by Jean Stubbs
She held out both small hands, crying, ‘You’re a good friend, sir!’
He kissed them gently, replaced them in her lap, and replied, ‘Now, if you are ready. One more sketch, and then you can go home. Give me an idea of Madame, so that I might know how to approach her.’
He had solved her problems, and her face was clear and simple once more. All was well. She could chatter without fear.
‘Madame is inscrutable!’
As she spoke, her eyes narrowed in imitation and became those of a remote sphinx, and yet of an approachable alley cat.
‘Incredible!’
Her fingers spread and slowly closed in admiration.
‘Passionate!’
Arms akimbo, body half-turned. Smiling an invitation that was wholly impersonal.
He would not for worlds have brought her roughly to reality. So once more, the pose destroyed, he laid aside his work and smoked while Valentine became Madame Natalie Picard. Her simple mind and pliable nature were no vehicles for the ambition that possessed her, and so she dreamed of power by means of her mistress. Power which depended upon attractiveness, wit and cunning. Power which time would weaken. So much was evident in her portrait which Valentine reproduced faithfully without comprehending it. Madame Picard had reckoned on all eventualities, and prepared for them. A foolish woman would have spent her youth and beauty. Madame had invested it and would retire on the proceeds. Meanwhile, in full and glorious spate, she triumphed.
Valentine’s exultant face gradually returned to its bewildered triangle. Her arms drifted to her sides. She sat, passive, mute, and stared ahead of her. The relationship between mistress and maid became evident.
‘She is severe, sir. She can be very severe. And especially with me.’
‘Why with you, Valentine?’
Her sadness vanished.
‘Will your picture of me hang in a salon, sir?’
‘Perhaps. I may prefer to keep it for myself. No, I mustn’t be so selfish!’ Seeing her disappointment. ‘It will be admired by thousands. Not for my work, Valentine, but for the loveliness of the sitter.’
Instantly enchanted, she assumed another role.
‘And perhaps a gentleman will admire it, sir and ask who I am. At first we shan’t tell him, of course!’ Withdrawing a little, head lifted in serene indifference. ‘Then I shall allow you to tell him, sir!’ Gracefully permitting the introduction. ‘Perhaps it will be my father?’
Carradine forbore to remind her that her father was dead, and nodded encouragement.
‘Or some aristocratic relative,’ Valentine mused, uncertain on whom to spring the glory of her identity. ‘Then I shall leave Madame. Only I’d give her a lot of presents, and invite her to dinner once a month. Yes, that’d only be right. She’d be my friend, then, because we’d be as good as one another. She wouldn’t be able to scold me, would she, sir?’
‘Of course not, Valentine. And now I do think you should go home.’
Sensitive to every intonation, she tumbled back to stern reality. Her chin quivered. She was being dismissed, and the hour, on the whole, had been a golden one.
‘You shall come again,’ he promised. ‘We shall need several sittings. So that the portrait is perfect. To hang in a great gallery,’ he added kindly, ‘and to be much admired.’
He set the old mantle round her small shoulders, handed her the cotton gloves. He wondered which particular fantasy he might raise, to comfort her until their next meeting. But Valentine was adept at drawing dreams around herself for every occasion.
‘The Minister’ll have to divorce his wife and marry me, when he knows who my Papa is. Otherwise he might be challenged. But I’ll refuse, very polite-like, of course. Do you know why I’ll refuse him, sir?’
‘I am at loss to imagine, mam’selle.’
‘Because of Madame, don’t you see?’ And she clapped her hands, and laughed at his missing the subtlety of this point. ‘I couldn’t steal Madame’s protector from her, now could I? I’m not ungrateful. I love Madame.’
‘A noble sentiment,’ said Carradine, ushering her down the stairs, ‘and one which does you honour. Now, please remember to say nothing to Madame of this other matter. I’ll call on her myself. And recollect what we said, my dear girl. An unknown gentleman, one night, took advantage of your innocence.’
Regally she held out her hand. Carradine kissed it, under the irreverent eyes of the cab-driver who had drawn his own conclusions.
‘Do you know how my Papa will recognise me, sir?’ she cried, poking her rakish hat from the window.
‘How else, mam’selle, than by your sweet countenance? No doubt the image of your mother’s beauty.’
‘I’ve waited ever so long for somebody to know who I really am,’ said Valentine. ‘It’ll be such a lovely day, won’t it, sir?’
‘You will give as much joy as you receive, Valentine, I assure you.’
She was radiant, grateful.
‘It’ll all come right in the end, sir. God knows best, don’t He?’
‘Let’s hope so. His ways are often mysterious to the point of sheer incomprehension.’
He watched the cab hurtle recklessly away and wondered whether life was simply a joke in extremely bad taste.
CHAPTER SIX
The lady who reclined in the elegant clutter of her salon seemed less imposing than Valentine’s reflection. Carradine had expected a mature woman of statuesque proportions, but Natalie Picard was small-boned, plump, and of uncertain youth. Her years were a secret between herself and her mirror, and animation removed a few of them in a moment. She had already embarked on the losing battle between beauty and time; lying abed in the morning, coming to easy life in the afternoon, flowering exuberantly in the discreet light of evening. She aimed at twenty in dress and vivacity, but could have been thirty when shrewdness took the place of coquetry. And judging by the richness of experience in those knowledgeable black eyes, the careful painting of that handsome face, her femininity was as old as time itself.
Bending over her ringed and scented fingers, Carradine suffered nostalgia and kissed them reverently. Parisian women, he thought, sitting in the chair she indicated, make an art of being women. He began to explain the object of his visit in fluent French, at which Natalie raised both eyebrows and one rounded arm. She spoke English, she explained, and had so little opportunity to practise the language. His command of the French tongue needed no improvement. Would he be so gallant as to bear with her many imperfections?
He guessed, correctly, that she chose to speak English because her accent was ravishing. And, though she knew better than to endanger her relationship with the Minister, Carradine was a man and therefore material to be charmed. Smiling into her smiling eyes, he inclined his head and complimented her on her pronunciation. There was a further brief delay while she begged him to talk more slowly. Then she subsided into the lilac bower of her tea-gown, one olive-skinned arm lying as if by chance along the back of her sofa.
She was an excellent listener, and received the account of his meeting with Valentine by slight, expressive movements of face and shoulders. Clearly, his romanticism amused her. As he progressed to the girl’s pregnancy she became watchful, and at the mention of money alert. When he had finished, she studied her rings, and said softly but firmly that the sum mentioned would not be sufficient.
‘My action is one of disinterested generosity, madame,’ he said coldly, and translated with some impatience as she looked bewildered.
She laughed then, unamused.
‘Disinterested, M. Carradine? When you have seduced a simple girl whose only hope is a dowry large enough to attract some peasant in the provinces?’
‘You mistake my meaning, madame.’
She sat up, abandoning her pose of relaxed gentility.
‘I mistake nothing!’ she cried. ‘Nothing! I understand too well. I know men like you, too well. You take pleasure and pay little for it. So, I tell you this. My poor Valentine has no friend but myself. I stan
d for her Mama, for her Papa, for all of them. All of them.’
She rose and paced the room, hands on hips, firing sentences at him.
‘Ah yes! You think I thank you, do you not? That I take your miserable francs?’ The rs were rolled like a fusillade. ‘That I am pleased with your disinterest? What do you know of her suffering, now and when the child is born and when she must part from it? Disinterest is a good word, very good. You are disinterested, M. Carradine. You feel nothing. Nothing. You are like the rest. L’appétit vorace, le coeur vide!’ She flung her arms wide, reminding him of Bernhardt in Phèdre. ‘Empty. Empty. Empty.’
She paused at the gold cage by the window, where two love-birds crooned, and surveyed them with considerable irony.
‘This is not life as we know it, is it? Is it?’ She observed his discomfiture, and his growing anger, and adjusted her mood to his. ‘Well, well. Forgive my enragement, M. Carradine, but the girl is dear to me and cannot speak for herself.’
She was now as composed as she had been furious, and returned to business.
‘Come, we need not haggle, you and I. Let us say twice as much.’
The roundness of her vivid face did not disguise its resolution. She would bargain if she were on her deathbed, and probably win. She knew the cost of everything.
‘Madame,’ said Carradine, hardening, ‘I am not the father of Valentine’s child. I promise you that. I merely wished to help the girl. The suggestion of six hundred francs on your part is a gross exaggeration — and well you know it!’
Natalie reclined once more on her sofa and studied him intently.
‘You are not the father, no? You swear it, yes?’ She shrugged, convinced and completely at loss. ‘Why do you offer money if this is so?’
‘Because Valentine is a child. Do you comprehend that, madame?’
She frowned, considering him. Looked round at her white and gold room, at the Persian cat stretched before the fire, at the little griffon on his cushion, at the lovebirds in their bright case. Substitutes for the children she must not have. Dependants she could afford to possess. Small warmths to replace the great warmths.
‘I comprehend you very well, m’sieu.’
Then she reflected that seriousness ages a woman and smiled brilliantly.
‘You are very strange,’ she said, on another tack. ‘Full of sentiment. That is dangerous, and can be expensive. As in this case.’
‘I am only too pleased to offer my original sum of three hundred francs, madame, if that is what you want.’
‘A thousand thanks. So, my poor Valentine will bear her child in comfort. I accept for her. But I feel you bite off more than you chew — that is a good phrase, is it not? Has she confided to you the name of the father?’
He hesitated. She laughed: a rich soft sound calculated to rouse answering laughter.
‘Did she say it was M. Roche?’ She laughed again. ‘Do not be embarrassed, M. Carradine. There is much you do not know of Valentine. Her world is not as this one. She is not practical like me. She is romantic, like you.’
‘That’s something of which I am aware, madame. I may be sentimental but I am not a total imbecile.’
‘So? Well then, all things in Valentine’s world must be as these two foolish pretty birds. Life must be beautiful, and it is not. Always, the father of her child is a gentleman. Ah, yes! She has been pregnated before. One still-borned, one in the country. It is difficult for me. Twice she says M. Roche seduces her. For she wishes to be Natalie Picard, you comprehend, M. Carradine? She loves, she fears, she envies me. Who shall know the truth? Perhaps it was a gentleman, perhaps not. But this is the first time that someone offers money. I am grateful for you. Does she tell you of her parents?’
‘She mentioned they were of the aristocracy, but she seems unable to decide whether they are dead or not.’
‘Another dream,’ said Natalie calmly. ‘Valentine is an orphan. She is abandoned. The nuns take her in from pity. No one knows where she origins. I bring her from the orphelinat to be my maid. Like many orphans she makes the family she wishes to possess. But she is also simple. Not mad but simple. Perhaps her life is too bad to remember. Perhaps she is borned a fool. But let us speak of other matters.’
She passed smoothly from one topic to another, subtly searching him out. He touched on the matter of Odette, became involved, expansive.
‘But you make a mystery of a dead sister, m’sieur? Why? She is dead. So? You are rich, naturally? Ah yes! When one is rich one can amuse oneself. Indeed, one must. For what else does one do with time when one has everything? You are married, of course? No? Extraordinary. Such men as you marry young and regret. But do not think I have no heart. You loved your sister. It is foolish, but I comprehend. I, too, have a sister. She is with me since our dear Papa and Mama die of the cholera. Mon bijou!’ Her face softened momentarily, then became matter-of-fact. ‘M. Carradine, the hour of five approaches, and I expect a friend. Perhaps one evening you like to meet with my little circle? I have connections which may please you, which may be of use. We must amuse you in Paris. But, one moment, m’sieu. You must meet with my jewel. We have much in common, you and me, M. Carradine, with our gentle hearts and love of our sisters.’
She rose, smiling, and tugged a beaded bell-rope. Valentine appeared, trembling.
‘So you’ve been stupid once more, my child?’ said Natalie in French, maternal. ‘We’ll talk of this later. Don’t be afraid. This gentleman has pleaded for you. Tell Mam’selle Claire I have a most charming Englishman here who would like to be introduced.’ As Valentine whisked out, relieved, she explained, ‘Claire is a little gauche. You have a word for it in English?’
‘Shy? Modest? Awkward?’
‘All these things,’ Natalie said vaguely. ‘She fears men. But you, with your heart of sentiment will not offend her. Ah! you are here, bijou. M. Carradine is departing, but he is so kind that you must thank him also. Our poor Valentine is pregnated again. Yes, it is foolish of her. Very sad. But since he is not the father M. Carradine gives money for her accouchement.’
As she spoke, she drew the girl towards her, smiling encouragement.
‘Honoured, mam’selle,’ said Carradine, kissing the barely proffered hand.
‘M. Carradine makes friends with Valentine, our silly one. He has — how do you call it, m’sieu? Dis-interested generous-ness. Just so.’
In an era which obliged women either to be or to seem pliable, Claire Picard vaunted a defiant independence. Tracing their kinship, in colouring and features, Carradine guessed the girl to be some years younger. In contrast to Natalie’s flamboyance Claire was dressed with girlish severity, in a high-necked blouse and a skirt which showed her ankles to advantage. Where Natalie was wilfully provocative, Claire was simply wilful. Where Natalie was seductive, Claire was reserved. Carradine suspected that if her defensiveness did not mar a man’s interest her tongue probably would. But of this he had no proof, since she spoke not a single word.
‘A broken engagement. A broken heart,’ Natalie confided in a whisper, as she escorted him to the door of her apartment. ‘Ah! We Frenchwomen. We are all heart!’
Carradine reflected that there was nothing amiss with their heads, either, but did not say so. He murmured a suitably sympathetic remark and promised to attend a soirée soon.
He was almost thrown aside in the hallway by the impetuous entrance of a very young man. They exchanged apologies and compliments, while Valentine smiled and curtsied.
‘And who is he?’ Carradine asked, watching the boy take the stairs three at a time. ‘A visitor for Mam’selle Claire?’
‘Oh no, sir. For Madame. He is Madame’s little friend. M. Paul Roche, the Minister’s son.’
‘Madame’s obsession with children is quite extraordinary,’ said Carradine, grinning.
Valentine stood on tiptoe and confided softly to his ear.
‘Sir, M. Paul is not what he seems. It was he who...’ and she spread her little hand over the gentle rounding of her
abdomen.
‘You may trust me not to speak of this,’ Carradine assured her solemnly. ‘Madame must never know. It will be our secret, Valentine.’
His gravity and kindness kept this dream, too, safe for her. Impulsively she kissed his hand.
The weather was cold but fine. He decided to walk. Gradually the compassion he felt for Valentine was replaced by his amused admiration for Natalie, his amused curiosity over Claire. Suddenly he whirled his cane in the air and laughed aloud. He adored them all.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘The trunks are all locked, sir, but I’ll find the keys. Mr Nicholas has one set. I have the other. Not that anybody’d want to steal them. It’s just habit on my part,’ said Mrs Tilling. ‘You’ll get yourself in a rare mess up here, sir. You can’t keep an attic like the rest of the house. Let me find you an overall, and of course if you want to take a bath afterwards...’
‘A bit of dust won’t hurt me,’ Lintott replied, eyes keen, face lifted, as though he scented something. ‘Thank’ee kindly, ma’am.’
‘There we are!’ she cried in triumph selecting keys, ‘Twenty years after, sir, and I still know where everything is. Now, I’ll leave you to it, and if you should require anything you know where to find me.’
She departed, leaving Lintott in his candlelit treasure-house. The Inspector placed a square hand on the rocking-horse and set it in motion, childishly. It began to move nowhere, nostrils arched, head bent. He opened the nearest trunk, then another and another, gauging their contents. Then he set to work in earnest, burrowing like a mole in the profusion.
Walter Carradine had thrown nothing away. A small fortune in clothes was packed in tissue, lavender sachets and mothballs. Lintott spread several old copies of The Times, furnished by Mrs Tilling, and laid out the contents with care. Nothing escaped him. A crumpled lace handkerchief thrust into a pocket, a note in a netted purse from Odette to her mother. Maman chèrie, je t’aime toujours, Odette. A family of wax-faced dolls, exquisitely dressed in pin-tucked gowns and underwear, in plush bonnets and mantles, staring at their emergence after a long incarceration. Exercise books staggeringly scrawled in French and English. Reading primers in both languages. Dear Papa, I am clever. Love from your Odette. The child was alive again in the attic, demanding and vital.
