"He's English," I said simply, then smiled at myself. "Do you know what irony is, Philippe? L’ironie?"
"No, what?"
I looked at him doubtfully, but I had let myself in for a definition now and plunged a little wildly at it. “L'ironie.… I suppose its Chance, or Fate (le destin), or something, that follows you around and spies on what you do and say, and then uses it against you at the worst possible time. No, that's not a very good way of putting it. Skip it, mon lapin; I'm not at my best this afternoon."
"But I am reading about that this morning," said Philippe. "It has a special name. It followed you comme vous dȋtes and when you do something silly it-how do you say it?-came against you. It was called Nemesis."
I stopped short and looked at him. I said: "Philippe, my love, I somehow feel it only wanted that… And its practically the Ides of March and there are ravens flying upside down on our left and I walked the wrong way round Sainte-Marie-des-Ponts last Thursday afternoon, and-"
"You didn't," said Philippe. "It was raining."
"Was it?"
"You know it was." He chuckled and gave a ghost of a skip. "You do say silly things sometimes, don't you?"
"All too often."
"But I like it. Go on. About the ravens flying upside down. Do they really? Why? Go on, mademoiselle."
"I don't think I can," I said. "Words fail me."
On our way in from the walk we met Monsieur de Valmy. Instead of coming up the zigzag itself we took the short cut which ran steeply upwards, here and there touching the northerly loops of the road. We crossed the gravel sweep at the top. As we went through the stableyard archway, making for the side door, the wheel-chair came quietly out of some outbuilding and Léon de Valmy's voice said, in French: "Ah, Philippe. Good afternoon, Miss Martin. Are you just back from your walk?"
The quick colour burned my face as I turned to answer. "Good afternoon, monsieur. Yes. We've just been along the valley road, and we came back up the short cut."
He smiled. I could see no trace of disapproval or coolness in his face. Surely if I were privately under sentence of dismissal, he wouldn't act quite so normally-more, go out of his way to greet us in this unruffled friendly fashion? He said, including Philippe in the warmth of his smile: "You've taken to bypassing the woods now, have you?"
"Well, we have rather." I added: "I'm nervous, so we keep near the road."
He laughed. "I don't blame you." He turned to Philippe with a pleasant twinkle. "And how are you this morning, after your excesses of last night?"
"Excesses?" said Philippe nervously.
"I'm told you had a midnight feast last night… an 'illicit night out à trois' was the phrase, I believe. No nightmares afterwards?"
Philippe said: "No, mon oncle. The amused dark gaze turned to me.
I said, almost as nervously as Philippe: "You don't mind? Perhaps it was a little unorthodox, but-"
"My dear Miss Martin, why should I? We leave Philippe very completely to your care and judgment, and so far we've been amply proved right. Please don't imagine that my wife and myself are waiting to criticise every move that's out of pattern. We know very little about the care of children. That's up to you. And a 'special treat' now and again is an essential, I believe? It was kind of you to spare time and thought to the child in the middle of your own pleasure… I hope you enjoyed the dance?"
"Yes, oh yes, I did! I didn't see you last night to thank you for inviting me, but may I thank you now, monsieur? It was wonderful. I enjoyed it very much."
"I'm glad to hear it. I was afraid you might feel rather too much a stranger among us, but I gather that Raoul looked after you."
Nothing but polite inquiry. No glint of amusement. No overtone to the pleasant voice.
"Yes, monsieur, thank you, he did… And how is Madame de Valmy this afternoon? She's not ill, is she?"
"Oh no, only tired. She'll be making an appearance at the dance in the village tonight, so she's resting today."
"Then she won't expect us-Philippe and me-in the salon tonight?"
"No. I think you must miss that.'* The smile at Philippe was slightly mischievous now. "Unless you'd like to visit me instead?"
Philippe stiffened, but I said: "As you wish, monsieur. In the library?"
He laughed. "No, no. We'll spare Philippe that. Well, don't let me keep you." The wheel-chair swivelled away, then slewed back to us. "Oh, by the way…
"Monsieur?"
"Don't let Philippe use the swing in the big coach-house, Miss Martin. I see that one of the rivets is working loose. Keep off it until it's mended. We mustn't have another accident, must we?"
"No, indeed. Thank you monsieur, we'll keep out of there." He nodded and swung the chair away again. It moved off with that disconcertingly smooth speed towards the gate to the kitchen garden. Philippe ran ahead of me towards the side door with the air of one reprieved from a terrible fate.
He wasn't the only one. I was reflecting that once again my imagination had betrayed me. That smile of Monsieur de Valmy's last night… Madame's coldness… my interpretation of them had been wildly wide of the mark. A guilty conscience, and a too-ready ear for gossip had given me a few bad hours. It served me right. There was obviously no idea of dismissing me; if there had been Monsieur de Valmy would never have spoken to me as he had. All was well… and even if there were snags in the future, Raoul would be here beside me.
"Mademoiselle," said Philippe, "you look quite different. Qu'est ce que c'est?"
"I think I've seen a raven," I said, "flying the right way up."
The rest of the day limped through without incident. I put Philippe to bed a little earlier than usual, and later on, as soon as I had taken him his late-night chocolate, I went thankfully to bed myself and slept almost straight away. I don't remember waking. Straight out of deep sleep, it seemed, I turned my head on the pillow and looked with wide-open eyes towards the door. The room was dark and I could see nothing, but then there came the stealthy click of the door dosing, and soft footsteps moved across the carpet towards the bed. I think that for a moment or two I didn't realise I was awake, but lay still listening to the ghostly approach in a sort of bemused half-slumber.
Something touched the bed. I heard breathing. I was awake and this was real. My heart jerked once, in a painful spasm of fear, and I shot up in bed, saying on a sharply rising note: "Who's that?"
As I grabbed for the bedside switch a voice that was no more than a terrified breath said: "Don't put the light on. Don't!" My hand fell from the switch. The intruder's terror seemed to quiver in the air between us, and in the face of it I felt myself growing calm. I said quietly: "Who is it?"
The whisper said: "It's Berthe, miss."
“Berthe?"
There was a terrified sound that might have been a sob. "Oh, hush miss, they'll hear!"
I said softly: "What's the matter, Berthe? What's up?" Then a thought touched me icily and I put a hand to the bedclothes.
"Philippe? Is there something the matter with Philippe?"
"No, no, nothing like that I But it's-it's-I thought I ought to come and tell you-"
But here the distressful whispering was broken unmistakably by gulping sobs, and Berthe sat down heavily on the end of the bed.
I slipped from under the covers and padded across the room to lock the doors. Then I went back to the bed and switched on the bedside lamp.