept the abrupt severance of their friendship with so little concern. She, with the others, had found an interest in Nice. Madame Armande’s sister, who lived in the outskirts, just beyond the suburb of St Roch, kept a small millinery establishment devoted mainly to the production and sale of carnival straw hats. Emmy, like most French girls, had a talent for the needle, and every afternoon she went off modestly in the tramcar to earn some pin-money in the workroom of the Chapeau de Paille. As a result Stephen saw even less of her than usual. Yet he derived a certain inner comfort from this unexpectedly sedate aspect of her nature. Still, such work must be frightfully dull and he told himself he must try to lighten its monotony. From the Clarion de Nice he discovered that a touring operatic company, fulfilling an engagement at the Casino Municipal, was giving a performance of La Bohême on the following Monday. This overdone romance of student life in Paris might entertain her, and at their next meeting he brought the subject up.

  ‘Will you come to the theatre on Monday?’

  ‘The theatre?’ She seemed slightly at a loss. ‘Aren’t you busy on your picture?’

  ‘Not at night, surely.’

  ‘Well… if you like.’

  ‘Good. I’ll get the tickets today.’

  He walked all the way down to the Casino and booked two seats in the grand cercle, then, knowing how much she enjoyed an ‘evening out’, he reserved a table for dinner on the same night in the restaurant. He began to look forward to the event with that anticipation which so painfully affected him whenever he thought of being alone with her.

  Monday came. When he had finished his session at the booth he scrubbed up at the tin basin outside his quarters, then put on his suit and a clean shirt he had washed the previous day. Just as he was ready he recognised her step behind him. He swung round, arrested by the expression of regret on her face.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I can’t come with you tonight.’

  ‘Can’t you?’

  ‘No. Madame Armande’s sister is down with la grippe. I must go to sit with her.’

  ‘Madame Armande can go.’

  ‘Ah, but there is a rush order to be got out. Madame is no good for that.’

  ‘But surely…’

  ‘No, truly, I am completely obligated.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Well… I suppose it can’t be helped.’ He was badly cast down but did not care to show it.

  ‘You must take someone else. Don’t waste the tickets.’

  ‘Oh, blast the tickets. What do they matter?’

  ‘I am sorry.’ She gave his arm a little condoling pat. ‘Some other evening perhaps.’

  Her air of preoccupied concern softened his disappointment. Nevertheless, as he watched her hurry off, then slowly turned and sluiced the soapy water from the basin, his dejection was so apparent that Jo-jo, who had just come back and, leaning on his elbow against the steps, had witnessed the recent scene, strolled over inquiringly.

  ‘How goes it?’ He spoke without removing the straw from between his teeth.

  ‘All right.’

  ‘You’re all dressed up.’

  ‘I’m wearing clothes, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Where are you off to?’

  ‘The theatre. Come with me. It’s La Bohême.’

  ‘Vaudeville?’

  ‘No, opera.’

  ‘Opera? Not me. But let’s go over to the Mas Provençal and have a drink.’

  They went across the square to a nearby café much patronised by the Peroz ground crew. It was a cheap but pleasant place with long benches and tables running out to the pavement. In the dim interior a mechanical piano was playing, and people
were sitting in their shirt sleeves. Jo-jo nodded to some workmen who, on their way home, had stopped in for a bock.

  ‘What’s your poison, Abbé?’

  ‘Anything … vermouth.’

  ‘Vermouth Quelle blague. You’ll have a fine.’ He called out in a loud voice for Pernod and a cognac.

  The drinks were brought by a strapping young woman with bare red arms and round full breasts which swung under her blouse like young coconuts.

  ‘There’s a wench for you.’ With a practised hand Jo-jo filtered the Pernod through the sugar lump, took a comforting gulp of the opalescent liquid. ‘ Name’s Suzie. And no poule either. Daughter of the house. Why don’t you try your luck? These big girls always like little men.’

  ‘Oh, go to hell.’

  Jo-jo laughed briefly.

  ‘That’s better. Trouble with you, Abbé, you never let yourself go.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Sacré bleu! You can be less tied up. Don’t I know you have guts – that night… when you came down the chute. You ought to cut loose once in a while. Fling your weight about. Be gay, get drunk, have a good time.’

  ‘I’ve tried that. It doesn’t work with me.’ A short pause followed.

  ‘There’s a tea-dance every afternoon at the Negresco. Very high class. It might be interesting to go there.’

  There was an odd inflection in Jo-jo’s voice, but Stephen merely shook his head.

  Jo-jo threw up his hands resignedly. Then he said:

  ‘What’s happened to the bicycle beauty?’

  ‘She had to go to Madame Armande’s sister.’

  ‘Armande has a sister? Are there two such bitches in this unhappy world?’

  ‘She’s got a milliner’s shop in Lunel, beyond St Roch. And she’s sick.’

  ‘Ah.’ Jo-jo nodded. ‘An errand of mercy. Mademoiselle Nightingale the second.’

  A silence followed, during which he continued to regard Stephen with a satiric compression of his lips. Once he seemed about to speak but instead he shrugged slightly, beckoned with a finger for fresh drinks, and began to talk about the next day’s races.

  At seven o’clock they left the café, Jo-jo went off to feed and water his Arabs, and Stephen was alone. He felt better, warmed and more cheerful after three brandies, but he nevertheless had little inclination to go by himself to the Casino. The evening was delightfully fine – it would be a shame to spend it in a stuffy theatre. Suddenly he was struck by an idea. Lunel was not too far off, only a twenty-centime fare on the St Roch tram. Why not make the trip, find the Armande shop and, even if he were obliged to wait until she had completed her work, bring Emmy back? With luck they might even be in time to have supper together.

  The prospect briskened his steps as he set off across the Boulevard Risso for the Place Pigalle, where, without difficulty, he found a northbound tram. The journey was slow, and longer than he had supposed, but it was not yet eight o’clock and still light when he reached his destination. Lunel, as a place, was surprisingly small and undeveloped, the flat terrain largely occupied by market-gardens, the town little more than a collection of small new stucco villas surrounding a single unpaved street. Twice Stephen went up and down this thoroughfare without finding the Chapeau de Paille. Indeed, of the few stores that were there, not one bore the least resemblance to a hat shop. Puzzled and put out, he stood for a moment in the gusty wind which was blowing the dust around, then came back to the post office which, being attached to the local épicerie, still remained open. Here his inquiry revealed that there was no modiste, and assuredly no hat shop of any kind in Lunel.

  With a queer look on his face, seated in the corner of an almost empty tram, Stephen rode back to Nice. The bumpy vehicle made his head ring. Had he made a stupid mistake through mishearing the place-name she had given him? No, he was sure she had said Lunel, not once, but several times. Could she have put him off by inventing this excuse on the spur of the moment? That also was impossible – she had been visiting Madame Armande’s sister every day for the past two weeks. His expression, if anything, became more fixed. It was quite dark when he got to the Carabacel. Everything was quiet and deserted on the ground. He had an impulse to go to her quarters and find out if she had returned, but pride and a sense of physical weariness restrained him. He had already made himself sufficiently ridiculous without starting a scene at this hour. He went into his caravan, lay down on his bunk and closed his eyes. He would have it out with her in the morning.

  Chapter Twelve

  On the following day, although he rose early, he did not see her until eleven o’clock, when she appeared on the wagon steps in slippers and a blue-and-white cotton dressing-gown. She sat down on the top step, holding a cup of coffee. He went over.

  ‘Good morning… How did you find your patient?’

  ‘Oh, fairly well.’

  ‘Did she have the doctor?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘It was nothing serious, I hope.’ She took a sip of coffee.

  ‘I told you it was the grippe.’

  ‘Isn’t that rather infectious?’ he said, with solicitude. ‘You must be careful.’

  ‘I can take care of myself.’

  ‘Really, I’m serious… there’s a sharp wind out at Lunel. And one has to wait such a time for the tram.’

  She looked at him over the rim of the cup in silence. Then she said:

  ‘What do you know about Lunel?’

  ‘I was there last evening.’

  She looked at him suspiciously, then broke into a laugh. ‘Don’t pull my leg. You went to the theatre.’

  ‘On the contrary, I went to Lunel.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I thought I might buy you a hat. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find a hat shop.’

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘Nor for that matter could I discover a sister of Madame Armande.’

  ‘Who the devil do you think you are, pushing your nose into other people’s business? Setting out to spy on me. You dirty sneak.’

  ‘At least I’m not a liar.’

  ‘Who do you call a liar? What I told you was the truth. If I chose I could take you to the place. Where you went mooning off to last night I don’t know. But it exists. Besides,’ she added, with a crowning stroke, ‘Madame’s sister is a widow – her name is not Armande. And now perhaps you’ll shove off and let me have my breakfast in peace.’

  With his heart beating like a hammer, he gazed at her between anger and despair. He felt that she was lying – when occasion demanded she could be as slippery as an eel. Her very vehemence was suspicious. Yet it was just possible that she spoke the truth. He wanted with all his soul to believe her. Always ready to impute the fault to his side, he wondered if in the frightful sickness of his heart he had not completely misjudged her. The desire for reconciliation seized and weakened him.

  ‘I was looking forward so much to our evening together…’ he muttered.

  ‘That’s no excuse.’

  ‘Anyhow, let’s both forget it.’

  ‘Only if you apologise for what you called me. Do you?’

  He hesitated, biting his lip nervously, his eyes lowered. His pride forbade him accepting this humiliation from her. But his need of her made him abject.

  ‘Yes … if you like. I’m sorry if I offended you.’ The words seemed wrung from him, they made him feel contemptible.

  He passed the rest of the day torn by indecision, longing to be with her. It was some consolation for him to observe that she did not leave the gounds at all. In the evening she retired to her quarters immediately after the show. But he knew he could not go on like this, it was impossible; one way or the other, he must make certain.

  Next day, after lunch, as she went towards the Place Pigalle, he followed. In hearing of such cases, he had always despised the doubting husband or jealous lover who spied upon the woman he suspected. Now he could not help himself. But he was no expert at the business and, in his effort not to be observed, h
e lost his quarry at the Pigalle terminus. Yet he had seen her take a tram bound for the promenade, and as another was on the point of leaving, he boarded it. In fifteen minutes he was at the sea-front. Hurriedly he looked around, walked the length of the esplanade and back, made a tour of the Casino, but could see no sign of her. Then, as he stood undecided, he suddenly recollected Jo-jo’s manner when he spoke of the tea-dance at the Negresco. Although the chance appeared remote, he crossed the street, entered the gardens of the Musée Masséna and gazed over the gilt-tipped railings across the Rue de Rivoli, into the covered terrace of the hotel. At the side, under an awning thrown out from the lounge over a little platform set with tea-tables, an orchestra, concealed amongst palms, was playing a two-step to which a number of couples were dancing. At first he thought she was not there. Then, from behind the screen of foliage, another couple stepped on to the floor. The girl was smiling as, with a practised gesture, she extended her arms while her partner came close and held her by the waist. They glided off together – Chester and Emmy.

  Motionless, with a strangely expressionless face, Stephen watched them, observing how gracefully they moved. Their steps matched perfectly. When the music stopped they remained standing together, and as an encore began, started off alone. So expert was their exhibition, they were allowed to monopolise the floor, and when they finally sat down they received a polite murmur of applause.

  Stephen tore himself away, walked slowly to the promenade, and sat down on a bench from which he could command a view of the hotel entrance. The pain in his heart was almost unbearable. He winced as he thought of how she had deceived him. How she and Chester must have laughed together at the invention of the fictitious milliner, and at his unutterably fatuous belief that she was modestly, industriously plying her needle, while all the time she had been with Harry. Madame Armande was without question another partner in the burlesque and had undoubtedly spread word of it amongst the members of the troupe. Certainly Jo-jo knew, and while, through compunction, the little man had said nothing, what a fool he must have thought him.