Season of Snows and Sins

by Patricia Moyes

  She reddened, and shook her head.

  “I’m sure you do,” I said. “I’m the Englishwoman who lives at Les Sapins.”

  Anne-Marie nodded silently.

  “I don’t just live there,” I went on. “I work there, too.”

  “Work?” She looked up, surprised.

  “Yes. Making statues. I’m a sculptor, you see.”

  “Oh.” She looked disappointed. “I thought you meant work.”

  “I’m making a statue of a girl just now,” I said, undeterred by this snub. “I’m doing it specially for a lady and gentleman in London.”

  “Yes, madame.” Anne-Marie’s interest had reached vanishing point.

  I said, “The trouble is, I need a model.”

  “A model, madame?”

  “A real girl for me to copy. A girl like you.”

  “Like me?” She sounded intrigued.

  “Yes,” I said. “I was wondering if you would come and sit for me sometimes, when you’re off duty. I’d pay you, of course.”

  “Pay me?” No doubt about the interest now. “How much?”

  How much? I had no idea of the going rate, but neither had Anne-Marie. “Three francs an hour,” I said.

  “When can I come?”

  “Now, look,” I said, “I think you should ask your parents first. I wouldn’t want to—”

  “When can I come?”

  “How old are you, Anne-Marie?”

  “Eighteen. When can I come?”

  “Not until you’ve spoken to your mother.”

  “I haven’t got a mother.” She turned away, bitterly disappointed. “Why do I need a mother to get three francs an hour for sitting down?”

  “Well, you must have some family…someone who looks after you.”

  She shrugged. “Only Mme. Bertrand. I live here, in the café. I have a little room right up at the top of the house. I’ve lived here ever since I came from the orphanage.”

  In the end, I insisted on consulting Mme. Bertrand, much against Anne-Marie’s will. She was evidently terrified that her employer would somehow contrive to prevent her from laying hands on what she considered a small fortune. However, she need not have worried. Mme. Bertrand was supremely uninterested in what Anne-Marie did, so long as she did it in her own time. The girl had been sent to her, she said, by the good Sisters who ran the orphanage in the valley. The child had been found abandoned as a baby, and the Sisters had picked her a name—Durey—at random from the telephone book. Mme. Bertrand had given her a job and a roof over her head, purely out of kindness. The girl was willing enough, but quite untrained in café work. She (Mme. Bertrand) hoped I would not spoil her. She had one afternoon off a week, and two hours each day, either midmorning or midafternoon, and I was welcome to her, so long as she was not late back for work.

  And so, that afternoon, Anne-Marie turned up at Les Sapins, and together we lit the stove in the studio and set to work. I persuaded her to unpin her hair and let me comb it so that it fell in a soft, golden bell around her face, and to exchange her unbecoming blouse and skirt for an old blue silk sari—a faithful “prop” of mine—which I managed to coax into some interesting folds. Then she perched happily on a wooden stool, and chattered like a little bird while I modeled her head in clay.

  I am almost sure—although now I cannot be quite certain—that it was on that first afternoon that I noticed M. Bienne, the house agent, picking his way gingerly among the planks and bricks and cement bags which littered the new building, accompanied by the couple with whom he had been dining at the Source. They were carrying colored brochures and architect’s plans, and it was clear that they were prospecting the site with the possible idea of buying one of the apartments. Anne-Marie recognized them at once.

  “Oh, look,” she said. I was taking a short rest and a cigarette, so I looked. “There’s the lady and gentleman who were in the café with M. Bienne. Mme. Bertrand was talking about them. She says he’s a very important gentleman from Paris—something to do with the government, Mme. Bertrand says. D’you think they’re going to come and live here, madame?”

  I said I had no idea, and set to work again, but the couple from Paris came back to the building site again the next day, with lists and measuring tapes, and soon it was all over the village that Pierre Claudet, a junior minister in the French government, had bought one of the apartments in the new block, Panoralpes. It meant little to me, one way or another, who was going to live in Panoralpes—although I did rather grudge them the view that should have been mine.

  It was on the Friday, when Anne-Marie had her half-day off and was therefore able to give me more of her time, that the young man from the building site came up to the studio on the pretext of asking whether I could spare some milk for the boys’ afternoon coffee. Even in his dusty overalls and workman’s cap, I could see that he was astonishingly good-looking—and I also saw the way he looked at Anne-Marie. That was when it all started. I did not even know at the time that he was Robert Drivaz, the son of the widow from the grocery. I couldn’t help noticing, however, that henceforward he made some excuse to come up to the studio at least once during each of Anne-Marie’s sittings.

  By the time the little figure for the Chelsea garden was finished, Robert had taken to hanging about at Panoralpes after his work-mates had gone home, so that he could walk back down to the village with Anne-Marie; and this arrangement continued later on when Anne-Marie—at her own earnest request and to my delight—continued to come and clean my little house for me during her free time from the café.

  It was in November, when Panoralpes was almost finished, that Anne-Marie arrived one day in floods of tears and poured out her story to me.

  She and Robert, she confided, were in love. This came as no news to me. However, the course of their true love was running according to form. Robert had told his mother that they wished to marry, and the widow Drivaz had exploded like an outraged volcano. Out of the question! Unthinkable! Her only son, Robert, to marry a penniless orphan! Never! Where would they live, and what would they use for money, she would like to know? Robert certainly wasn’t going to bring a girl of that sort into the cozy apartment above the grocer’s shop. Oh, the shame of it! What his poor, dear father would have said…!

  “But, Anne-Marie,” I said, “Robert’s over twenty-one, isn’t he?”

  She stopped sniveling for long enough to confirm that he was twenty-two.

  “Well, then, why not go ahead and get married? Mme. Drivaz will come around in the end, especially if you present her with a grandson—you’ll see.”

  “But, madame,” wailed Anne-Marie, “what she says is true. How could we live without her help? Robert has been making good money on the building site for the summer, but what is he to do in the winter?”

  “I thought he was training to be a ski instructor.”

  “Oh, yes—yes, he is. But he still has to take the examination, and it is very difficult. In any case, even if he passes, he will not earn much at first. And where are we to live? We have no house, and Mme. Bertrand will sack me, and I shall not even have my little room at the café…”

  “Now, do pull yourself together, Anne-Marie,” I said. “I’m sure we’ll be able to work something out.”

  Anne-Marie flung her arms around my neck. “Oh, madame,” she sobbed. “I knew you would help us. I said to Robert, Mme. Veston will find the way for us…oh, thank you, madame…”

  And so I became involved.

  I first braved the grocery for a talk with Mme. Drivaz, and found her every bit as intractable as Anne-Marie had said. They were a respectable family, she kept repeating. Her husband and her husband’s father had owned one of the largest farms in the district. Her son, Robert, was good enough for the finest lady in the land.

  In vain I extolled Anne-Marie’s virtues. Certainly, Mme. Drivaz conceded grudgingly, she was a pretty girl, and the good Sisters had brought her up to be a hard worker. That didn’t alter the fact that she was an orphan, almost certainly
illegitimate, and quite without a dowry. She had a right to expect that her son’s bride would bring a marriage portion with her.

  “What do you mean by a marriage portion, Mme. Drivaz?”

  Well, now, that would depend, wouldn’t it? In the old days, sons and daughters of farmers had married each other, and so land was amassed into the family. The very least she would expect from Anne-Marie was a house for the young couple to live in, and a steady income—not the sort of pittance she made now, working all hours at the Café de la Source. She certainly wouldn’t allow any daughter-in-law of hers to slave away as a skivvy for that old dragon Bertrand…

  Mme. Bertrand was no help either. She took the view that she was doing a charitable, Christian duty by employing Anne-Marie at all. She’d only taken the girl on as a favor to the good Sisters. Heaven knew, she’d lavished money and training on the girl, and this was how she was to be repaid, was it? Waltzing off to marry above her station, neglecting her work, painting her face and doing her hair in that fancy style. Well, Anne-Marie needn’t think that Mme. Bertrand would have any more use for her once she got married—no, thank you very much. She could pack her bags and get out, and good luck to her. The room in the attic would come in handy for the Italian girl Mme. Bertrand hoped to get as a replacement. Italian girls were hard-working and didn’t ask much in the way of wages. Not like some. As for Anne-Marie, Mme. Bertrand was reduced to near-tears of self-pity at her wanton ingratitude for all that had been done for her. How disappointed the good Sisters must be…

  Anne-Marie brought Robert to see me, and he sat in my tiny drawing room, handsome and tongue-tied and seeming too large for his chair, while his fiancée explained to me earnestly that his work on Panoralpes would soon be finished, and that even if he passed his ski instructor’s examination this year, he could only be a junior instructor for the first season, which didn’t mean much money; and if he failed, he’d have to go back to working the ski lift, and his mother would never help them, even though she was terribly rich, having sold the family farm to the company who had built the Hotel Carlton…

  It all seemed rather hopeless, and I was embarrassed that these two likable young people had apparently adopted me as honorary fairy godmother. At the end of the interview, Robert—who had hardly opened his mouth till then—surprised me by asking me if I would like to have a look at the Panoralpes building. As is usual in the mountains, the builders had planned their schedule to finish the outside of the building before the cold weather started; in that way, work on the interior could continue through the winter months. The doors were going to be fitted the next day, Robert said, and after that nobody would be able to get in except the workmen or prospective buyers brought by M. Bienne. This struck me as a welcome diversion from the young couple’s troubles, and I agreed gratefully.

  Even in its half-completed state, Panoralpes was an impressive building. It was not large—it contained only eight apartments, two to each of the four floors—but one could see already that grand luxe just about described them. Each flat had two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a huge double living room, big balconies, and a super-modern kitchen. Parquet and marble abounded, and huge double-glazed windows commanded the magnificent view which had once been enjoyed by Les Sapins.

  Robert showed us around with a rather touching pride in the fact that he had helped to create all this splendor, and, unlike me, appeared not at all abashed when the door of one of the top-floor flats opened while we were admiring the enormous salon, to admit M. and Mme. Claudet with M. Bienne.

  “But naturally, madame,” Bienne was saying in his Genevese accent, “naturally there will be a concierge. She will live in the small chalet opposite, and be responsible for all the cleaning and…” He broke off in surprise at the sight of Anne-Marie, Robert, and myself.

  “So sorry,” I mumbled. “Just looking around…”

  “Good afternoon, Mme. Weston,” said M. Bienne coldly. “Were you interested in buying an apartment? I’m afraid this one is already sold, but if you would call at my office, I can arrange to show you some of the others.”

  “No…no,” I said, “That is…I mean, yes. I’ll call at your office.” And I fled back to Les Sapins, bubbling with my new idea.

  The next day I called on M. Bienne. He was a plump, fair, soft-faced man—a stranger from Geneva, not mountain-bred. He sat in a small, crowded office, surrounded by brochures and blueprints, quietly amassing a fortune by acting as middleman between rich property dealers and rich pleasure seekers. He was not, I admit, my favorite person, but for Anne-Marie’s sake I turned on what charm I could muster.

  M. Bienne greeted me with a warmth which cooled perceptibly when it became clear that I was not a prospective purchaser. He admitted, however, that no arrangements had yet been made about appointing a concierge for Panoralpes.

  “We are looking for a young couple, not a single woman,” he said severely. It occurred to me, hilariously, that perhaps he thought I was after the job myself. “Elderly concierges are no use—none at all. I want a good, strong, hard-working girl who will keep the building clean, see the snow is swept from the driveway, and so on. She will be able to make a nice little bit on the side, doing private cleaning jobs for the tenants. Her husband should have an independent job, but he would be expected to help with heavy work like digging snow, fetching firewood, and so on.”

  “And they would live in the little chalet next to mine?” I asked.

  “That is correct. A very nice little house—in rather better shape than yours, if I may say so, madame, and with central heating.”

  “The house would be free, and the concierge would get a salary?”

  “Of course.” M. Bienne was sounding definitely puzzled by now. “But I did explain that I am looking for a married couple, and young—”

  “Exactly!” I said triumphantly. “Robert Drivaz and Anne-Marie. The very people for you!”

  Well, it took a bit of a struggle, but I won in the end. M. Bienne interviewed both Robert and Anne-Marie, and even he could find no fault with them. He knew that Robert was a good worker, for he had been employed on the building of Panoralpes—which meant, incidentally, that he knew about the hot-water and central-heating systems and other such mysteries. Bienne knew Anne-Marie from the Café de la Source, and even Mme. Bertrand had to admit that the good Sisters had given her a thorough training in housework. The couple were both young, strong, honest, and hard-working. What more could M. Bienne ask?

  And so it was arranged. Mme. Drivaz was forced to admit that Anne-Marie was contributing a free house and a steady income, together with a job which would not prevent her from looking after her home and husband. In any case, in this new situation, she knew very well that the couple could defy her and get married anyhow. Graciously accepting defeat, she withdrew her opposition to the match.

  And so the winter passed, in its usual winter-sports whirl. Robert took his ski instructor’s examination in January, on the very day that Giselle Arnay married Michel Veron, and he passed it. In the spring, Panoralpes was finally finished down to the last brass door handle and crystal chandelier, and the little chalet next to my studio was scrubbed and furbished by Anne-Marie. So in April, as I have said, when the tourists had gone and the cherry blossom was coming out in the valley, Robert Drivaz married Anne-Marie Durey, and I was the only foreigner present, and everybody cried.

  The only other noteworthy thing that happened to me that winter was that I invited Henry and Emmy Tibbett to spend Christmas with me at Les Sapins.

  CHAPTER TWO

  AFTER I HAD made such a point of cutting myself off from England, I suppose it may sound odd that I should have invited friends out to stay that very first winter. I told myself that I was just doing a good turn to the Tibbetts, who adored skiing and would probably not have been able to afford a winter holiday, but if I am to be honest, I have to admit that I dreaded the prospect of Christmas alone.

  The snow came late that year, I remember. Right up to the second week in De
cember, the sky remained obstinately blue and the mountains green. And then, one morning, the village woke up to find itself swaddled in a soft cloud of white snowflakes, and when the sun came out again, two days later, the transformation scene was complete. Everywhere, diamond points of light dazzled off the snow, the pine trees were outlined in frosty white like decorations on an iced cake, and the snow plows flung great fountains of snow into the air as they cleared the village street for traffic before the Christmas rush. The whole place throbbed with the anticipation of gaiety and good cheer, and I felt miserable. So I put through a telephone call to Emmy Tibbett in London.

  The Tibbetts are, I think, very special people. They had been neighbors of mine in London in the old days, when we all lived near the World’s End, and called it Fulham and not Chelsea. In those days Henry Tibbett was a detective inspector of the C.I.D. at Scotland Yard, and although I knew that he had now risen to the rank of Chief Superintendent, I did not imagine that this would have had any marked effect on him. He was unspectacular to meet—a smallish man in middle age, with sandy hair and blue eyes—but the criminal fraternity had a healthy respect for him, just the same. Emmy was plump and dark-haired, with a very fair skin and a bubbling laugh—an immediately attractive person. Of all my friends, I knew I could rely on the Tibbetts not to “poor Jane” me, to cope cheerfully with the coke stove which I had christened Herbert, not to upset the tin bath, and to appreciate the scenery. I was only afraid that I might have left it too late, and that they would already be booked up for Christmas.

  My fears were ill-founded. “Jane, darling, how absolutely wonderful. Of course, we’d love to. What? No hot water? But you’ve got a stove, haven’t you? Well, then, what are you worrying about?… Just one thing, love—be an angel and reserve some skis and boots for us to hire from a reliable local shop… I know what it’s like over Christmas… I’ll drop you a line to say exactly when we’ll be arriving… Oh, Jane, what fun it’s going to be!”