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Sometimes in nightmares I still relive that moment: Philippe tall and accusing, blazing down at me; Françoise’s scream, unheard at the edge of consciousness, in the half-second before, acting without thought, I took one swift step forward and tore the child from Philippe’s arms. He felt limp and boneless, but warm, and as I snatched away the smothering shawl, looking down on the little bloodstained face covered with dark bruises, I heard the tiny harsh rasp of his breath. Then they were all clustered around me, just a circle of white strange faces, and I had to gasp and blink, the child still strained to my breast, before I could get them back into focus.
Then I whirled on them. “Don’t stand there like geese! He’s not dead—it’s bad, but it’s not as bad as that! Françoise, get some hot water and towels and lint! Isabelle, you fool, get blankets, clear that rubbish off the couch, and let me lay him down there! And send someone for the doctor—” I faltered and paused, seeing the far doorway, framed like a marble statue draped in black, the white and stricken face of the Dowager Countess.
“Grandmère!” I begged, “don’t look like that, he’s alive and well, just see, see— Without thinking, I ran to her, stumbling, catching my heel in my skirt, taking her limp white hand and pressing it to the little chest, which was now rising and falling steadily. “See, he’s alive, he’s only hurt....”
The aunts came then and caught her between them, placing her carefully in a deep armchair, while I laid little Étienne on the blanket on the couch and bent over him, clumsily searching for the buttons on his coverall. Françoise came and deftly unfastened them, and I felt gently along the white, bare bones of the tiny rib cage, moving his hands and feet carefully. Then I took a cloth wet in warm water and began to clean the blood from his face, and he opened his eyes and began to whimper softly.
“Papa, Papa—”
“Mama is here, darling. Where does it hurt you?”
“Hurts,” he said fretfully, putting his hand to his head. There was a great dark bruise on his temple and another on his cheek, and the blood had come from a cut in his lip where small teeth had been knocked against something; there were reddened bruises on his ribs and legs, but at my request he moved hands and feet, and finally sat up and asked for milk. Françoise brought him a cupful and by the time he had had the cut washed and bandages over his bruises, he was thoroughly enjoying the attention he was getting. And as I looked around the circle of white faces, I questioned Étienne once again in my heart. How could Étienne say they might do the child harm, when they stood here horrified at the mere thought of his hurt, and watching him sipping milk from his blue mug as attentively as any opening night audience watching a great tenor make his debut.
I should never have let the child ride with Étienne. What had Philippe said? Had I better ride after them, just in case...?
In a spasm of sudden rage I whirled on Philippe. “As for you—liar, rogue, cheat, what are you trying to do to me? Are you trying to kill me with fright?” I gestured incoherently at the Dowager Countess. “Are you trying to frighten Grandmother out of her senses or out of her life?”
I began to make out individual faces, now, through the blur. Philippe looked shaken, and was staring, not at small Étienne, but at me. Dimly and very far off, I remembered Étienne saying that I had Monique’s very same spitfire temper. Even so, this outburst had visibly shaken Philippe, and Uncle Gaston was staring at me with a face drained of all color, and so corpse-like that I was almost moved to pity. I said gently, “Uncle, you look ill. Drink a glass of wine.” In the moment of false calm, I went to the sideboard and poured him one. He took it, but his hand shook and he let the glass spill to the floor. He swallowed hard.
“What a waste of good wine,” Uncle Louis said, “and at this hour in the day, too. I could use a glass, if someone would be kind enough—and after such a shock, I should think some one would offer you a glass, Monique. Is it only I, tied to this chair, who can think of the decencies?”
I let Aunt Sidonie bring me a glass of cordial and sipped at it, glad of the respite. The Dowager Countess had recovered somewhat now, and was waving away Aunt Isabelle’s vinaigrette. “I am well enough—but the child, Monique, is he all right; should we send for the doctor?”
Philippe said, “I have already sent Pierre for the doctor. Just be thankful it was not the priest!” He came and patted the child’s dark curls. “He may seem well enough now, but I think Doctor Joubert should look him over in any case. And you are ungrateful, Monique, when I spoilt my best suit and sprained my ankle, getting him back to you like this.” He sank in a chair, and said sardonically to Aunt Isabelle’s raised eyebrows, “Come, Madame, the sight of a bare foot should not offend you,” and pulled off his boot. The ankle was swollen, in truth, and looked ugly and red when he drew off his stocking. His hands were covered with mud and blood. I drew a sudden gasp of horror.
“Étienne! Has anything happened to Étienne? How did this happen?”
“I should say plenty had happened,” Philippe said, “but don’t you even mean to thank me for bringing your son back alive?”
I swallowed, my anger vanished. I said humbly, “I do thank you, Philippe. Françoise, if there is more hot water, and a few more strips of bandage.” I glanced at small Étienne, now perched on the foot of Uncle Louis’s stool, nibbling at a sweet cake someone had given him, “And perhaps you had better take the baby to the nursery; he should be put to bed.”
Small Étienne protested vigorously, but Françoise took him briskly into her arms. “In any case it is time for his nap, Madame, and when he wakes the doctor shall have a look, and see if he can get up to play. Come, come, mon petit, you shall have some nice chicken broth and a clean suit.” She began to carry the protesting, squirming Étienne toward the door. He wriggled and wailed in her arms, demanding to stay with Mama, to see Papa, to stay here with the little dogs.
“Oh, my head!” Aunt Sidonie fanned herself. “Is this room pandemonium, or a day nursery? If the child is not hurt, take him away at once, Françoise.”
A door banged, loudly, and a gust of wind ruffled the draperies. A heavy, uncertain step sounded in the corridor, and before Françoise could open the door, it burst, open in her face and Étienne bellowed, “Monique! Philippe! Damn it, all of you, where—’Tienne! Oh—!” He stepped back, hastily, almost running into Françoise and capsizing her. She stammered apologies, but Étienne had already caught his son in his arms and was running his hands carefully over the small body, touching the bandages with cautious hands.
He looked terrible. His clothes were torn and filthy with splashed mud; there was mud on his face, and his nose still faintly trickled blood. His hands shook, and small Étienne, frightened by this rough handling, began to cry. His father, tears running down his face, finally raised his head from the face of his son.
“Thank God! Oh, thank God!” he whispered.
I came swiftly to him. “What happened, Étienne? Are you hurt? I knew I should never have let him ride with you; he might have been killed. I thought he was dead; Philippe told me—”
“Philippe told you,” Étienne mocked savagely. He thrust the child into Françoise’s arms again and said, “Take the child to the nursery; this is nothing for him to hear!” When the door had closed behind her, he rounded on Philippe like a man beside himself.
“And you may well say that, you—you—” He ran out of words and stood opening and closing his mouth for some seconds. “And it was you who damned near killed us both by riding up behind us like—like a damned footpad, and then shouting in my ear and frightening Demoiselle until she threw us!”
“That’s your story,” Philippe said without raising his voice. “You know perfectly well that I hailed you from a hundred feet off. No doubt you would like to lay the blame on me for half-killing your own son, because you could not control that devil’s mare you ride!”
“Half-killing him!” Étienne held out his arms to me in fury. “Monique,” he pleaded, seeing me recoil, “I swear it was not my fault! Philippe frightened my horse—”
“You lie,” Philippe said emotionlessly.
“You wouldn’t know the truth if it planted its feet on your chest,” Étienne retorted furiously. “God knows which of us lies or who would like to murder—”
“Étienne! Philippe! Both of you!” I stepped between them. They faced each other over my head, still ready to fly at each other’s throats. I gripped Étienne’s hand. “Tell me what happened! Tell me! Never mind calling names now.”
“Philippe—or the devil—frightened my horse,” said Étienne with a wry twist of his mouth. “’Tienne slid off, and Demoiselle reared. I was afraid he would trample the boy, and I almost went mad with fear. I threw myself off and covered him with my body....” His voice was still shaking, his chest heaving like a spent race horse. “Then Demoiselle—or that brute of Philippe’s—grazed me with a hoof and I think I was knocked unconscious. When I came to myself, Philippe was gone, the child was gone, and I had to catch Demoiselle and come back—” He raised his black-browed glare to Philippe again. “He left me lying there in the mud to be kicked to death.”
“Is this true?” The Dowager Countess spoke in horror, and Philippe went and knelt beside her, taking her hand in his and kissing it.
“Calm yourself, Grandmother,” he murmured, “and you, Étienne, try to behave as if you were in a decent house and not that Gascon pigsty you call home! Do you think I give a damn if you get yourself kicked to death by horses you can’t ride, you fortune-hunting cur who lives here on his wife’s bounty? Who wants you here anyhow? I cared only to save Monique’s child—and save Monique from grief,” he added, rising and coming to me. His arm encircled my shoulders, light and gentle, and the contrast from Étienne’s fury was so great that I almost sighed with relief.
I would have liked to lean back against him and weep. But the terrible insults he was pouring out upon Étienne! I drew myself dutifully away from him and said, “You must not speak like that to my husband—”
“I spoke only the truth,” Philippe said. “I know it, Étienne knows it, we all know it, and you too, Monique, you know it. Or else why did you—”
Étienne struck him full in the face with a clenched fist. Philippe, off balance, reeled backwards, then with a cold, deliberate blow, brought his fist up to Étienne’s chin. As Étienne staggered, Aunt Sidonie screamed. Uncle Gaston flung himself on Philippe, holding the young man back with sheer weight, and I threw my arms around Étienne, in the hope of shocking him to sanity.
“Please! Oh, please!” I begged. And then, in terror, “Look both of you, at Grandmother! Do you want to kill her?”
The Dowager Countess had slumped in her chair; I released Étienne and ran to her, reacting almost without thought. I raised her head, chafing the frail wrists. “Grandmother, speak to me! It’s all right, I won’t let them—oh, you brutes, after a shock like this morning.”
She leaned against my shoulder, and when Philippe came, I waved him away. “A fine one you are! And you, Étienne, how could you!”
I would not let either of them speak. I helped the old woman to her feet, and gave her my arm from the room. I took her up the stairs, resting frequently, brought her to her room, and turned her over to her maid. But my thoughts were racing while I watched the countrywoman loosening the old lady’s stays and applying restoratives.
Which had told me the truth—Étienne or Philippe?
Could I trust Étienne? He had told me one probably false story—that everyone desired the death of Monique’s child. Could I believe anything that he had said?
“Monique,” the Countess said in a feeble voice. “It was good of you to come with me. But you must not stay here, dear child. Your own child and your husband need you now.”
“There are others who can look after them, Grandmother. They are not badly hurt,” I answered. I had been grateful for the excuse to get out of that room, hoping that perhaps when I was away, Étienne and Philippe would no longer be at one another’s throats. But now I would have to go back and play my part, and I had begun to be afraid—afraid of Étienne, afraid of my own ability to take any further revelations and shocks. And if I could not trust Étienne, then I was alone here, terribly alone in a strange place, among strangers, and battered by old conflicts whose cause I could not know.
“Nevertheless your place is with them,” the Dowager Countess insisted, and I bent my head in acquiescence. But when I left her, I did not go again to the big room downstairs. I dared not. Instead I went to my own room, and pressed a cold cloth over my aching eyes, waving away Annette’s anxious ministrations.
If Étienne’s story was false, what was his game? Why had he brought me here?
But Philippe must be mad! Could Étienne harm his own son? And what would he profit by it? It was very certain that with Monique’s child dead, Étienne would control only a very small portion of an estate which otherwise he would rule—after Monique’s death—in trust for the child. I did not know much about French testamentary law, but it did not make sense.
But then, none of it made sense. I should have seen it. With Monique alive, Étienne was still the detested “fortune hunter,” the poor man who had married an heiress, living on his wife’s money; with Monique dead, he held a great estate in trust for his son.
Was Monique dead at all? Or was she living somewhere, quietly on the Continent, with a lover? Étienne was proud; if he came back here to care for his abandoned son, and some day Monique herself should return—what then? Why would he bring a false Monique here?
So that they could see her die? So they could KNOW she was dead?
The child had nearly been killed, by an accident all too easy to arrange. I could not know whether Philippe had frightened the horse, as Étienne said, or whether he lied. I could no longer be sure it was the truth. Was the next accident to be—mine?
I heard Étienne come in, after a long time, but I neither moved nor spoke, and I heard Annette inform him that I had had a headache and was finally sleeping. Étienne came to my side and whispered, “Monique? Are you awake?” but I did not stir or open my eyes. I needed time to think, time to learn—God willing—to trust him again. Or else I might find that the part I was to play here would end with me respectably buried in the family burying ground.
I suppose I could not have believed it as much then as afterward. Étienne had charmed me so, and I had fallen for his charm like any simpering schoolgirl. Besides, the young never really believe in death until it stares them in the face and they feel the cold breath on their neck.
I could sense Étienne standing above me for a long time, and I felt as if he knew I was not sleeping; but finally, with a long sigh, he turned away and I was alone. From the next room I heard low voices and splashing water, and guessed that his valet was dressing his bruises and cuts. And then, I suppose, I really slept; for the next thing I knew, Annette was bending over me, murmuring, “Madame la Comtesse must dress for dinner if she will not be late.”
I rose wearily, washed the sleep from my eyes, and allowed myself to be dressed. Tonight I must face them all at dinner; there was no escaping it. I asked for courtesy’s sake, “And my husband?”
Annette informed me that Monsieur was covered with bruises and had retired. When I was dressed, Françoise knocked at my door and asked if I would come to hear small Étienne’s prayers, and then I remembered, anxiously, that a doctor had been sent for.
“Is he well?”
“The doctor says he is only bruised, Madame, but that it is a miracle those little ribs were not broken. The Blessed Virgin was merciful to your little one, Madame.”
Étienne called from the next room, “One moment before you go, Monique?”
I excused myself to the nurse and went to his side. He lay beneath the sheet, clad in a dressing-gown; his head was bandaged and he was a grotesque figure with swelling and darkening eyes. I stifled a gasp of dismay at the sight of him, but merely remarked with acerbity, “Did Philippe give you that? You deserve it—fighting like schoolboys.”
“Like schoolboys it was not,” Étienne said, tried to smile, and gave it up with a grimace of pain. “No, this is Demoiselles’ handiwork—or rather, footwork. Have you ever been kicked by a horse? I should imagine from your air of calm superiority, that you have not. Kiss the child for me, Monique, and tell him Papa cannot come to see him in bed tonight, but that tomorrow he may come.”
I looked at him and momentarily softened. It might, after all, be true that he had tried to shield the child’s body with his own, and thus received this ghastly battering. I said, “I will tell him, Étienne.” Then I hesitated, “And you—you will not come down to dinner?”
“With this face? Hardly. And I think one of my teeth was loosened, so that good food would be lost on me. I will have a bowl of soup, like any old compère in his cottage, and try to nurse my wounds.” He forced his bruised face to a small smile and added, “Unless my loving wife will share my exile?”
His tone was so lonely that I almost relented, but I hardened my heart against him. “You’ve been a bad boy and don’t deserve your bed-time story,” I said, and went to see little Étienne into bed. He had been kissed, sung to and laid in his cot, and I was on my way down the great staircase toward the dining-room before it occurred to me that this way, I would have to face them alone—without Étienne at my side to guard swiftly against any misstep or mistake.
And he had been trying to spare me this!
For a moment his kindness melted me; then my cynicism came back. Of course he wanted me to play my part well.
It would safeguard his imposture, too.
