by Anne Mather
Dionne’s attention was riveted. ‘No,’ she denied swiftly. ‘What accident?’
Louise shrugged. ‘She was gored by a bull. She is paralysed from the waist down.’
Dionne gasped in horror. Louise said it so chillingly, so carelessly. Almost as though she considered the accident was nothing more than Yvonne’s due.
‘But how terrible!’ Dionne spread her hands. ‘When – when did this happen?’
Louise shrugged again. ‘Soon after you left, I suppose. Is it important?’
‘You don’t think so?’ Dionne was horrified.
Louise played with the reins of the bridle. ‘Yvonne asked for all she got,’ she said coldly. ‘She was angry with Manoel, and she thought she could annoy him by teasing his bulls.’ She gave a characteristic movement of her shoulders. ‘No one can play with bulls!’
Dionne tugged at a strand of silky hair that had come loose from her chignon. No wonder Manoel looked so much older, so much more experienced. What a terrible time it must have been for him!
Now Louise touched her arm lightly. ‘It’s good to see you again, Dionne. I mean that. But why did you want to see Manoel? I thought — we thought—’ She halted abruptly, biting her lips. ‘Are you staying long in the Camargue?’
Dionne fingered the rim of the car door absently. ‘I don’t know, Louise. It – it depends.’
Louise sighed. ‘Did you come out here to see Manoel?’
Dionne hesitated and then she nodded. ‘Yes. Where is he?’
‘Actually he is away today,’ replied Louise, frowning. ‘At the vineyards.’ She stared at the other girl for a long moment. ‘What happened last night?’
‘What do you mean?’ Dionne pretended not to understand.
‘Between you and my brother? Dionne, you know what I mean. He came home in a terrible temper! Not even Yvonne dared to question him. Only I guessed you must have had a row.’
Dionne made a wry face. ‘I must go, Louise. If Manoel is not here, there’s no point – I mean – I have no reason to go to the mas.’
‘And Grand’mère? Do I tell her I’ve seen you?’
Dionne slid behind the wheel of the car. ‘I can’t stop you, of course,’ she said. ‘But perhaps it would not be kind, in the circumstances.’
‘Oh, Dionne!’ Louise clenched her fists, leaning on the bonnet of the car. ‘Why are you so secretive? Why have you come back after all this time? Surely you must have known what it would do to Manoel to see you again – now!’
Dionne started the car’s engine. ‘I’m sorry, Louise. I’m sorry if you think I’m secretive. And I would have liked to see Gemma.’ Her voice broke, and she shook her head. ‘Good-bye.’
‘Good-bye, Dionne.’ Louise straightened and then ran a few steps to catch up with her again. ‘May I come to see you at the hotel before you leave?’
Dionne’s fingers tightened on the wheel. ‘I don’t think that would be a very good idea,’ she said. ‘Au revoir.’
Louise raised a hand in farewell, and Dionne reversed on up the track until she came to a wider point where she could turn the car. Then she drove swiftly away, the lump in her throat threatening to choke her.
CHAPTER THREE
AFTER dinner that evening Dionne went up to her room to write to Clarry. She needed to do something, some normal thing that had little to do with the Mas St. Salvador and its unhappy associations.
All day she had thought about Yvonne’s accident until her head ached with the futility of trying to guess at the other girl’s feelings. How terrible, she thought compassionately, to be paralysed, possibly for life! She forgot Yvonne’s maliciousness of the past; all she remembered was her skill on horseback, her superb physical condition, all destroyed in the space of a few careless minutes. And Yvonne was not the kind of person to accept her fate without constantly railing against it.
Dionne took out pen and paper, but she made no attempt to write. Unbidden came thoughts of Manoel and of the hopelessness of his position. He was such a virile man, so strong and vital. Did Yvonne vent her wrath on him? Was that why he wore that look of strain, that weary jaded air that had tom Dionne’s heart?
She cupped her chin on her hands tightly, willing the tears that pricked her eyes to go away. She ought not to have come here. She ought not to have allowed Clarry to persuade her that she owed this to Jonathan. What good would it do if nothing came of it except to leave Dionne feeling worse than she had ever done before she knew what had happened here?
Her lips softened. If only things could have been different, she thought desperately. If only she and Manoel had never been parted. Surely what they had shared had meant something to him. Theirs had seemed such a strong relationship and yet it had been severed so swiftly. Even now it was impossible not to feel the exquisite pain of that separation, made all the more poignant by what came after.
And Gemma, that indomitable old woman with her store of superstitions and religious beliefs, she had played her part, too, encouraging them to take what was theirs by a rite as old as the medieval origins of the white horses of the Camargue.
But they had had no second taste of happiness. She buried her face in her hands. Life was so terribly unfair. Just when heaven seemed to be within one’s grasp it was snatched away with a callousness that could corrode one’s very soul!
With a choking breath, Dionne rose from her chair and walked to the windows overlooking the quiet square. The shadows were lengthening as the sun sank down the sky, but there was an inviting softness about the air and she longed to be out of the hotel, free of the restrictions of her small room.
On impulse she walked to the door and went down the stairs and out into the cool evening air. She was wearing only a simple gown of aubergine jersey which accentuated the violet shadows around her eyes. It was a long gown which Clarry had run up for her in the course of an evening for a Christmas party Dionne had been invited to attend. Needless to say, she had not gone to the party, but the dress had seemed suitable to bring away with her for evenings such as this.
Outside the hotel, she hesitated, undecided where to go now that she was here. The few people who were about seemed to be in groups of two or three and only she was alone. She began to walk towards the main thoroughfare, deciding she might buy herself a coffee at one of the open-air cafés. She would feel less conspicuous in a crowd.
A car cruised along beside her as she walked, and two amorous French youths hung out of the window calling to her, asking her name and where she was going. They invited her to join them, persistently chiding her when she ignored them until she felt red with embarrassment. Then, to her annoyance, the car halted and one of the youth jumped out in front of her.
‘Ah, mademoiselle, chère mademoiselle,’ he chanted, ‘ne voudriez-vous pas venir avec mes amis et moi—’
‘Will you please get out of my way!’ Dionne was forced to halt as he blocked her path.
‘Oh! Anglaise! Mais si belle anglaise, eh?’ He glanced approvingly at his friends and another of the youths thrust open the door of the car invitingly.
Dionne was vaguely disturbed. The street was almost deserted at this point and she was afraid they might attempt to abduct her forcibly. They had obviously been drinking and were not entirely responsible for their actions, but that didn’t make it any easier for her.
‘Will you please allow me to pass?’ She endeavoured to keep the tremor out of her voice, but the youth before her advanced towards her amorously.
Frightened now, Dionne backed away and came up against a man’s hard frame. Immediately she panicked, turning to him and beating her small fists against his chest, imagining for a moment that it was another of the youths. But the man who thrust her trembling body aside was neither amorous nor youthful. He was tall and lean and violent, and he grasped the frilled shirt front of the youth who had dared to molest her and thrust him backwards into the car so that the boy lost his balance and banged his head against the roof of the vehicle. Dionne was scarcely aware of the explosive
epithets the man used to press home his point, but the car shot away soon afterwards, its tyres throwing up a cloud of dust. Only then did the man turn to her and her knees turned to water as she realized who her saviour had been.
Manoel regarded her contemptuously for a moment, and then he said: ‘Oh, come on! It’s over now. I should just like to know what you think you are doing walking the streets alone at this time of the evening!’
Dionne gathered her composure with difficulty. ‘I – I was out for a walk, that’s all. Surely one can go for a walk without being the object of ridicule!’ She put up a trembling hand to her hair, unknowingly provocative as she lifted its heavy weight from her warm neck. ‘I — I thank you – for what you did.’
Manoel made an impatient gesture. ‘It was nothing. I just dread to think what would have happened if I had not come along!’ His jaw tightened and he looked at her almost angrily. ‘Dionne, this is not England, and looking as you do—’ He broke off abruptly, reaching into his pocket for a case of cheroots and placing one between his teeth. He lit it carelessly and then said: ‘Come! I am here to speak with you.’
Dionne looked at him tremulously. ‘Louise told you I drove out to the mas, of course.’
He inclined his head. ‘Why not?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘You did not go to the house.’
Dionne lifted her shoulders. ‘How could I?’
Manoel studied the pale oval of her face for a moment and then strode abruptly ahead, making no further comment, and Dionne was forced to follow him, wondering where he was going.
She did not have to wonder long. Parked in the square before the hotel was a huge dust-covered Citröen station wagon that dwarfed all the other automobiles. Manoel swung open the passenger side door.
‘Get in,’ he advised briefly, and Dionne complied, chiefly because her legs no longer felt strong enough to support her.
Manoel walked round the bonnet to slide in beside her, and Dionne studied him surreptitiously. Dark and saturnine, he looked intensely masculine in black pants tucked into knee-length black boots, and a dark blue shirt opened at the neck to reveal the strong brown column of his throat. A medallion was suspended from a slender chain about his neck, almost hidden in the hairs of his chest, but Dionne knew what the medallion signified. It was the emblem of Sara, the dark servant girl of the legend of Les Saintes Maries de la Mer, worshipped and sanctified by gypsies from all over Europe, whose feast days were the Mecca for those nomadic people to pay homage, and once that chain had been about her neck. Her heart palpitated alarmingly, and she looked away from the compelling warmth of his brown skin. She had the almost uncontrollable desire to put out a hand and touch him and her breath came in jerking gulps as she endeavoured to suppress such wanton impulses.
Manoel flicked his wrist and the engine roared to life, and the heavy station wagon moved away from the kerb. She wanted to ask where he was taking her, but suppressed her curiosity also. It was enough for the moment that she was with Manoel, and she did not want to spoil it by trying to find answers to questions that could only lead to hostility.
He drove out of town following the road north-eastwards towards Les Baux. They passed through the sleepy village of Fontvieille and not until they were in the foothills of the rocky range of which Les Baux was so much a part with its grey ruined castle and crumbling towers did he draw the car to the side of the road and roll down his window.
‘Bien,’ he said interrogatively. ‘What are you thinking now?’
Dionne moved her head in a negative movement. ‘Nothing,’ she answered truthfully, unable in that moment to assimilate any sane and sensible image in her mind. His closeness was unnerving and with a fumbling gesture she thrust open the door and slid out, shivering slightly as the chill of the air enveloped her. It was much cooler here than in the confines of Arles, the wind whistling eerily across the plain, salt-tinged and invigorating.
Manoel climbed out too and for a moment they stood just looking up at the black mass of the rocky range with the brilliance of starlight beginning to pierce the satin mass of the sky. Then he looked down at her and her shivering became apprehension and not cold.
‘Why did you come to me?’ he demanded, in a strangled voice. ‘Why had you to come back here now!’
His eyes glittered strangely and she moved away from him, her feet sliding on the uneven surface of the road. ‘You know why,’ she replied quietly.
Manoel uttered an expletive. ‘No,’ he ground out fiercely, ‘no, I don’t know! You say you want money and yet you refuse to tell me why. You expect my help, yet you refuse to behave as though by helping you I had any rights!’
Dionne looked over her shoulder at him. ‘Don’t make it so difficult!’ she cried helplessly. ‘Once you were not unprepared to offer me money!’
Manoel’s expression darkened. ‘What do you mean by that?’
Dionne shook her head. ‘Does it matter?’ She kicked disconsolately at a stone. ‘Why did you bring me here? Why did you come back? Are you going to help me?’
Manoel stared at her impatiently and then raked a hand through his thick dark hair which grew low on the back of his neck. ‘I came – because I have an invitation for you,’ he muttered grimly. ‘Gemma wants to see you!’
‘What?’ Dionne’s eyes widened incredulously. ‘But – how does Gemma know – I’m here?’
‘How does Gemma know anything?’ His eyes darkened. ‘Oh, God, I expect Louise told her. Does it have any importance? Will you accept?’
Dionne took a deep breath. ‘I – I think not. Your mother does not want me there. What good would it do? Besides, your wife—’
Manoel caught her wrist in a cruel grasp. ‘My wife? What wife? I have no wife – yet!’
Dionne’s breast rose and fell in tumultuous haste. ‘Well, Louise told me – about Yvonne, and the accident. She – she said that Yvonne lived with you at the mas—’
Manoel glared down at her, his eyes cold and piercing. ‘Yvonne does live at the mas. She’s a helpless cripple! Her mother is dead. Where else could she live? But she is not my wife.’
Dionne trembled violently, moving her head from side to side as his grip tightened, making whimpering little sounds. ‘My – my wrist,’ she cried faintly. ‘You’re breaking my wrist!’
Manoel looked down almost dazedly at the slender flesh purpling in his grasp and uttered an imprecation. ‘Dieu, Dionne, I am sorry,’ he groaned huskily, raising her wrist so that he could examine the damage. Her hand struggled in his like a bird and his eyes darkened with passion. Dionne felt the presentiment of danger and with a tortured gasp she dragged herself away from him, putting the width of the car between them, rubbing the numbness away with her other hand.
‘I – I think we ought to go back,’ she said unsteadily, and Manoel turned his back on her, cupping his neck with his hands in an utterly weary attitude. Dionne watched him, unable to tear her eyes away, and presently his hands fell to his sides and he straightened his shoulders before turning back to her.
Without looking in her direction he slid back behind the wheel, and Dionne took the few trembling steps which brought her to the passenger’s seat. She got in carefully, avoiding touching his thighs, smoothing the long skirt over her slender legs. But he scarcely gave her a glance.
She expected him to drive away, but although his hands rested on the steering wheel he made no attempt to start the engine. Instead he spoke, his voice clipped and hard. ‘If you agree to come to the mas to see Gemma, I will supply you with the money you need for your so-secret purpose.’
Dionne drew an uneven breath. ‘You can’t be serious!’
‘Why not?’
Dionne moved helplessly. ‘It would only cause trouble – my going there! You know your mother would hate it. She – she hates me! And as for Yvonne …’ Her voice trailed away miserably.
He turned to look her way then, his eyes glinting in the shadowy interior of the car. ‘Perhaps I find the prospect of your having to run the gauntlet of my mother a
nd Yvonne rather appealing,’ he observed chillingly.
Dionne pressed a hand to her stomach. ‘You couldn’t be so cruel!’
‘Couldn’t I?’ He shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘You will be surprised what I can do.’
‘Manoel, please!’ Dionne appealed to him, her eyes wide and luminous. ‘This can only cause pain and suffering to everyone! You don’t want that, surely!’
‘Why not? It might be a diversion.’ He switched on the interior light suddenly, illuminating the smooth contours of her hauntingly lovely face. Then he bent his head and lifted her left hand as it lay in her lap. It was slim, long-fingered, and without adornment of any kind.
Dionne did not attempt to draw her hand away and presently he allowed it to fall back on to her knees. ‘Tell me something,’ he said harshly. ‘This man you need the money for, does he love you?’
Dionne gasped. ‘There is no man!’
Manoel’s eyes grew sceptical. ‘So you need this money for yourself?’
Dionne flushed. ‘Yes.’
‘Why? For what reason? You say you are not pregnant, you say you are not in trouble of that kind. So what is it? What can it be?’
‘Oh, Manoel, please! Stop torturing me like this!’ Dionne’s voice broke, and she smoothed her fingers across her cheeks, wiping away the ready tears that threatened her composure.
Manoel’s mouth tightened and a muscle jerked in his cheek, and then without another word he switched off the light and started the engine.
They drove back to her hotel in silence and only when the station wagon drew to a halt outside the hotel did she speak again. But she had to say something, and she knew he was aware of his dilemma, just as much as she was.
‘What are you going to do?’ she asked unsteadily.
Manoel’s lips twisted. ‘That rather depends upon you, doesn’t it?’
