Devils' Spawn

by Charles Birkin

  She could not understand what could have prompted Madame de Civennes to ask her to the Château. Why didn’t she hate her? She sighed and tried to put the question out of her head. Perhaps it was because Margaret de Civennes was Spanish, and could look at life from a more detached angle. Still, Sally could not imagine any Englishwoman that she knew asking her dead husband’s mistress to stay with her, however passionately she may have loved him.

  She got up and started to collect her luggage . . . the next station must be her destination. The man in the ticket office at Natombre had told her it was the third stop after changing at Treves.

  Sally shivered as she climbed stiffly from the train on to the small country platform. There were few passengers for the little village of Civennes; and, as might have been expected in a lonely hamlet of its size, there was no porter. A disobliging greybeard carried out the duties of ticket collector and station-master; nor was his task an arduous one. She looked up and down the platform. An old peasant woman, blurred by the dusk, was clambering from her third-class carriage, her form rendered shapeless by many bundles and baskets. She waddled away into the murk. A bitterly cold wind blustered down the narrow valley.

  Sally shivered and drew her coat more closely about her. She looked past the cluster of wooden sheds to the road. No sign of a car to meet her. Really it was very inconsiderate of Madame de Civennes. With a sigh, she climbed back into her compartment and started to tug out her suitcases and golf clubs. The little train gave a warning whistle; and panic-stricken the girl found herself in a cascade of small luggage on the now deserted platform. At the same moment the welcome beams of a motor-car’s headlights cut the gathering gloom.

  Sally gave a sigh of relief. The discomfort of the journey in the small local trains, the interminable dallyings at the dull stations, the dirt and smuts, all were forgotten by the prospect of dinner and a hot bath—especially a hot bath—at the Château.

  The owner of the car was walking towards her, followed by the ticket collector, roused from his lethargy by a few well-­chosen phrases. He was extremely deferential. “The lady from the Château—a thousand pardons. Would Mademoiselle permit him to carry her luggage?” Mademoiselle most certainly would!

  Margaret de Civennes shook hands with her guest. She was remarkably good looking in her well-cut tweeds. The severe fashion in which she wore her dark hair enhanced the beauty of her face—the small mouth, the large sorrow-haunted eyes. Hers was a masculine, rather hard beauty that most men found intimidating. This flashed through Sally’s mind as she protested that she hadn’t been kept waiting at all; that the train had only just left.

  Together they walked from the station and superintended the disposal of the luggage in the capacious dickey of the Bentley. Sally drew her coat more tightly round her and turned up the fur collar as a protection against the wind. She shivered.

  “How far is it to the Château?”

  “Five miles. You poor thing; you must be frozen.” She had but the faintest accent.

  Margaret pressed the self-starter, and they started their drive through the valley, its bleak beauty softened by the twilight, to the Château Montnegre, a relic of the glory that was mediæval France.

  Sally gasped with appreciation at her first glimpse of the Château. Situated on a hill, its strong harsh outline black against the cloud-ridden sky, it dominated the valley through which the road wound.

  The car pulled up before great gates of wrought iron. Margaret pressed the horn. The harsh metallic cry sounded oddly out of place. A light showed in the cottage of the gate-keeper, and a bent old man tottered uncertainly into the glare of their lights. He carried a lantern of a pattern in use many years ago. His purblind eyes peered at his hands as he fumbled with the fastenings. He touched his cap as the car slid past and breasted the steep slope of the drive.

  The vast building loomed before them; a seemingly solid mass of masonry, save where one room lighted by candles pierced its flank with eerie radiance.

  “I’ll leave you here,” Margaret said. “Pierre will take your luggage. I’m afraid that you’ll find it very uncomfortable. You see, I just live in one wing with an old woman to cook for me; and her son to do the heavy work. All other help comes from the village; so I must garage the car myself. The bell is on the right of the door,” she added as she let in the clutch.

  Sally pulled the bell. Far away she heard the jangle of its ringing. She felt dwarfed by the gigantic size of the door. The trees tossed their branches, tortured by the wind; on such a night, she thought, witches straddled their broomsticks, riding the gale to their Sabbath. She listened. No sound disturbed the quiet of the Château. She pulled the bell a second time. She thought how brave it was of Margaret de Civennes to live here by herself! Then came the sound of footsteps on a stone floor, unhurried and purposeful. And then silence; whoever was there was waiting, listening. She wrapped on the wood with her knuckles.

  The rasping of heavy bolts promised that soon she would be in welcome shelter. With a last protest the massive door swung open. Sally stepped forward; and then paused in amazement. Before her stood the biggest man that she had ever seen. He towered above her, nearly seven feet in height, his tremendous shoulders almost filling the narrow stone passage. But it was his face that startled the girl. From a forest of beard the mouth hung half open; the small pig eyes were bleared with lack of understanding. She glanced at his hands, huge and hairy, with prominent knotted veins. The man looked at her, motionless, and without speaking.

  “My luggage is outside. Could you bring it in, please.” Sally spoke in halting French.

  He made no move; but stared at her in abysmal stupidity. She repeated her order; and then added: “Madame de Civennes is garaging the car. She will be here in a minute.”

  The servant shambled past her and picked up her suitcases. With a jerk of his head he motioned her to precede him.

  Sally walked down the passage until she came to a lofty central hall. A few candles served to lessen its gloom. She could just see a wide staircase that mounted into the darkness above. Armour and the glimmer of marble shimmered where the light caught them.

  The man put down her luggage and threw open a door on the right, showing the warm welcome of a log fire. Sally decided that she was meant to wait there for her hostess. Was the creature dumb? she wondered. She hurried to the blaze, gratefully stretching out her numbed hands to the fire.

  Taking off her hat and coat she threw them on to a chair covered with wonderful tapestry, its rich colours toned down by the use of many centuries. The door opened and Margaret hurried in, her face glowing from the cold night air.

  “I’m sorry I kept you waiting. But I see that you’ve made yourself comfortable.”

  “Yes . . . Madame de Civennes, who is that extraordinary man who let me in?”

  “You mean Pierre? Oh, he’s not as intimidating as he looks, child. He’s dumb, poor fellow, and not overburdened with brains. But he’s a marvellous servant. I did his mother a service once, and they’re both devoted to me. I hope he didn’t frighten you?”

  “No. Not—exactly. But he was a little . . . unexpected.”

  “I should have warned you.” She walked towards the hall. “But I’m sure that you’ll be wanting a bath and a change. I’ll show you your room. We dine, or rather sup, at nine.”

  Dinner helped to dispel somewhat the atmosphere of gloom. The food was simple, but well cooked. A delicious omelette, cold ham and a salad, and fresh fruit, followed by excellent coffee. The meal was prepared by Marie, Pierre’s mother, a wizened crone of incredible age, who also waited upon them. Afterwards, they went back to the cheerful sitting-room for liqueurs and cigarettes. Sally was struck by the pale sad loveliness of her hostess, ten years her senior, who, a Russian cigarette between her slim fingers, sat on a low stool gazing into the fire. ‘She is very beautiful,’ Sally thought, ‘with a hard brittle beauty.’ Soon Margaret rose, glancing at the clock.

  “Well, my dear, it’s half-past ten.
There’s no reason to sit up late in Civennes. I want to get some colour into your cheeks before you go back to London. If there’s anything you want, I hope that you’ll let me know.”

  Sally followed her up to her room. The wind had dropped and, the moon being obscured by clouds, the night crept close to the walls of the Château. Sally had never experienced a feeling of such solitude. It seemed that only four people remained in the world: Margaret de Civennes, herself, Pierre and the wizened Marie.

  Well, here was her room. She yawned, stretching luxuriously. A profound fatigue swept over her. Sleep and rest were what she longed for; and let to-morrow take care of itself.

  The next day she and Margaret walked to the village, a pathetic straggle of cottages, a half-mile from the Château, behind which the Montnegre reared its sinister bulk. It was dusk when they returned. Sally was tired and hungry, but her day in the open air had given her a feeling of well-being. Her hostess smiled at her. “You see, I was right in asking you to come to visit me. You needed a change.”

  “I can’t thank you enough. But I want to talk to you about it all. I don’t quite understand why you’re doing all this for me. . . .”

  Margaret shrugged her shoulders impatiently.

  “Why bring up old stories? The past is dead—it is dangerous to resurrect it.” Her voice held an odd note.

  Later that evening after their dinner, when the two women sat smoking, Sally determined to talk out the whole situation with Margaret. She was deeply touched by her kindness, and wished sincerely that it could have happened otherwise. But at the time she had not known Margaret; and so had violated no sense of loyalty. Sally lay curled up on a sofa. They had been discussing books; the quality of courage—abstract questions that could hold no personal element. Margaret studiously avoided all but abstract discussions. And now Sally felt the time had come to try and justify herself in the eyes of this woman. She threw away her cigarette, quickly swung her feet to the floor, and brushed back her thick fair hair.

  “Madame de Civennes;—or Margaret—I may call you Mar­garet?”

  “But of course.”

  “I want to explain to you about André and I.”

  “My dear!” Margaret looked at her with surprise; the tone of her voice showed only unutterable boredom.

  “But I must. You’ve been so charming to me, that I feel such a . . .” she groped for a word, “such a cad.”

  “Who can help their feelings?”

  “You see, it wasn’t as if I knew you. I met André at a night club. I knew he was married, but thought, God knows why, that he was living apart from his wife.” She broke off. “You loved him terribly, didn’t you?”

  “He was all my life.”

  “I loved him too. That’s why it was so dreadful when it all happened. Oh, it was horrible. And the newspapers—they didn’t spare me, you know. I suppose that you read that he died in my bedroom—that I was engaged to be married . . . well, it’s finished my life, if that’s any consolation.”

  “That is why I asked you here—so that you could get away from London, until . . . your pride heals.”

  Sally got up and walked over to the fire, leaning against the carved stone of the fireplace. She found it easier to talk where she could not see the eyes of her hostess.

  “It seems strange telling all this to his wife, doesn’t it?”

  “Is a wife, then, such a terrible person?”

  “Margaret! I loved André. I loved him, and he loved me. We couldn’t help it, really we couldn’t. I remember the last time he wrote to me; the evening he died. I was waiting for him to call for me to take me out to dinner. The bell of my flat rang; and I panicked because I wasn’t nearly ready. I thought it was André; but it wasn’t. It was a messenger boy with a great bunch of red roses and a note. And the note was a poem. It said:

  ‘Time was when I loved not,

  And loving not, rejoiced in love.’

  That’s all. But I shall never forget it.” Sally spoke with difficulty. “And now I’ve met you,” she continued. “At first I thought I wouldn’t come here; that you must hate me. You’ve made me look so small and petty. You’re a great woman, my dear.” She started to cry. Margaret crossed to her, smoothing her hair with her hands.

  “Don’t cry, child. We both loved André. It’s finished now; there’s nothing left that either of us can do.”

  As she undressed that night, Margaret felt that her heart was dead within her. Nothing mattered any longer. André had betrayed her more than she had realised. She felt that she could have forgiven any infidelity but that. He had given her poem, her most treasured memory of their early marriage to that silly little . . . tart.

  “Time was when I loved not,

  And loving not, rejoiced in love.”

  Margaret’s face was set in misery as she climbed into bed. Well, she should pay for it; the common little fool with her cheap sentiment. She, Margaret, had wanted to see what it had been that had so fascinated André. There must have been something in the girl!

  And she lay sleepless through the night, her brain working feverishly through the still hours. That girl, she should pay for stealing her memories. “We both loved him.” How dirty it made everything seem.

  On the Saturday, as they were walking up the drive that led up to the Château, Sally said:

  “I’ve been here a week. I suppose I must go back soon. I can’t just mark time for ever, can I? I think I’ll go on Tuesday, if that will be all right for you.”

  “If you must go, there is no more to be said. You know that you can stay as long as you feel you care to. What is the hurry? Future engagements?”

  “Oh no. Nothing like that. None of my friends know when I am coming back, or where I am, as a matter of fact. It’s a queer feeling that no one knows what’s happened to me. It cuts this visit off from the rest of my life entirely. An isolated interlude.”

  They walked on. The night was beautiful with stars. A gentle wind whispered in the branches of the trees that bordered the avenue.

  “An isolated interlude,” Margaret repeated softly.

  Monday was a glorious day, one of those brilliant April mornings that come all too rarely. Sally sat in a cane chair on the terrace, overlooking the panorama of the valley, washed in wan yellow by the spring sun. She was sorry, in a way, that she was leaving so soon, and yet glad; for the Château frightened her with its forbidding aspect. And that nightmare couple! That evil old Marie! Several times during the last two days she had noticed the old woman giving her a venomous glance as if she were gloating over some obscene secret, she supposed it was because she was unable to conceal the horror she felt for her son. Pierre! He was no better than an idiot. Yes, on the whole she was glad she was leaving. She looked up as she heard someone approaching. It was Margaret, with a bundle of magazines and newspapers under her arm.

  “These have just come from England. I thought you might like to see them. By the way, if you are still determined to leave to-morrow, perhaps you might like to go over the Château. You’ve only seen the wing I live in. It’s rather interesting. Parts of it go back to the ninth century.”

  “I’d love to.” Sally walked to the french window that led into the library.

  “Of course it’s in grave disrepair,” Margaret went on, “but you can get an idea of what it has been.”

  They spent the morning in going through endless rooms and passages, majestic still in their decay. Heavy Chinese curtains of painted leather, ragged as the binding of an old book; wonderful brocade-covered chairs; glowing tapestries; tortuous winding stairs; carved wooden galleries. Sally was bewildered by the impressions that crowded on her brain. At last they returned to the hall. Under the great staircase a narrow arched door was let into the stone.

  “Where does that go to?” she asked.

  “To the cellars and dungeons. The rock is honeycombed with passages. I don’t know them very well myself. Old Marie is the only living being who does, I believe. It’s cold down there; and there
’s no lighting. They were put to nasty uses in days gone by!”

  She laughed and led the way back into the library.

  During luncheon Sally again felt the malignant presence of old Marie. She shivered. The old woman must be slightly crazy. Again she wondered how Margaret could bear to live here by herself . . .

  Margaret de Civennes stood in the huge stone kitchen of the Château. Before her was Pierre, his face strained in the effort to comprehend what his employer was saying. Behind him his mother sat hunched in her rocking-chair, knitting, the twitching of her needles as insistent as the ticking of a clock.

  “You have been a good boy, Pierre. It is time you were rewarded, is it not so? See, I have for you a present. Some brandy.” Margaret pointed to a bottle, shrouded in cobwebs that stood on a table. “And that is not all. Drink, my friend. Make merry to-night, and perhaps there will be something more for you.”

  The old woman glanced up at Margaret, her eyes bright with evil understanding. Pierre’s thick lips parted in a grin. He was repulsive in his ugliness.

  “Marie. Come with me.”

  The woman followed Margaret into the passage.

  “It is arranged. It will be to-night. See that he drinks well. We can manage it between us. She is not heavy.”

  The harridan made a clucking noise of acquiescence. Her poor Pierre! Well, it was time he had some fun. He was human, wasn’t he?

  Sally was sleepy. She couldn’t understand why she was so exhausted. It must have been the liqueur that Margaret had insisted on her drinking after dinner. The room was blurred. Bed . . . she would go to bed. She was too tired to undress. Too tired . . .

  Pierre was sitting by the table in the kitchen. A glass was in his hand; the bottle of brandy, half-empty, stood on the table at his elbow. His old mother was talking to him, slowly, distinctly.

  “You understand, Pierre. The English girl. . . . You could love her, eh? Then do so. She is yours. She will marry you. That will be good, eh?” She peered into his face anxiously. The man looked up at her, his eyes narrowed.