If she had had some weapon, if her approach had been at all stealthy-anything but this apparently calm and routine visit- no doubt I would have moved more quickly. As it was, her hand was still hovering over the boy's face when I flew after her. I reached Philippe just as her fingers touched him. He didn't move. She drew her hand back, and straightened up. I went round the bed and reached a protective hand to draw the sheet up to the child's face. I faced her across the bed. Whatever my feelings towards the Demon King, I was not afraid of his wife. I said: "What is it, madame? What do you want?"
She didn't answer. She hadn't even acknowledged my presence. This was carrying ostracism a bit too far. I began to say something angry, then stopped, bewildered, to watch her.
She had turned to the little table that stood beside the bed. Her hands moved now over the clutter of objects on the table-a lamp, a book, a little clock, the tumbler that had held Philip’s chocolate, a couple of soldiers, a biscuit… I thought she was going to switch the light on, and made a half-movement of protest. But her hands, groping in a curious blind fashion passed the lamp, moved softly over the clock and the tin soldiers' and hovered over the tumbler. She picked this up. I said: "Madame de Valmy-"
She turned at that. She had lifted the tumbler as if to drink from it, and across the rim her eyes met mine again. With her back to the moonlight, her face was a pale blur, her eyes dark and expressionless, but as I looked at her, bewildered and beginning once more to be frightened, I understood. The goose-pimple cold slid, ghost-handed, over my skin.
The open eyes, no less than the smooth stealthy hands, were indeed blind… I stared into the woman's expressionless face for one eerie moment longer, while the child breathed gently between us, then, very quietly, I moved to one side, down to the foot of the bed.
She stood still, with the tumbler held to her face, staring at the place where I had been… You see, her eyes are open; Ay, but their sense is shut…I stood and watched her as if she were a ghost on a moonlit stage. The verses marched on through my brain as if someone had switched on a tape-recorder and forgotten it. I remember feeling a sort of numb surprise at their aptness. Lo you, here she comes! This is her very guise, and upon my life, fast asleep…
So Héloïse de Valmy, like Lady Macbeth, had that weighing on her heart which sent her sleep-walking through the night to Philippe's room. And would she, like that other murderess, give away what she had seen and known? I knew nothing about sleep-walkers except what I remembered of that scene in Macbeth. And Lady Macbeth had talked. Was it possible that I could get Héloïse de Valmy to do the same? Observe her, stand close.
I was gripping the rail at the foot of Philippe's bed. Without it, I think I would have fallen. I said hoarsely: "Madame."
She took no notice. She put the tumbler down surely and quietly, and turned to go. The moonlight rippled along the lovely folds of her robe; it caught her face, gleaming back from eyes wide and glossy as a doll's.
I said: "Héloïse de Valmy, answer me. How will you kill Philippe?"
She was on her way to the window. I walked with her. She went smoothly, and at the right moment her hand went up to the curtain. For one fearful moment I thought I had been mistaken and she was awake, but then I saw her fumble the curtains and hesitate as a fold tangled in her robe. The fixed eyes never moved, but she fetched a sigh and faltered. Heaven knows what she has known. The obsessive question burst from me. "Is Raoul helping you to kill Philippe?"
She paused. Her head inclined towards me. I repeated it urgently in her ear: "Is Raoul helping you?"
She turned away. It wouldn't work. She was going, and her secrets with her, still locked in sleep. I reached an unsteady hand and drew the curtain aside for her.
She walked composedly past me and out of sight along the balcony.
But she had told me one thing. I saw it as soon as I turned.
God, God forgive us all. I stood over Philippe in the moon- dappled darkness, with the tumbler in my hand.
I woke him quietly. I used a trick I had read about somewhere in John Buchan-a gentle pressure below the left ear. It seemed to work; he opened his eyes quite naturally and lay for a moment before they focused on me in the moonlight. Then he said, as if we were resuming a conversation: "I had another nightmare."
"I know. That's why I came in."
He lifted his head, and then pushed himself into a sitting position. "What's the time?"
"Half-past one."
"Haven't you been to bed yet? Have you been to the dance in the village. You didn't tell me."
"No, I haven't been out. I got dressed again because-"
"You're not going out now?" The whisper sharpened so abruptly that my finger flew to my lips.
"Quiet, Philippe. No-that is, yes, but I'm not leaving you alone, if that's what you're afraid of. You're coming too."
"I am?"
I nodded, and sat down on the edge of the bed. The big eyes watched me. He was sitting very still. I couldn't tell what he was thinking. God knows what my voice sounded like. I know my lips were stiff. I said: "Philippe."
"Yes, mademoiselle?"
"Do you-feel all right? Not-not sleepy or anything?"
"Not really."
"Quite fit and wide-awake?"
"Yes."
I said hoarsely: "Did you drink your chocolate?"
His eyes slid round in that narrow sidelong look towards the tumbler, then back to me. He hesitated. "I poured it away."
"You what? Why?"
"Well… he said uncertainly, eyeing me, then stopped.
"Look, Philippe, I don't mind. I just want to know. Was it nasty or something?"
"Oh no. At least I don't know." Again that look. Then a sudden burst of candour: "They left the bottle last night and I found it and kept it. I didn't tell you."
I said blankly: "Bottle?"
"Yes," said Philippe, "that smashing lemonade. I had that instead. It wasn't fizzy any more but it was fine."
"You… never said anything when I went to make your chocolate."'
"Well," said Philippe, "I didn't want to hurt your feelings. You always made the chocolate and-what's the matter?"
"Nothing. Nothing. Oh, Philippe."
"What is it, Miss Martin?"
"I guess I'm tired," I said. "I had a late night last night and I haven't slept much tonight,"
"You don't mind?" "No, I don't mind."
"Why haven't you slept tonight?"
I said: "Now listen, mon p'tit. Did you know your Uncle Hippolyte is coming home tomorrow-today?"
I saw the joy blow across his face the way a gleam runs over water and felt, suddenly, a deep and calm thankfulness. There was port in this storm, it seemed.
Philippe was saying in a quick, excited whisper: "When is he coming? Why is he coming back? Who told you? When can we get to see him?"
"That's what I came to wake you for," I said, as if it was the most reasonable thing in the world. "I thought that we might go straight away. The-the sooner the better," I finished lamely, all my half-thought-out excuses dying on my lips under that steady wide stare.
"Do you mean we are going to the Villa Mireille now? To meet my Uncle Hippolyte?"
"Yes. He won't be there yet, but I thought-"
Philippe said, devastatingly: "Does my Uncle Léon know?"
I swallowed. "Philippe, my dear, I don't expect you to understand all this, but I want you to trust me, and come with me now as quickly and quietly as you can. Your Uncle Léon-"
"You are taking me away from him." It was a statement, not a question. His face was expressionless, but his eyes were intent, and he was breathing a little faster.