Then Geoffrey Bailey said: “I don’t like the way things are going, do you?”
“Things?” I said vaguely.
“The political situation. This man Hitler … what will he be up to next?”
“Didn’t Mr. Chamberlain come back with that agreement from him?”
“Oh, you mean Munich? Do you trust Hitler? Our people in London don’t like the way things are going, Czechoslovakia and all that. It will be Poland next … and if he dares … well, I think we shall be in it … deep.”
“Well, let’s hope for the best,” said Mrs. Bailey. “I’m so glad we spoke to you in that bookshop.”
“My clumsiness turned out well in the end,” added Geoffrey.
They talked about Paris then and I was relieved that they asked no more questions about me. They thought I was staying with a friend; but I must have seemed somewhat reticent about my background.
However, it was only a casual meeting and I should not have got as far as drinking coffee with them if they had not had a guilty conscience about letting a book drop on me.
I was wrong about its being a casual meeting. They insisted on seeing me home, as they said, and they took me to the house. I did not ask them in but said goodbye in the street.
I think that after that Mrs. Bailey was so determined to see me again that she did. It was not really difficult.
She was a motherly type of woman, and I realized later that she had sensed that there was something rather mysterious about me. The fact that I had been evasive about my home had not escaped her. I was staying with friends apparently indefinitely, but I had said nothing of these friends. I must have given an impression of frailty. Violetta had always said that drew men to me. I looked helpless and they longed to protect me. Perhaps Mrs. Bailey felt this, too.
In any case, I had caught her interest and the idea had come to her that I might need help.
About a week after our encounter, when I came out of the house, I saw her strolling towards me. She expressed surprise, which did not seem quite natural, and I guessed at once that she had been looking for me since our meeting. She said why didn’t I go along with her and have a nice cup of tea in their apartment. Not that the tea tasted like it did at home, but it would be more comfortable than a cafe, and she would enjoy being able to talk to someone in English.
I was persuaded. Jacques had gone out and if he did return it would do him good to know that I could amuse myself quite happily without him. So I went to the Bailey apartment.
It was a pleasant place in a block of such apartments. She told me that it was the company’s and staff used the place when they were over to work, which several of them did for spells from time to time.
We had a pleasant two hours together, which I thoroughly enjoyed, until I realized that she might expect to be invited back. I supposed I could do it. Jacques wouldn’t object. It would have to be when he was out, for I was sure he would find the Baileys dull and not his type. He was worldly and sophisticated. It was those qualities which had attracted me in the first place. But the Baileys were comforting. I knew instinctively that in an emergency they would be there. And I was not sure of Jacques. That was the truth. It was beginning to be brought home to me how very rash I had been.
Mimi
IT WAS SUMMER—THAT long, hot summer when war clouds were gathering over Europe. I was not particularly interested in the war situation. I was too deeply concerned with my own affairs—but then, as Violetta had said, I always had been.
I was feeling definitely uneasy. Things were not the same between Jacques and me. I had a feeling that something was going on all around me—something which I should know because it was important to me.
Georges Mansard, the wine merchant, came frequently and I looked forward to his visits. With my usual vanity, I thought he might be falling in love with me and, as Jacques seemed less ardent, that was gratifying.
I began to ask myself during those summer days what would become of me. It was, of course, a question I should have asked myself before I embarked on this adventure, but, as I have admitted, I always ask myself these questions too late.
What a fool I had been! I knew I had been bored at Tregarland’s but my sister was not far off, and my parents would always have provided a refuge. And now they believed me to be dead. It is only when one realizes how much one may need a refuge that it becomes of paramount importance.
I looked forward to those days when Georges Mansard took me to the wine bar for a glass of wine. He asked a great many questions. I was a little evasive about myself, but I expect I betrayed a good deal.
He was very interested to know if I did any work for Jacques.
“You mean modeling?”
“That … or anything else.”
“What else should there be?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Just … anything.”
“Nothing at all.”
He did say on another occasion: “Still not helping Jacques with his work?”
“No.”
“He just paints all the time, does he?”
“He is out a good deal.”
“Traveling around Paris?”
“Yes, and sometimes farther afield.”
“And never takes you with him?”
“No. He has not done so.”
“It would be very pleasant for you to see a little of France.”
“Very pleasant,” I said. I went on: “My friends, the Baileys—those English people I met in the bookshop … do you remember?”
He nodded. He had been very interested in them at first and asked a lot of questions about them, and then seemed to forget them.
I went on: “They are always talking about Hitler. They think there will be war.”
“My dear, everyone in Paris thinks there will be war.”
“And you?”
He lifted his shoulders and rocked to and fro as though to say he was not sure. It could go any way.
“If it comes to that, the Baileys will go back to England at once.”
“And you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t see how I could.”
“It would be better for you. You should consider it.”
“I don’t see how I could, after what happened.”
“Nevertheless …” he murmured.
I saw the Baileys frequently at that time. I told Jacques about them and he had not seemed very pleased.
“But they are very friendly people,” I said. “They take a parental interest in me and I have often been to their apartment.”
Rather as Georges Mansard had done, he asked questions about them and did not find them very interesting. When I said that, as I had visited them many times, I thought I should return the hospitality, he shook his head rather irritably and said, “We don’t want them here. They sound very boring.”
I supposed they would be to him, but I felt I owed Janet Bailey some explanation, and one day, over a cup of tea, I blurted out the whole story to her. I went right back to the beginning, the meeting in Germany with Dermot, our whirlwind romance and marriage, the birth of Tristan, and the realization that I could endure it no more.
She listened intently as I did so and I saw her expressions of bewilderment, horror, and amazement that I could abandon my baby son.
It was a long time before she spoke.
Then she turned to me. “You poor child,” she said. “For that is all you are. A child … just like Marian. I’d say to her, ‘Don’t touch the stove, dear.’ That was when she was three years old. ‘If you do, you’ll burn your fingers.’ Then, as soon as my back’s turned, out come her little fingers. A nasty burn, but, as I said to Geoff, ‘It’s experience. That will teach her better than anything.’”