The Skeltons and I are sitting near to the window, the remains of the coffee before us on a low table. Across the room Roux and Mademoiselle Martin are playing Russian billiards. He is standing over her, guiding the cue, and as I watch I see her press her body against his, and look round quickly to see if anyone has noticed the action. In the other corner, near the door leading to the hall, there are two small groups. Monsieur Duclos is stroking his beard with his pince-nez and talking in French to an intent Frau Vogel. Herr Vogel is saying something in halting Italian to Mrs. Clandon-Hartley-an unusually animated Mrs. Clandon-Hartley-while the Major listens, the ghost of a smile on his lips. Only Schimler and, of course, the Koches, are absent.
I remember that Skelton was saying something to me about Roux and Duclos pretending to ignore each other. I scarcely heard him. I was looking round the room at their faces. Nine of them. I had talked to all of them, watched them, listened to them and now-now I knew no more about them than I had known on the day-what ages ago it seemed-when I had come to the Reserve. No more? That was not quite true. I had learned something of the lives of some of them. But what did I know about their thoughts, about the minds that worked behind those masks? A man’s account of his own actions was, like the look he habitually wore on his face, no more than the expression, the statement of an attitude. You could never get at the whole man any more than you could see four faces of a cube. The mind was a figure with an infinite number of dimensions, a fluid in ceaseless movement, unfathomable, unaccountable.
The Major still had that faint smile on his lips. His wife, her hands fluttering slightly as she said something to Vogel, seemed, for the first time, to be alive. Of course! Someone had lent them money. Who was it? I knew so little that I could not even make an intelligent guess.
Duclos had put his pince-nez back on his nose, and was listening to Frau Vogel’s guttural French, with his head cocked patronizingly. Roux, his eyes fixed glassily on the balls, was demonstrating a stroke. I watched them all fascinated. It was like seeing dancers through a window that shut out the music. There was a mad solemnity about their antics…
The Skeltons burst out laughing. I turned round feeling rather foolish.
“Sorry,” said he; “but we’ve been watching your face, Mr. Vadassy. It was getting longer and longer. We were afraid you were going to burst into tears.”
“I was thinking how much we identify ourselves with other people and yet how separate we are. You see, I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”
Their dismay was so well done that I had a sudden feeling that they might really be sorry to see me go. A wave of emotion swept over me; self-pity, no doubt. I fought my way clear of it.
“I shall be sorry to go myself,” I said. “Will you be staying long?”
There was an almost imperceptible pause before he replied, and I saw her glance at him quickly.
“Oh,” he said carelessly, “for a while, I guess.”
And then she leaned forward. “For three months, to be exact,” she said and glanced at him again. “There’s no reason why we shouldn’t tell Mr. Vadassy. I’m tired of this act anyway.”
“Now look, Mary…” he began warningly, and I suddenly felt sick.
“Oh, what’s the difference?” She smiled faintly at me. “We’re not brother and sister, Mr. Vadassy. We’re cousins and we’re living in sin.”
“Congratulations,” I said. I still felt sick, but in a different way now. I was sick with jealousy. She smiled at me.
“Well you’d better tell about the hocus-pocus, too,” said her lover gloomily. “It’s not entirely usual in France for people in our situation to go around pretending to be brother and sister.”
She shrugged. “It’s all so absurd, really. When we came here we had separate rooms, and, because of the names on our passports and the forms you fill out and everything, they took us for brother and sister. Well then, when it turned out that we could do with one room after all, it meant that we’d either have to move to another hotel or stay here as we were.”
“Or look incestuous,” he put in unhappily.
“So, as we felt a bit sentimental about this place, we stayed. You see, we can’t get married for three months yet because if Warren gets married before his twenty-first birthday we lose fifty thousand dollars from Grandfather Skelton, which would be crazy, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said, but they were looking at each other and I knew now what it was that had made them seem so attractive. They were in love.
“Absolutely crazy,” he said, smiling.
And then, Monsieur Duclos, abandoned by or having abandoned Frau Vogel, loomed over me.
“They are a very charming couple, these Americans,” he said.
“Yes, very charming.”
“I was saying as much to Madame Vogel. She is a most intelligent woman. Monsieur Vogel, you know, is director of the Swiss State Power Company. He is a very important man. I have, of course, heard of him before. His offices at Berne are one of the sights of the city.
“I thought he came from Constance.”
He adjusted his pince-nez warily. “He has also a large villa at Constance. It is very fine. He has invited me to stay with him there.”
“How pleasant for you.”
“Yes. Naturally, I expect we shall discuss a good deal of business.”
“Naturally.”
“When businessmen meet for pleasure, my friend, the talk is always of business.
“Quite so.”
“Again, it is possible that we may be able to be of service to one another. Co-operation, you understand? It is most important in business. That is what I tell the work-people in my factories. If they will co-operate with me, I will co-operate with them. But they must co-operate with me first. Co-operation cannot be one-sided.”
“Of course not.”
“What’s he saying?” inquired Skelton. “I’ve heard the word co-operation ten times.”
“He says that co-operation is important.”
“That’s fine.”
“Did you know,” pursued Monsieur Duclos, “that Major and Madame Clandon-Hartley are leaving tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Someone, clearly, has lent them money. Curious, is it not? Personally, I would not lend the Major money. He asked me for ten thousand francs. A trifling sum. I should not miss it. But it is a question of principle. I am a businessman.”
“I thought it was two thousand francs he wanted. That was what you told me before.”
“He has increased his demands,” he said blandly. “A type of criminal, without a doubt.”
“Personally, I should not have thought so.”
“A businessman must have an eye for a criminal. Fortunately, English criminals are always very simple.”
“Oh?”
“It is well known. The French criminal is a snake, the American criminal a wolf, and the English criminal a rat. Snakes, wolves, and rats. The rat is a very simple animal. He fights only when he is in a corner. At other times he merely nibbles.”
“And you really think that Major Clandon-Hartley is an English criminal?”
Slowly, deliberately, Monsieur Duclos removed the pince-nez from his nose and tapped me on the arm with them.
“Look carefully at his face,” he said, “and you will see the rat in it. What is more,” he added triumphantly, “he told me so himself.”
This was fantastic.
The Skeltons tired of trying to follow Monsieur Duclos’s rapid French, had found a copy of L’Illustration, and, were penciling in mustaches on the faces reproduced in it. I was left to deal with Monsieur Duclos alone. He edged a chair close to mine.
“Of course,” he said impressively, “I speak in confidence. The English major would not like to know that his identity was discovered.”
“What identity?”
“You do not know?”
“No.”
“Ah!” He stroked his beard. “Then I had better say no more. He is relying upon my discretion.” He rose, gave me a meaning look, and moved away. I saw that Koche had come into the room with Schimler. Monsieur Duclos hurried across to intercept them. I heard him announce that the rain had ceased. Koche stopped politely, but Schimler walked round them and came towards me. He was looking terribly ill.