The hinges of the gate were broken, and it stood open. Charles made his way up the path to the door of the cottage, and knocked on the blistered panels with his walking stick. After a few moments footsteps approached, Charles heard a bolt drawn, and the door was opened by M. Duval.
It was plain that he had made an effort to tidy not only the living-room of his abode, but also his own person. His shirt was clean, and he had evidently done his best to remove some of the stains from his coat. Also he was sober, but he betrayed by his nervousness, and his unsteady hand, what a hold over him drugs had obtained.
He was almost effusive in his welcome, and insisted that Charles should take tea with him as a preliminary to any negotiations they might enter into. The kettle, he said, was already on the stove. He seemed so anxious to play the host to the best of his ability that Charles accepted his offer.
"I will make it on the instant," Duval told him. "I do not keep a servant, m'sieur. You will excuse me?"
"Of course," Charles said. "And while you're getting tea perhaps I may take a look at your work?"
Duval made a gesture that swept the little room. "You see my work, m'sieur, before you."
All manner of canvases were propped against the walls, some so weird that they looked to be no more than irrelevant splashes of colour, some a riot of cubes, one or two moderately understandable.
"Look your fill!" Duval said dramatically. "You look into my soul."
For the sake of M. Duval's soul Charles hoped that this was an exaggeration. However, he bowed politely, and begged his host not to mind leaving him. Thus adjured, the artist disappeared into the lean-to kitchen that was built out at the back of the cottage, and Charles was left to take stock of his surroundings.
These were miserable enough. The cottage, which bore signs of considerable antiquity, had but the one living-room, from which a precipitous staircase led up between two walls to the upper storey. At the back a door led into the kitchen; at the front were lattice windows and the principal door of the house, and on one side a huge fireplace occupied almost the entire wall. The ceiling was low, and a wealth of old oak formed worm-eaten beams, in between which the cobwebs of years had formed. Charles judged that originally the room had served as kitchen and living-room combined, for from the great central beam one or two big hooks still protruded, from which, doubtless, flitches of bacon had hung in olden days.
The furniture was in keeping with the dilapidated building itself. A strip of dusty carpet lay across the floor; there were two sound chairs, and one with a broken leg that sagged against the wall; a table, an easel, a cupboard, and a deal chest that stood under the window, and which was covered with a litter of tubes, brushes, rags, and bits of charcoal.
There remained the pictures, and until Duval came back with the tea-pot Charles occupied himself in trying to make up his mind which he could best bring himself to buy.
Duval reappeared shortly, and set the tea-pot down on the table. He suggested, not without a hopeful note in his voice, that perhaps his guest would prefer a whisky and soda, but this Charles firmly declined.
"Eh bien, then I give you sugar and milk, yes? So? You have looked at my pictures? Presently I will explain to you what I have tried to express in them."
"I wish you would," Charles said. "I can see that they are full of ideas."
No further encouragement was needed to start the artist off on his topic. He talked volubly, but rather incoherently, for over half an hour, until Charles' head reeled, and he felt somewhat as though he had stepped into a nightmare. But his polite questions and apparently rapt interest had the effect of banishing whatever guard the artist had set upon his tongue and he became expansive, though mysterious on the subject of his own enforced sojourn at Framley.
Realising that in all probability any attempt to question Duval as to his obscure meaning would drive him into his shell, Charles contented himself with sympathising.
"Whoever is to blame for keeping you here," he said solemnly, "is a criminal of the deepest dye."
This pleased. "Yes he is wicked. You do not know, m'sieur! But I shall have my revenge on him, perhaps soon. I tell you, I will make him suffer! He shall pay. Yes, he shall pay and pay for the years which I have spent in exile." A little saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth; he looked unpleasantly like a dog drooling at the sight of a bone.
With a feeling of disgust, and more than half convinced that he was wasting his time on a madman, Charles turned to the pictures, and soon made his choice. M. Duval seemed disappointed when he fixed on the least Futuristic of his works, but after an attempt to induce Charles to buy "Sunset in Hades' he consented to roll up the more innocuous "Reapers."
Outside the sky had for some time been growing steadily more overcast, and as Charles prepared to take his leave, a flash of lightning lit up the darkening room, to be followed in a very few moments by an ominous rumble of thunder. The rain did not seem to be far off, and since he had no overcoat Charles was reluctantly compelled to postpone his departure.
The artist seemed to become more restless with the approach of the storm, and as the light went he took to glancing over his shoulder as though he expected to see someone. When a second and much louder clap of thunder came he jumped uncontrollably, and muttered something about fetching a lamp. He went through into the kitchen, and came back presently with a cheap oillamp which he set down on the table.
"I do not like the darkness," he said. "Perhaps you think I am strange to say that, but when one lives always alone, m'sieur, one has fancies." He gave a little shiver, and his eyes stared into Charles' for a moment. "But there are things which are not fancies." Again he looked round, then leaning towards Charles he said hardly above a whisper: "I know that there is one who watches. I have felt his eyes through my window, I bolt my door, but when I go out he follows. I have heard his footsteps, but when I look there is no one there. Sometimes I think I cannot bear it, for at night, m'sieur, it is so still, and I am alone. Sometimes I think maybe I shall go mad one day. But I am not mad. No, I am not mad yet."
"Who watches you?" Charles said quietly. "Have you any idea?"
Duval shook his head. "I do not know. Sometimes I think - but I do not say."
"I hope," said Charles, "that it is not our Monk?"
The artist gave a start, and grew sickly pale all at once. "No, no!" he said. "But do not speak so loud, m'sieur! You do not know who may be listening."
Since a heavy rain was now beating against the windows it seemed absurd to suppose that anyone could be lurking outside, but Charles saw that it was useless to reason with one whose nerves were so little under control. To humour the artist, he lowered his voice. "It is unwise, then, even to mention the Monk?" he asked.
Duval nodded vigorously. "For me, yes. There are those who listen to what I say though they seem to be deaf. M'sieur, I tell you it is too much!- Sometimes when I am alone in this house I think it would be better to give it all up, not to attempt - I have not the courage, he is clever, ah, but clever!"
"My friend," Charles said, "I think someone has some sort of a hold over you. Don't be alarmed: I'm not asking what it is."
The thunder crashed above their heads, and involuntarily Duval winced. "Yes, he has what you call a hold, but what if I get a hold over him? What then, hein?" His fingers curled and uncurled; he looked so haggard that once more Charles found himself pitying him against his will.
"Forgive me if I say that I think you would do well to get away from this lonely life of yours. It has preyed too much on your mind."
The artist's eyes stared wildly at him. "I cannot get away!" he burst out. "I am tied, tied! I dare not speak, even! What I could tell! Ah, m'sieur, there are things I know that you would give all to learn. Yes, I am not a fool; I know what you are seeking, you and that other. You will not find it, but I - I might! You do not believe? You think I talk so because perhaps I am drunk? You are wrong. It is true that sometimes I have drunk too much. To-day, no! What is it you desire to see? You will not answer? But I know, m'sieur! You desire to see the face of the Monk."