"Ah, yes. That Berthe, now, do you find she does her work all right, miss? If there's anything to complain of, you must be sure to let me know."
“I’ve no complaints," I said. "I like Berthe very much, and she keeps the rooms beautifully. You've only to look in the pantry here."
She followed me into the tiny pantry, where the light gleamed on the spotless enamel of the little stove, and saucepan, beaker and spoon stood ready. I poured milk into the pan, set it on the stove and switched on. Mrs. Seddon ran a practised eye over the tiny room, and an equally practised finger over the shelf where the tins of chocolate, coffee and tea stood, and nodded her head in a satisfied manner.
"Yes, Berthe's a good girl, I must say, if she'll keep her mind on her work instead of running after that there Bernard… The sugar's here, miss."
"No, not that. I use the glucose for Philippe, you remember -that's his special tin, the blue one. Oh, thank you. D'you mean to tell me there's something between Berthe and Bernard? I hope it's not serious. It would be an awful pity. He's too old for her, and besides-"
I stopped, but she took me up.
"Well, miss, you never said a truer word. A pity it is. If that Albertine wasn't his sister born, I’d have said why not them, they wouldn't spoil two houses, and them as alike as two hogs in the same litter. A sour-faced, black-avised sort of chap he is and all, for a bonny young girl like Berthe to be losing her head over. But there, human nature's human nature, believe it or not, and there's nothing we can do about it. What are you looking for now?"
"The biscuits. They've been moved. Ah, here they are." I put three into Philippe's saucer, looking sidelong at Mrs. Seddon. "Extra rations tonight. It was a slightly sticky session in the drawing-room."
"That's right. He could do with a bit of spoiling, if you ask me. And now I’ll have to go, really. I've enjoyed our little chat, miss. And I may say that Seddon and me, we think that Philip's a whole lot better for having you here. He likes you, that's plain to see, and it's my belief that what he needs is somebody to be fond of."
I said softly, half to myself: "Don't we all?"
"Well, there you are," said Mrs. Seddon comfortably. "Not but what his other Nanny wasn't a very nice woman, very nice indeed, but she did baby him a bit, say what you will, which was only natural, seeing as how she'd brought him up from a bairn in arms. Maybe the Master was right enough like you said in thinking he ought to have a change, especially after losing his Mam and Dad like that, poor bairn. And you're making a grand job of him, miss, if you'll excuse the liberty of me saying so."
I said with real gratitude: "It's very nice of you. Thank you." I lifted Philippe's tray and grinned at her over it. "And I do hope all goes well downstairs. At least there's one person who'll be pleased when Monsieur Raoul arrives."
She stopped in the doorway and turned, a little ponderously. "Who? Mr. Florimond? Well, I couldn't say-"
"I didn't mean him. I meant Philippe."
She stared at me, then shook her head. "Mr. Rowl hardly knows him, miss. Don't forget Philip only came from Paris just before you did, and Mr. Rowl's not been over since he was here."
"Then Monsieur Raoul must have seen something of him in Paris, or else when he was with Monsieur Hippolyte."
"He didn't. That I do know. And I'd go bail him and Mr. Rowl hardly saw each other in Paree. Paree!" said Mrs Seddon, reverting to form. "Paree! He'd not be the one to bother with Philip there, He had other kettles of fish to fry in Paree, you mark my words!"
"But when we heard the car coming up the zigzag tonight with Monsieur Florimond, Philippe flew out onto the balcony like a rocket-and he certainly wasn't hoping to see him. He looked desperately disappointed… more than that, really; 'blighted' would almost describe it… Who else could he be looking for if it wasn't his cousin Raoul?"
Then I looked at her, startled, for her eyes, in the harsh light, were brimming with sudden, easy tears. She shook her head at me and wiped her cheeks with the back of a plump hand. "Poor bairn, poor bairn," was all she would say, but presently after a sniff or two and some action with a handkerchief, she explained. The explanation was simple, obvious, and dreadful.
"He never saw them dead, of course. Nor he wasn't allowed to go to the funeral. And it's my belief and Seddon's that he won't have it they're really gone. They were to have driven back from the airport, you see, and he was waiting for them, and they never came. He never saw no more of them. It's my belief he's still waiting."
"That's dreadful." I swallowed. "That's-dreadful, Mrs. Seddon."
"Yes. Every car that comes up, he'll fly out yonder. I've seen him do it. It's lucky there's not more coming and going than there is, or he'd do it once too often, and end up on the gravel on his head, or else stuck on those spikes like a beetle on a pin." I shivered. "I'll watch him," I said. "You do," said Mrs. Seddon.
FOURTH COACH
Chapter 7
A Being, erect upon two legs, and bearing all
the outward semblance of a man, and not of a monster.
Dickens: Pickwick Papers,
Philippe was already asleep, curled in an extraordinarily small bundle under the bedclothes. The light was still on, and his book had slid to the floor. Something was clutched in his hand, and I drew the sheet aside to see what it was-one of the Queen's soldier; with the fur hats.
I picked up the book, straightened the bedclothes, turned off the light, and went softly out, taking the unwanted chocolate back to the pantry.
Back in my room, I walked straight through it onto the balcony, letting the curtains fall behind me to cut off the light. The night was cairn, and unexpectedly warm. There was still no sign of fog, but I thought, that I could see a paler darkness away in the valley's depths. The damp of spring hung in the air. An owl called below me, down in the woods; called again. Its muted melancholy found too ready an echo in me. I felt tired and depressed. Too much had happened today; and the pleasant things-the morning's encounter with William Blake, my gay little flirtation with Florimond in the salon-had somehow faded back out of mind and left me with this queerly flattened feeling.
I know what it was, of course. I'd lived with loneliness a long time. That was something which was always there… one learns to keep it at bay, there are times when one even enjoys it-but there are also times when a desperate self-sufficiency doesn't quite suffice, and then the search for the anodyne begins… the radio, the dog, the shampoo, the stockings-to-wash, the tin soldier…
I bit my lip and took myself sharply to task. Just because I had had two pleasantly off-duty encounters-not to mention a cosy and entertaining gossip with the housekeeper-I didn't have to feel let-down and left out when they were over and I had to put in the evening by myself. I didn't have to stand here glooming at the spring dusk and picturing myself for the rest of my life relegated to the edge of the room, the frame of the conversation-piece.
And what did I want, for heaven's sake? To retreat on the illusion that Florimond's courtesy had created, that he and I and Madame de Valmy could share a fireside on equal terms? To be where Madame de Valmy was? Where I might still have been if the thing that happened nine years ago hadn't happened? Well, that was out, and the sooner I accepted once and for all the fact that the jamboree was over, the sooner I would stop riding this uneasy see-saw of moods and memories.