Philippe revived to that soup as a fern revives to water. When his omelette arrived, a fluffy roll, crisped at the edges, from which mushrooms burst and spilled in their own rich gravy, he tackled it with an almost normal, small-boy's appetite. My own brand of weariness demanded something more solid and I had a steak. It came in a lordly dish with the butter still sizzling on its surface and the juices oozing pinky-brown through the mushrooms and tomatoes and tiny kidneys and the small mountain of crisply- fried onions filet mignon can be translated as darling steak this was the very sweetheart of its kind. By the time that adorable steak and I had become one flesh I could have taken on the whole Valmy clan single-handed. I complimented the waiter when he came to clear, and his lugubrious face lightened a little.
"And what to follow, mademoiselle? Cheese? A little fruit?"
I glanced at Philippe, who shook his head sleepily. I laughed, "My little brother's nearly asleep. No, no cheese for me, thank you, monsieur. A café-filtre, if you please, and a café-au-lait.” I fingered the purse in my pocket. "And a benedictine, please."
“Un filtre, un café-au-lait, une bénédictine." He swept the last crumb from the table, gave the shiny red top a final polish with his cloth, and turned away. I said: "Could monsieur perhaps get me some jetons?”
"Assuredly." He took the money I held out and in a short time the cups were on the table and I had a little pile of jetons in front of me.
Philippe roused himself to blink at them. "What are those?"
I gaped at him. Then it came to me that Monsieur le Comte de Valmy had, course, never had to use a public telephone. I explained softly that one had to buy these little metal plaques to put in the slot of the telephone.
“I should like to do it," said Monsieur le Comte decidedly, showing a spark of animation.
"So you shall, mon gars, but not tonight. Better leave it to me." And I rose.
"Where are you going?" He didn't move, but his voice clutched at me.
"Only to the corner behind the bar. See? There's the telephone. I'll be back before my coffee's filtered. You stay here and drink your own-and Philippe, don't look quite so interested in those men over there. Pretend you've been in this sort of place dozens of times, will you?"
"They're not taking any notice."
Neither they were. The only other occupants of the little café besides ourselves were a gang of burly workmen absorbed in some card-game, and a slim youth with hair cut en brosse whispering sweet somethings into the ear of a pretty little gipsy in a tight black sweater and skirt. Nobody after the first casual glance had paid the slightest attention to us. The stout patronne who sat over some parrot-coloured knitting behind the bar merely smiled at me and nodded as I picked my way between the tables towards her and asked if I might telephone. Nobody here, at any rate, was on the lookout for a young woman with brown hair and grey eyes, on the run with the kidnapped Comte de Valmy.
It wasn't only luck that protected us, I thought, as I fumbled with the half-forgotten intricacies of the telephone; it was commonsense to suppose that the chances of our being seen and recognised now, here, were very small. One had read dozens of "pursuit" books, from the classic Thirty-nine Steps onwards, and in all of them the chief and terrible miracle had been the unceasing and intelligent vigilance of every member of the population. In sober fact, nobody was much interested…
Here one of the card-players raised his eyes from the game to look at me; then he nudged his neighbour and said something. The latter looked up too, and his stare raked me. My heart, in spite of the soothing logic of my thoughts, gave a painful jerk, as with an effort I forced my gaze to slide indifferently past them. I turned a shoulder and leaned against the wall, waiting, bored, for my connection. From the corner of an eye I saw the second man say something and grin. I realised with a rush of amused relief that any pursuit that those two might offer would have other and quite natural motives that had nothing whatever to do with the errant Comte de Valmy.
"Ici le Coq Hardi" quacked a voice in my ear.
I jerked my attention back to it, and my imagination back to the teeming little inn at Soubirous.
"I want to speak to Monsieur Blake, please."
"Who?"
"Monsieur Blake. The Englishman from Dieudonné." I was speaking softly, and mercifully the radio was loud enough to drown my voice. "I understand he stays with you. Is he there now?"
There was some altercation, aside, that I couldn't make out. Then it stopped abruptly, as if cut off by a hand over the mouthpiece. To my fury I found that my own hand was damp on the receiver.
Then the voice said into my ear: "No, he's not here. Who's that wanting him?"
"Is he likely to be in tonight?"
"Perhaps." Was I being jumpy, or was it suspicion that put the edge on that unfriendly voice? "He didn't say. If you ring back in half-an-hour… Who is that speaking, please?"
I said: "Thanks very much. I'll do that. I'm sorry to have-"
The voice said, harsh and sharp: "Where are you speaking from?"
Suspicion. It bit like an adder. If I didn't answer they could trace the call. I didn't stop to ask myself why they should. It was enough for me that the Coq Hardi was on Valmy land and that presumably the news would reach the chateau just as quickly as wires could carry it. If I could let them think I was safe for another half-hour…
I said pleasantly, with no perceptible hesitation: "From Évian. The Cent Fleurs. Don't trouble Monsieur Blake. I'll ring him up later on. Thank you so much."
And right in the teeth of another question I rang off.
I stood for a moment looking unseeingly at the telephone, biting my lip. Needless to say I had no intention of waiting to ring up again, but in putting off pursuit I had also put off William Blake. If he got my message at all, and if he was aware of the story that must by now be rife in Soubirous, he might realise I needed help and set straight off for Évian and the huge crowded floor of the Cent Fleurs, which certainly wouldn't remember if a young woman accompanied by a small boy had used the telephone at some time during the evening.
Somehow I was very sure, of William Blake's desire-and solid capacity-to help. Now I had had to cut myself off from that, and only now did I realise how much I had depended on the comfort of his company when the inevitable showdown came. I was well aware that even the interview with Hippolyte wouldn't be altogether plain sailing. 'Never before had I felt so miserably in need of a friend-someone who, even if they could do nothing, would simply be there. I gave myself a mental shake, I mustn't start this. Just because, for a few short hours, I had laid flesh and spirit in other hands, I didn't have to feel so forsaken now. I'd hoed my own row for long enough-well, it seemed I must go on doing just that. What one has never really had, one never misses. Or so they say.
I went back to my table, unwrapped three lumps of sugar, and drank my coffee black and far too sweet. The benedictine I drank with appreciation but, I'm afraid, a lack of respect. It was the effect, and not the drink I craved. I took it much too quickly, with half a wary eye on the card-players in the other corner.
Then, just as they were nicely involved in a new round of betting, I quietly paid the waiter, nodded a good night to Madame and went (unfollowed except by Philippe) out of the café.