She said: 'I know, monsieur.' She hesitated and then said a little awkwardly: 'I have been talking with my mother. We both think that it would be better that I should come with you to Brittany, Monsieur Howard.'
There was a momentary silence; the old man was taken by surprise. 'That is a very kind offer,' he said. 'Most generous of you, mademoiselle. But I do not think I should accept it.'
He smiled at her. 'You must understand,' he said, 'I may get into trouble with the Germans. I should not like to think that I had involved you in my difficulties.'
She said: 'I thought you might feel that, monsieur. But I assure you, I have discussed the matter with maman, and it is better that I should go with you. It is quite decided.'
He said: 'I cannot deny that you would be an enormous help to me, mademoiselle. But one does not decide a point like that all in one moment. One weighs it carefully and one sleeps on it.'
It was growing dusk. In the half-light of the salon it seemed to him that her eyes were very bright, and that she was blinking a little. 'Do not refuse me, Monsieur Howard," she said at last. 'I want so very much to help you.'
He was touched. 'I was only thinking of your safety, mademoiselle,' he said gently. 'You have done a very great deal for me already. Why should you do any more?'
She said: 'Because of our old friendship.'
He made one last effort to dissuade her. 'But mademoiselle,' he said, 'that friendship, which I value, was never more than a slight thing - a mere hotel acquaintance. You have already done more for me than I could have hoped for.'
She said: 'Perhaps you did not know, monsieur. Your son and I... John... we were good friends.' There was an awkward pause.
'So it is quite decided,' she said, turning away. 'We are quite of one mind, my mother and I. Now, monsieur, I will show you your room.'
She took him down the corridor and showed him the room. Her mother had been before her, and had laid out on the bed a long, linen nightgown, the slumber-wear of Monsieur le Colonel. On the dressing-table she had put his cut-throat razor, and a strop, and his much-squeezed tube of shaving-paste, and a bottle of scent called FLEURS DE ALPES.
The girl looked round. 'I think that there is everything you will want,' she said. 'If there is anything we have forgotten, I am close by. You will call?'
He said: 'Mademoiselle, I shall be most comfortable.'
'In the morning,' she said, 'do not hurry. There are arrangements to be made before we can start for Brittany, and one must make enquiries - on the quiet, you will understand, monsieur. That we can best do alone, my mother and I. So it will be better if you stay in bed, and rest.'
He said: 'Oh, but there are the children. I shall have to see to them.'
She smiled: 'In England, do the men look after children when there are two women in the house?'
'Er - well,' he said. 'I mean, I didn't want to bother you with them.'
She smiled again. 'Stay in bed,' she said. 'I will bring coffee to you at about eight o'clock.'
She went out and closed the door behind her; he remained for a tune staring thoughtfully after her. She was, he thought, a very peculiar young woman. He could not understand her at all. At Cidoton, as he remembered her, she had been an athletic young creature, very shy and reserved, as most middle-class French girls are. He remembered her chiefly for the incongruity of her close-curled, carefully-tended head, her daintily-trimmed eyebrows and her carefully-manicured hands, in contrast with the terrific speed with which she took the steepest slopes when sliding on a pair of skis. John, who himself was a fine skier, had told his father that he had his work cut out to keep ahead of her on a run. She took things straight that he made traverse on and never seemed to come to any harm. But she had a poor eye for ground, and frequently ran slowly on a piece of flat while he went sailing on ahead of her.
That was, literally, about all the old man could remember of her. He turned from the door and began slowly to undress. She had changed very much, it seemed to him. It had been nice of her to tell him in her queer, French way that she had been good friends with John; his heart wanned to her for that. Both she and her mother were being infinitely kind to him, and this proposal that Nicole should come with him to Brittany was so kind as to verge on the quixotic. He could not refuse the offer; already he had come near to giving pain by doing so. He would not press a refusal any more; to have her help might make the whole difference to his success in getting the children to England.
He put on the long nightgown and got into bed; the soft mattress and the smooth sheets were infinitely soothing after two nights spent in haylofts. He had not slept properly in bed since leaving Cidoton.
She had changed very much, that girl. She still had the carefully-tended curly head; the trimmed eyebrows and the manicured hands were just the same. But her whole expression was different. She looked ten years older; the dark shadows beneath her eyes matched the black scarf she wore about her neck. Quite suddenly the thought came into his mind that she looked like a widow. She was a young, unmarried girl, but that was what she reminded him of, a young widow. He wondered if she had lost a fiance' in the war. He must ask her mother, delicately, before he left the flat; it would be as well to know in order that he might avoid any topic that was painful to her.
With all that, she seemed very odd to him. He did not understand her at all. But presently the tired limbs relaxed, his active mind moved more slowly, and he drifted into sleep.
He slept all through the night, an unusual feat for a man of his age. He was still sleeping when she came in with his coffee and rolls on a tray at about a quarter past eight. He woke easily and sat up in bed, and thanked her.
She was fully dressed. Beyond her, in the corridor, the children stood, dressed and washed, peeping in at the door. Pierre ventured in a little way.
'Good morning, Pierre,' said the old man gravely. The little boy placed his hand on his stomach and bowed to him from the waist. 'Bon jour, M'sieur Howard.'
The girl laughed and ran her hand through his hair. 'It is a little boy bien élevé, this one,' she said. 'Not like the other ones that you have collected.'
He said a little anxiously: 'I do hope that they have not been a trouble to you, mademoiselle.'
She said: 'Children will never trouble me, monsieur.'
He thought again, a very odd young woman with a very odd way of expressing herself.
She told him that her mother was already out marketing in the town, and making certain enquiries. She would be back in half an hour or so; then they would make their plans.
The girl brought him the grey suit of her father's, rather worn and shabby, with a pair of old brown canvas shoes, a horrible violet shirt, a celluloid collar rather yellow with age, and an unpleasant tie. These clothes are not very chic,' she said apologetically. 'But it will be better for you to wear them, Monsieur Howard, because then you will appear like one of the little bourgeoisie. I assure you, we will keep your own clothes for you very carefully. My mother will put them in the cedar chest with the blankets, because of the moths, you understand.'
Three-quarters of an hour later he was up and dressed, and standing in the salon while the girl viewed him critically. 'You should not have shaved again so soon,' she said. 'It makes the wrong effect, that.'