I said, my jerking heart shaking my voice a little: "You're right. He shouldn't be allowed out, whoever he is. You wait here. Since he won't come out I'm going to see-"
"No!" It was no more than a breath, but he caught hold of my hand and held it fast.
"But Philippe-now look son, you'll be all right. He's miles away by now and getting further every second. Let me go, there's a good chap."
“No!”
I looked up through the empty wood, then down at the small pinched face under the scarlet cap. "All right," I said, "we'll go home."
We were hurrying back the way we had come. I still held Philippe's hand. He clutched at me tightly. I said, still shaken and angry: "We'll soon find out, Philippe, don't worry, and your uncle’ll dismiss him. Either he's a careless fool who's too scared to come out, or he's a lunatic who thinks that sort of thing's a joke, but your uncle can find out. He'll be dismissed you'll see."
He said nothing. He half-trotted, half-shuffled along beside me, silent and sober. No skipping now, or singing. I said trying to sound calm and reasonable above the blaze inside me: "Whatever the case, we're going straight to Monsieur de Valmy.”
The hand tucked in mine twitched slightly. "No."
"But, my dear Philippe-!" I broke off, and glanced down at the averted scarlet cap. "All right, you needn't, but I must. I'll get Berthe to come and give you some five-o'clock and stay with you till I get back to the schoolroom. I'll ask Tante Héloïse if she'll visit you upstairs instead of making you go down to the salon, and then we'll play Peggitty till bedtime. How's that?"
The red cap merely nodded. We trudged on in silence for a bit. We came to the bridge where we had counted the trout, and Philippe walked straight over it without a glance at the pool below.
The blaze of anger licked up inside me again. I said: "We'll get the stupid criminal fool dismissed, Philippe. Now stop worrying about it."
He nodded again, and then stole a queer little look up at me.
"What is it?"
"You've been talking French," said Philippe. "I just noticed."
"So I have." I smiled at him. "Well, I could hardly expect you to remember your English when you were being shot at like a skervirrel could I?"
He gave the ghost of a little smile.
"You say it wrong," he said. "It's squirrel.”
Then, quite suddenly, he began to cry.
Madame de Valmy was alone in the rose-garden. Early violas were already budding beside the path where she walked. There were daffodils out along the edge of the terrace. She had some in her hands.
She was facing in our direction, and she saw us as soon as we emerged from the woods. She had been stooping for a flower, and she stopped in mid-movement, then slowly straightened up, the forgotten daffodil trailing from her fingers. Even at that distance-we were still some hundred yards away-she must have been able to see the mud on Philippe's coat and the general air of dejection that dragged at him.
She started towards us.
"Philippe! What in the world has happened? Your coat! Have you fallen down? Miss Martin"-her voice was sharp with real concern-"Miss Martin, not another accident, surely?"
I was breathless from the hasty ascent, and still angry. I said baldly: "Someone shot at Philippe in the wood down there."
She had been half-bending towards the little boy. At my uncompromising words she stopped as if she had been struck.
“Shot… at Philippe?"
"Yes. They only missed him because he tripped and fell. The bullet hit a tree."
She straightened up slowly, her eyes on my face. She was very pale. "But-this is absurd! Who could… Did you see who it was?"
"No. He must have known what had happened, because I shouted. But he didn't appear."
"And Philippe?" She turned shocked eyes to him. "Comment ça va, p'tit? On ne t'a fait mal?"
A shake of the red cap and a quiver of the hand in mine were the only answers. My own hand closed on his.
"He fell down," I said, "but he didn't really hurt himself. He's been very brave about the whole thing." I didn't feel it necessary to insist in front of the child that, but for the tumble, he would probably now be dead. But Madame de Valmy understood that. She was so white that I thought she would faint. The pale eyes, watching Philippe, held a look, unmistakably, of horror. So she did care after all, I thought, surprised and a little touched. She said faintly: "This is… terrible. Such carelessness… criminal carelessness. You-saw nothing?"
I said crisply: "Nothing. But it shouldn't be too hard to find out who it was. I'd have gone after him then and there if I'd been able to leave Philippe. But I imagine Monsieur de Valmy can find out who was in the woods this afternoon. Where is Monsieur, Madame?”
"In the library, I expect." She had one hand to her heart From the other the daffodils fell in an unheeded scatter. She really did look dreadfully shocked. "This is-this is a dreadful thing. Philippe might have-might have-"
"I think," I said, "that I'd better not keep him out here. Will you excuse us from coming down tonight, madame? Philippe had better have a quiet evening and early bed."
"Of course. Of course. And you, too, Miss Martin. You have had a shock-"
"Yes, but I'm angry too, and I find it helps. I'll go and see Monsieur de Valmy as soon as I've taken Philippe in."
She was nodding in a shocked, half-comprehending way. "Yes. Yes, of course. Monsieur de Valmy will be terribly- annoyed. Terribly annoyed."
"I hope," I said grimly, "that that's an understatement Come on, Philippe, let's go and find Berthe. Madame…
As we left her I glanced back to see her hurrying away, towards the corner of the terrace. To tell Léon de Valmy herself, no doubt. Well, the sooner the better, I thought, and swept Philippe into the house and upstairs to the haven of the schoolroom.
Berthe was in the pantry, busy with some cleaning. After a swift explanation that shocked her as much as it had Héloïse, I would have left Philippe with her, but he clung to me, and looked so suspiciously like crying again that I stayed with him. Madame de Valmy had certainly taken the tale straight to her husband, who would, no doubt, put the necessary machinery in motion to discover the culprit. For me, Philippe was the first concern.
So I stayed with him and talked determinedly light-hearted nonsense to distract him till at length, fresh from a hot bath, he was safely ensconced with a book on the rug by the schoolroom fire. He made no objection when Berthe brought in her mending and prepared to keep him company while I went down to see his uncle.
Léon de Valmy was alone in the library. I had not been in the room before. It was a high room, lit with two long windows, but warmed and made darker by the oak bookshelves lining it from floor to ceiling. Above the fireplace a huge portrait glowed against the panelling; my first glance told me that it was a young portrait of Raoul de Valmy, looking very handsome in riding-clothes, one hand holding a whip, the other the bridle of a grey Arab pony with large soft eyes and a dark muzzle. I wondered why his father kept it there. Below the portrait a log-fire burned in the open hearth, which was flanked by a single armchair. The room contained, apart from its thousands of books and a big desk beside one window, very little furniture. I realised the reason for this as Léon de Valmy's wheel-chair turned from a side-table where he had been leafing through a pile of papers, and glided towards the fire, there to stop in the vacant place opposite the single armchair.