The Splendour Falls

by Susanna Kearsley

  Hugging my arms to ward off the cold, I pressed my face against the glass and peered along the corridor. I knocked twice, loudly. No one came. “Damn,” I said again, cursing my own stupidity. And then, quite by chance, I saw the stairs. It was a narrow flight of stone stairs, nearly invisible in the dark, curving downwards from the level of the terrace. Remembering that the hotel’s garage was underneath me, I plucked up my courage and started down, my hand clutching at the railing, expecting at any moment to miss my footing on the uneven stone. It was a relief to feel the ground again, safe and solid beneath my feet and, after a moment’s search, to find the door that I had hoped would be there.

  It didn’t open into the garage, as I’d expected, but straight onto the street itself. The fountain gurgled placidly in front of me, bathed in the golden glow of street lamps, and the hotel’s front doors, brightly lit beneath the awning, beckoned me from several yards away. I shivered again and headed for those doors.

  But before I reached them, I saw the child.

  I stopped, and hovered, hesitating. It’s not your business, I warned myself. Don’t get involved. But I couldn’t help myself.

  She was so young, I thought, no more than six or seven years of age, and so pitifully alone. A miserable figure all in black, sitting still as a statue on the bench at the far side of the fountain square, her large eyes fixed upon the doors of the hotel. She looked up as I approached, and my heart turned over tightly. She’d been crying.

  Hunching down on my knees, I spoke to her as gently as I could, in French, and asked what was the matter.

  “I can’t go home,” she said.

  “Why can’t you? Don’t you know the way?”

  She shook her head, setting her short cap of dark brown curls bouncing around her pale face. “Papa will be so angry.”

  Tears swelled again in the big eyes and I rushed to reassure her. “I’m sure he won’t be angry, really he won’t. You can’t help being lost.”

  “I’m not lost, Madame,” she said, with another toss of her head. “I know how to get to my house. But my papa, he will be angry.”

  “Tell me why.”

  “Because I left them. They looked the other way, and so I left them. Papa, he said I was to stay with her until suppertime, but they did not want me there, you see…”

  “I see,” I said, although of course I didn’t. “And who are ‘they’?”

  “My aunt and her friend. Her man friend.”

  “Ah,” I said, comprehension dawning.

  “I was sorry, afterwards, for leaving them, but when I went back they had already gone, and so I came here to wait for them. My aunt’s friend stays at this hotel, and so I thought… I thought…” Her lower lip quivered. “But they have not come. And I cannot go home.”

  “Nonsense.” I rose to my feet, stretching out one hand. “Of course you can. I’ll take you home.”

  The big eyes were imploring. “But my papa…”

  “Just you leave your papa to me.”

  She sniffed and thought a moment, and then the small cold fingers curled around my own, trustingly.

  “Now, where is your house?”

  “It is up there,” she said, and showed me. “Behind the château.”

  She was pointing at the steep stairway leading upwards from the square. Wonderful, I thought with an inward groan. Why couldn’t I have been called to play the Good Samaritan to a child who made her home on street level? With sinking heart I started up the steps, the little girl in tow.

  Simon and Paul had been quite right, I decided—the stairs were definitely more difficult to manage than the more gradual ascent from the rue Voltaire. By the time we neared the top my lungs were burning, and my heart was pounding wildly against my rib cage. I felt an old woman beside the child, who climbed with irritating ease. At the summit of the steps I paused, trying desperately to buy a moment’s rest. “Where now?” I gasped.

  “This way,” she said, and pointed. I let her lead me up the long slope to the château, then round the sheer and silent floodlit walls and down again. I would have gone on further but she held me back.

  “No, Madame,” she told me, “it is here. This is my house.”

  “This is your house?” My jaw slackened. I felt rather like someone who’d become lost and was wandering now in circles, forever coming round again to the same familiar spot. It was, after all, beyond the bounds of mere coincidence… wasn’t it? “This is your house,” I echoed, as if the repetition might convince me, and I lifted disbelieving eyes to stare at the great imposing gates that rose before us—the gates of the Clos des Cloches, the vineyard of the bells.

  Chapter 9

  A feudal knight in silken masquerade…

  The gates were locked. I would have pressed the buzzer, but the child stopped my hand.

  “No, no, Madame—this way,” she said, and led me through a smaller door set in the high stone wall. We came out in a dark and peaceful garden, heavy with the scent of roses. Still slightly dazed, I let my young friend pull me up the wide well-groomed approach to the white mansion, shining whiter in its floodlights, looking nearly as impressive as the château ruins that it faced.

  With every step the house grew larger, and I felt smaller by comparison, scarcely taller than the child who held me by the hand. Even the front door, when we finally reached it, looked disproportionately huge.

  “The door, it will be locked,” the girl informed me, matter-of-factly. “You must push the bell, just there.”

  She pointed, and I pushed.

  After what seemed an eternity of silence, the door swung open on its hinges, trapping us in a slanting slab of blinding yellow light. The face of the man who stood in that doorway was faintly gray and sternly lined, his mouth a deep horizontal slash beneath a hawk-like nose. It was easy to see why the child had feared his reaction, I thought. I rather feared it myself.

  Which was why, when I finally found my voice, I heard myself stammering out the little girl’s predicament, or at least the essence of it, in a rapid rush of speech, ignoring the persistent tugging at my sleeve.

  “…and so naturally I assured her, Monsieur, that you would not be angry,” I concluded, rather lamely.

  Beside me the child gave another tug. “But Madame,” she hissed, in a stage whisper, “this is not my father. This is only François.”

  I looked in surprise from the tall gray man to the child, and back again. “Oh,” I said.

  The man had been staring at me steadily, his eyes in shadow, but now, as if awaking from a trance, he bent his head, the corners of his hard mouth lifting in a smile that surprised me with its kindness. “It is true, Madame,” he told me gravely. “I am not the father of Mademoiselle Lucie. But please, do come in.”

  Numbly, I stepped into the brilliantly lit foyer, and felt the child’s fingers loosen from my grasp. The man named François shut the door firmly behind us, and I noticed for the first time that he was an older man, in his sixties, perhaps, or even early seventies. Old enough to be the child’s grandfather. He drew himself up gravely and looked down at the small figure beside me.

  “So, Mademoiselle, you have had an adventure tonight, have you not? A bath, I think, and then to bed.”

  “I have not had my supper…”

  “Just water and dry bread, tonight,” he threatened her, but he didn’t look as if he meant it, and she wasn’t a bit fooled. “Say thank you to the kind lady, Lucie, for bringing you home.”

  She turned to me, her dark eyes noticeably clearer and less miserable. “Thank you, Madame.”

  “You are most welcome.”

  I solemnly accepted the kiss she gave me, before François sent her off with a playfully imperious sweep of his hand. Giggling, she galloped up the elegant staircase that curved upwards from the foyer, her small feet making no noise on the thick red carpet as she trailed her hand along the
painted wrought-iron railings of the banister.

  I felt the man’s eyes on my face again, with a curious intensity, but as I met his gaze the impression vanished. He cleared his throat and spoke. “This is a very kind thing you have done, Madame. The streets can be quite dangerous for a small child, and her adventure might not have ended so pleasantly. I am grateful to you for bringing her home.”

  “It was no trouble, honestly.”

  “You will wait here, please, Madame,” he commanded me, as I turned to leave. “Monsieur Valcourt, I am sure, will also wish to thank you.”

  My hesitation must have shown, because he said to me again: “Wait here, please,” before he finally left me. The tone of his voice left no room for argument. I linked my hands behind my back like a chastened schoolgirl and did as I was told, feeling a childish twinge of apprehension, as though it had been myself and not the girl Lucie who’d gone wandering off against the rules. This was, I thought, what happened when one got involved in other people’s problems.

  Still, I had to admit that my situation was not entirely without interest.

  The inhabitants of the Clos des Cloches, like Jim Whitaker, evidently bought their clothing tailor made. The tangible evidence of wealth met me here at every turning. Not only wealth, but old and polished wealth, generations of it, handed down with pride from time immemorial. The plush red carpet, the marble floor on which I stood, the golden sconces on the white-painted walls, the rich, dark tones of the gilt-framed portraits—all this spoke to me of money and of privilege.

  A portrait by the staircase drew my eye, and I moved closer to examine it. It showed a boy just entering his teens, a boy with thick black hair and great dark eyes that watched me, lifelike. Those eyes, I thought, were faintly familiar…

  “Good evening, Madame.” The deep voice spoke suddenly out of the air behind me.

  I had not heard him come into the foyer, but my startled reaction was not due solely to the unexpected nature of his entrance. Pulling my eyes away from the portrait, I turned slowly round to face Monsieur Valcourt, and had the satisfaction of seeing his own features change abruptly.

  “You…” he said, the flash of surprise in his dark eyes quickly swallowed by a spreading warmth.

  I lifted my chin a fraction and summoned up the brightest smile I could muster. “You owe me twenty-five francs, Monsieur,” I told him.

  I ought to have been furious, I told myself. No doubt he had thought it a marvelous joke to be mistaken for a taxi driver, and he had certainly enjoyed that joke at my expense. It was a rotten thing to do, and I should have despised him for it. But the best I could manage was a kind of limpid irritation, and even that would not hold up beneath the smooth persuasion of his smile.

  “I owe my daughter a debt, I think,” he said, coming forward. “I am Armand Valcourt.”

  “Emily Braden.” I shook his hand stiffly, keeping the contact as brief as possible.

  “You’re angry with me.” I did not answer, and his breath escaped him on a sound that wasn’t quite a sigh. “I never said, you know, that the taxi was mine. If you had asked, I would have told you no, I was just waiting for the driver to collect my luggage from the train, that’s all. But,” he spread his hands, in self-defense, “you didn’t ask.”

  “You might have told me, later. When we met the second time.”

  “I might have, yes. But by that time you were convinced I drove the taxi. I thought it would embarrass you to find out who I was. And it was no great sacrifice for me to drive you to your hotel.”

  “You took my money,” I reminded him.

  “You were most insistent, as I recall.” His eyes were gently mocking above his smile. “I did not keep your money, Mademoiselle. I gave it to my friend, Jean-Luc, who owns the taxi. And if it matters, he also was not pleased with me, when he found I’d taken his taxi. So I have been twice reprimanded.” Not that he looked particularly remorseful. He thrust his hands in his pockets and tilted his head to one side. “Am I forgiven?”

  “Possibly.” I softened, noting he had switched to calling me “Mademoiselle” in place of the more formal “Madame.” The change implied a subtle move in our relationship as well—no longer strangers, but acquaintances.

  “But you are right,” he said, “I must repay you. Have you eaten yet?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then please, you must dine with me, tonight. François always cooks far more than I can eat alone. Do you like veal?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Good. You can leave your coat there, if you like, beside the door. Here, let me help you.”

  I hesitated, and he smiled again. It was a damnably persuasive smile. “Please,” he said again. “I’ve upset you, and my daughter has dragged you across half of Chinon. The least that I can do is give you dinner.”

  It would be harmless enough, I thought, to accept the offer. I was rather hungry, and the fact that he was flirting with me openly convinced me just how harmless it would be. Flirtatious men I could handle. It was the serious ones, like Neil, who made me nervous—the ones who looked straight at you and spoke simply and had no use for games. Men like Neil, I thought, might talk of love and mean it, while flirtatious men demanded nothing, promised less, and never disappointed. There could be no danger, I decided, in a dinner with Armand Valcourt.

  “Of course,” he said, “if there is someone waiting for you back at your hotel…”

  I shook my head. “No, I’m all on my own.”

  “Good,” he murmured, cryptically, as I followed him from the foyer into a long, expansive room half shadow and half light, its understated elegance both soothing and surreal. It had been decorated with an eye to detail—the artistic arrangement of chairs and sofa, the graceful antique writing-desk, the swan-like pair of table lamps… but it looked more like a stage set than a sitting room. A place where no one really lived. The image was compounded by the fact that one whole wall seemed made of windows, black as pitch at this late hour. As we moved, the glass threw back our images, distorted.

  “I eat in here,” he told me. “It’s my habit, when I’m alone. Unless you would prefer the dining room?”

  I shook my head. “Here is fine.”

  He must have already been sitting down to dinner when François had interrupted him. A table at the far end of the room was set for one, its polished surface scattered with an odd assortment of china bowls and chafing dishes.

  I’d seen so many films about the rich that I was half expecting serving maids in starched white caps, but it was Armand Valcourt himself who fetched me an extra plate and cutlery, and filled my wine glass from the open bottle on the table.

  “It’s last year’s vintage,” he explained, as he poured. “Not a great wine, I’m afraid, but sufficient for François’s cooking. The real cook is off this evening.”

  He took the chair across from me and raised his own glass in a toast. “To small deceptions,” he said, with a slow deliberate smile.

  The wine, to my untrained palate at least, proved excellent, as did the meal itself. I thought François a smashing cook, and said so.

  “François has many talents,” my host told me. “He’s a good man and a loyal one. But you will learn this for yourself, I think.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve made a friend of him tonight, make no mistake. He does not forget a kindness, and he’s very fond of my daughter.”

  “Oh, I see.” I nodded. “Well, that’s understandable, Monsieur. She is a charming child.”

  He smiled a little, lowering his eyes to the food on his plate. “Her mother’s doing, and not mine. Brigitte was much more sociable than I am.”

  I thought it impolite to ask the question, so I didn’t, but he answered it for me anyway. “My wife had a weak heart, Mademoiselle. She died three years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

 
; He was still looking down, and I couldn’t see his eyes. “Life moves us onwards, does it not? More wine?”

  I held my glass out while he poured. “How many children do you have?”

  “Just Lucie. I think it must be lonely for her, sometimes.”

  “I rather enjoyed being an only child, myself,” I confessed. “I was spoiled rotten.”

  Briefly, his enigmatic gaze touched mine. “François tells me I’m not to be angry with my daughter. Your words, I think.”

  “Yes, well… I did rather promise her that you wouldn’t be.” I suddenly developed an intense interest in my own plate, pushing my vegetables round with the fork. “I shouldn’t have interfered, perhaps, but if you’d seen her you’d have understood. She looked so small, and so unhappy, I thought surely no parent would want to…” My voice trailed off and I speared a carrot with my fork. “Besides, she wouldn’t have come with me, otherwise. She was afraid.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Afraid of what?”

  “Of your reaction, naturally.”

  That surprised him, and he frowned as he dismissed the notion with a classic Gallic “pouf.”

  “I don’t beat my daughter, Mademoiselle.”

  “Of course you don’t. But your daughter was very tired,” I reasoned, “and upset. And things always do seem quite a bit more frightening when one is lost. Not that she was ever lost herself, really, but she’d lost the people she was with, which rather amounts to the same thing.”

  His mouth curved, and I had the distinct impression he found me amusing, but the tone of his voice betrayed nothing. “She would not have lost anyone if she had done as she was told. I gave her clear instructions to remain with her aunt.”

  “Yes, but she told me…” I broke off suddenly, realizing my error. It was really none of my business, I thought. This was a family matter, and I ought not to get involved.