From where we were sitting we could see the high wall of the presbytery garden, and now the gate in it opened, and Philippe appeared in the archway, with the broad figure of the curé's housekeeper behind him.
"Yes, that's Philippe," I said. "I'll have to go."
I got to my feet, and the child saw me, said something over his shoulder to the woman, and then ran across the square in our direction.
"I'm glad you waited. I told Madame Rocher you would go- would have gone for a walk. But here you are."
"Here I am. You're early, aren't you, Philippe? Did Monsieur le Curé get tired of you?"
"I do not know tired of”
"Ennuyé."
He was solemn. "No. But he is not very well. He is tired, but not at-of-me. Madame Rocher says I must come away."
“I’m sorry to hear that," I said. "Philippe, this is Monsieur Blake, who works for Monsieur de St. Vire. Mr. Blake, the Comte de Valmy."
They shook hands, Philippe with the large gravity that sat on him rather attractively.
"What do you work at, monsieur?"
"I'm a forester."
"Forest-oh, yes, I understand. There are foresters at Valmy also."
"I know. I've met one or two of them. Pierre Detruche, Jean-Louis Michaud, and Armand Lestocq-he lives next door to the Coq Hardi."
"As to that," said Philippe, "I do not know them myself yet. I have not been here very long, vous comprenez.”
"Of course not. I-er, I suppose your uncle manages these things."
"Yes," said Philippe politely. "He is my trustee."
The look he shot me was merely one of minor triumph that he should have remembered the word, but it tinged the reply with a sort of smug stateliness that brought the beginnings of amusement to Mr. Blake's face. I said hastily: "We'd better go, I think. Mr. Blake, thank you so much for the coffee. I'm awfully glad we met." I held out my hand.
As he took it, he said quickly: "I say, please-don't just vanish. When can we meet again?"
"I'm not a very free agent. Sometimes I've a morning, but I don't often get as far as this."
"Are you free in the evenings?"
"No, not really. Only Fridays, and a Sunday here and there."
"Then that's no good," he said, sounding disappointed. "I've arranged to meet some pals of mine this week-end. Perhaps later on?"
Philippe had given a little tug to my hand. "I really must go," I said. "Let's leave it, shall we? We're sure to meet-the valley isn't all that big. And thank you again…"
As we crossed the square I glanced back, to see him laboriously gathering up the bandages and the sticking-plaster and all the homely remedies which were to reassure life at four thousand feet.
I hoped he would remember to get the cognac.
CHAPTER 6
Something will come of this.
I hope it mayn't be human gore.
Dickens: Barnaby Rudge.
That evening the quiet run of our existence was broken. Nursery tea was over; the early April dusk had drawn in against the uncurtained windows where lamp and firelight were cheerfully reflected. Philippe was on the hearthrug playing in a desultory fashion with some soldiers and I was sitting, as I often did at that time, reading aloud to him, when I heard a car climbing the zigzag. It was a mild evening, and one of the long balcony windows was open. The mounting engine roared, changed, roared again nearer. As I paused in my reading and glanced towards the window, Philippe looked up.
"Une auto! Quelqu'un vient!"
"English," I said automatically. "Philippe, what are you doing?"
But he took no notice. He jumped up from the rug, while his toys scattered unheeded. Then he flew out of the window like a rocket and vanished to the right along the balcony.
I dropped the book and hurried after him. He had run to the end of the balcony where it overlooked the gravel forecourt, and was leaning over eagerly and somewhat precariously. I stifled an impulse to grab him by the seat of his pants and said instead, as mildly as I could: "You'll fall if you hang over like that… Look, the dashed thing's loose anyway-this coping moved, I'm sure it did. This must be one of the bits they were talking about repairing. Philippe-"
But he didn't seem to be listening. He still craned forward over the stone coping. I said firmly: "Now come back, Philippe and be sensible. What's the excitement for, anyway? Who is it?"
The car roared up the last incline, and swung with a scrunch of tyres across the gravel. She had her lights on. They scythed round, through the thin dark thorns of the rose-garden, the flickering spear-points of the iron railings below us, the carefully, planted pots on the loggia, came to rest on the stableyard archway, and were switched off.
A door slammed. I heard a man's voice, low-pitched and pleasant. Another voice-I supposed the driver's-answered him. Then the car moved off softly towards the stableyard, and the newcomer crossed the gravel and mounted the steps to the great door.
I waited with mild curiosity for the door to open and the light from the hall to give body, as it were, to the voice. But before this happened Philippe ducked back behind me and retreated along the balcony towards the schoolroom windows. I turned, to see in the set of the thin back and shoulders the suggestion of some disappointment so sharp that I followed him in without a word, sat down again in my chair by the fire, and picked up my book. But Philippe didn't settle again to his toys. He stood still on the hearthrug, staring at the fire. I think he had forgotten I was there.
I leafed through a few pages of the book and then said very casually: "Who was it, did you know?" The thin shoulders lifted. "Monsieur Florimond, I think."
"Monsieur Florimond? Do you mean the dress-designer?"
"Yes. He used to visit us a lot in Paris and he is a friend of my aunt Héloïse. Do you know of him in England?"
"Of course." Even in the Constance Butcher Home we had heard of the great Florimond, whose 'Aladdin’ silhouette had been the rage of Paris and New York years before and had, it was rumoured, caused Dior to mutter something under his breath and tear up a set of designs. I said, impressed: "Is he coming to stay?"
"I do not know." His voice sufficiently also expressed that he did not care. But the general impression of poignant disappointment prevailed so strongly that I said: "Did you expect someone else, Philippe?*'
He glanced up momentarily, then the long lashes dropped. He said nothing.
I hesitated. But Philippe was my job: moreover, he was a very lonely little boy. Who was it who could expect that headlong welcome from him?
I said: "Your cousin Raoul, perhaps?"
No answer.
"Is anyone else supposed to be coming? He shook his head.
I tried again. "Don't you like Monsieur Florimond?"
"But yes. I like him very much."
"Then why-?" I began, but something in his face warned me to stop. I said gently: "It's time we went down to the salon, petit. I haven't been told not to, so I suppose, guests or not, that we'll have to go. Run and wash your hands while I tidy my hair.”
He obeyed me without a word or look.
I went slowly across to shut the balcony window.
In a small salon a log-fire had been lit, and in front of it sat Madame de Valmy and Monsieur Florimond on a rose-brocaded sofa, talking.
I looked with interest at the newcomer. I don't know what I expected one of fashion's Big Five to look like; I only know that the great Florimond didn't look like it. He was vast, baldish, and untidy. His face in repose had a suggestion of tranquil melancholy about it that was vaguely reminiscent of the White Knight, but no-one could ever doubt Monsieur Florimond's large sanity. Those blue eyes were shrewd and very kind: they also looked as if they missed very little. He wore his conventional, superbly cut clothes with all the delicate care one might accord to an old beach-towel. His pockets bulged comfortably in every direction, and there was cigar-ash on his lapel. He was clutching what looked like a folio-society reprint in one large hand, and gestured with it lavishly to underscore some story he was telling Madame de Valmy.