While all this was going on at Pau, Nick Heriot and his Mother were pursuing their enquiries for Bonnecourt in Tardets. Once again Nick by-passed the road-blocks near Ste. Marie-des-Pélérins; after they regained the main road he pointed out the lane up which he thought Bonnecourt had gone. ‘Should we try there’ he asked.
‘No—I know no one up there’ Lady Heriot replied. ‘Let’s go straight to the épicerie; Mme. Pontarlet is much brighter in the head than the old Aunt at the inn. Though of course I shall have to see her too; she’d be hurt if I didn’t, and she’ll be bound to hear that I’ve been in the town.’
The Épicerie Pontarlet was crowded with customers—naturally enough on a Saturday—when the Dauphine drew up; Lady Heriot remained in the car.
‘Go in and tell Mme. Pontarlet that I should so much like to see her’ she told her son. Pretty Mme. Pontarlet came out at once, leaned in through the door, and warmly embraced his parent. ‘Miladi! How it is good to see you!’
‘Come and sit with me for a moment, Pauline,’ the older woman said. ‘Nick, go and get a fromage de brebis and a kilo of jambon de Bayonne’ (raw smoked ham)—these were two of the most expensive items in the shop’s repertory. ‘Here’s my purse.’
‘Unless you filled up yesterday there’s nothing in it’ Nick said, ruefully. ‘I rifled it to give Madame’s brother some cash, night before last.’
‘Never mind—Madame will trust me. Bring the bill, in that case,’ Lady Heriot said.
Pauline Pontarlet’s brown eyes opened wide at this interchange; she understood some English.
‘It was Monsieur Nicolas who brought my brother away from the police?’ she asked.
‘Yes. But now, Pauline—’ the old lady got down to business; rather unsuccessfully, as it turned out. Mme. Pontarlet was not only bright in the head, but cautious as well. When Nick reappeared with his purchases she left the car, again embracing Lady Heriot, and ran back into her busy shop.
‘Where now?’ Nick asked.
‘Let’s drive about a little; I must think. Turn up one of those side streets—just keep going.’
‘Doesn’t she know where he is?’ Nick asked, as he obeyed these curious instructions.
‘Yes, she does, but she won’t tell even me where. Don’t get into a blind alley!’ Lady Heriot said urgently.
‘Maman, what on earth goes on?’ Nick asked, surprised that his Mother, of all people, should insist on these manoeuvres. Tardets is anyhow a rather sinister little town, with the dark grey stone of its high houses, the narrow streets, the general sense of compression—and it usually seems to be raining there; rain was beginning to fall now—Nick suddenly felt uncomfortable and nervous.
‘It’s a little bothering. The place is full of Sureté men—they’ve been to Pauline, and to everyone connected with him, and she was too frightened to say a word.’
‘How did the Sureté trace him here? Oh, I suppose the D.B. have that on their files, and passed it on.’ Nick recalled his illuminating conversation with Colonel Jamieson the night before.
‘I have no idea how they knew, but anyhow they’re here, upsetting everyone’ Lady Heriot said. ‘Anyhow let us go to the inn—we must find him, and old Mme. Dutour is so silly that if she knows anything, I’m sure I can get it out of her.’
The inn was another grey house, in another grey street.
‘Leave the car outside and come in’ Lady Heriot said. ‘We’ll order an apéritif—if the worst come to the worst we can have lunch, though it won’t be good.’
The inn at Tardets is a chilly and unwelcoming place. In some strange way the greyness of the streets outside seems to have seeped into its rooms; in the gaunt, sparsely-furnished parlour such warmth as there was was furnished not by any fire in the empty grate, filled with elaborately folded paper covered with dust, but by old Mme. Dutour’s welcome.
‘Miladi! What a pleasure! How goes it with Milord? And this is a son?’ She shook Nick by the hand.
‘Have you someone now who attends to the bar, Madame? My son would like a little refreshment.’
‘But yes; my great-nephew, Marceline’s son, makes his apprenticeship here as bar-man. Permettez’—she made for the door.
‘My son will find his own way,’ Lady Heriot said firmly. ‘Sit down, Madame, and let us talk a little. It is long since we met.’
‘Ah yes—le bon vieux temps! During the war we constantly saw Miladi here, helping the escape of those of the Royal Air Force, and of others, into Spain.’
Old Mme. Dutour had herself, immediately, led the conversation into the desired channel; only a little skilful pressure on Lady Heriot’s part was necessary to learn what she wished to know. But silly as she might be, at first even Mme. Dutour was hesitant—‘The Sureté have been here; he is in danger,’ she said.
‘I know this—and I have come, precisely, to learn where he is, and to see him. Then the Royal Air Force will secure his escape.’ Unscrupulously, Lady Heriot said what she knew to be most convincing; how British Intelligence would get Bonnecourt away she had no idea, except that one of the twins had said something about his being flown out—but ‘The Royal Air Force’ was still a name to conjure with, in France.
‘Who is so good as Miladi? She helps everyone!’ the old woman exclaimed. But it was some time, even then, before Mme. Dutour could be brought to the point; at last ‘He is with Marceline’ she hissed in Lady Heriot’s ear. ‘But this place is watched—do not go there direct, I implore you, Miladi! These creatures watch every face, every car.’
Lady Heriot promised to take all precautions, and kissed the old landlady goodbye. Back in the car—‘Drive out along the road towards St. Jean Pied-de-Port’ she told Nick.
‘Oh, is he out that side?’
‘No, he’s with Mme. Bertrand, his other sister. But we won’t go straight there; presently let’s wait in a wood or somewhere, out of sight, till we see whether we are being followed. Old Madame says the inn is watched the whole time.’
They couldn’t be absolutely sure, after Nick had slung the car up a wood-cutters’ track among the beech-trees, whose leaves were already taking on a coppery tinge, whether they were being followed or not. A bus and several large touring-cars shot by at speed; but presently two small cars, travelling much more slowly, came past, both full of little men peering intently out of the windows.
‘Those could be them’ Nick said, ungrammatically but lucidly. He had chosen his spot with care—just beyond the track where they had hidden themselves the road made a sharp bend to the right—the moment the two little cars were out of sight round this he shot down the track onto the main road, and drove back towards Tardets at top speed. ‘Any sign of them?’ he asked his Mother.
‘No, nothing in sight’ Lady Heriot said, slewing round to look out of the rear window. ‘That was perfect, dearest.’
Mme. Bertrand, whose husband was a lawyer in quite a good way of business, lived in a neat little villa on the outskirts of Tardets on the western side, so they were able to reach it without returning through the town itself—once more Nick admired his Mother’s astuteness in causing him to drive out along the road towards St. Jean. The villa had a small drive with a gate, which was shut. ‘Open the gate, and drive in’ Lady Heriot said.
Even before they rang the bell the door was opened by Mme. Bertrand herself.
‘Lady Heriot! It is too long since we see you!’ She spoke in English. ‘But who is this?’ she asked, with a glance at Nick.
‘Have you forgotten my son Nicholas? May we come in, Marceline?’
‘Of course—I am enchanted.’ All the same there was here an evident guardedness, a hesitation. ‘If you would wait just one moment, Lady Heriot, I will go in and prepare to receive you.’
Lady Heriot knew the lay-out of the villa perfectly: besides the kitchen there was only one sitting-room, and probably Bonnecourt was in it.
‘Do not trouble, Marceline. If you are thinking of causing your brother to climb out of the window, please let it be! I have come expressly to see him.’
‘My brother! But—why should Miladi imagine that he is here?’ Mme. Bertrand stammered.
‘I don’t imagine—I know he is’ Lady Heriot said brusquely. ‘Don’t be silly, Marceline; of course he is in danger, but I have come to arrange matters. Please to let us come in—I am a little tired, and I should prefer not to remain standing.’ As Mme. Bertrand stood aside, Lady Heriot walked past her and straight into the sitting-room; there, at a little table, sat Bonnecourt, playing patience with two packs of small cards, as cool as a cucumber. But some of his calm left him when she came in.
‘Miladi! What brings you here?’
‘You! Why aren’t you in Spain?’ She sat down in one of the small, uncomfortable French versions of an armchair. ‘Why are you lingering here? You have been most good to Madame Jamieson, and to our people in the past—but now you are really being troublesome.’
Nick, who had followed his Mother into the room, had never till that moment seen the hunter look in the least embarrassed; now he obviously was.
‘Miladi, I ask your pardon—I am ashamed to have put you to so much trouble. But perhaps we had better discuss this matter alone. Marceline, can you not go and prepare some luncheon? And Nick, you can perhaps amuse yourself in the garden—behind the house! What car are you in?’ he added sharply.’
‘My little Dauphine.’
‘Where did you leave it?’
‘In the drive—on Her Ladyship’s instructions!’
‘C’est très-bien.’
‘Marceline, don’t bother about lunch; we must get back’ Lady Heriot said. ‘Just a cup of coffee, perhaps.’ When both Nick and the young woman had gone out she turned a stiff gaze on Bonnecourt.
‘Now perhaps you will explain to me why you are here? Even if the whole frontier has been alerted, as I imagine, that can hardly trouble you, or prevent you from crossing.’
‘Miladi is, as always, perfectly right. The frontier is my manoir —I come and go as I please, patrols or no patrols’ the man said, with a certain contained pride.
‘Then why haven’t you gone, you tiresome creature? Here is poor Mr. Monro gone driving off into Spain to look for you, and Colonel Jamieson leaving his wife to dash up to Paris on your behalf—to say nothing of our poor old Pierre turning out in the middle of the night to get you away. And here you sit playing Patience! Really, Bonnecourt, I am exasperated! Why haven’t you gone?’
The brusque, motherly familiarity of this rebuke made the hunter laugh.
‘There are two reasons. But first, please, how is Madame Jamieson? Was the child delivered safely?’ ‘Yes, thank you very much.’
‘A boy or a girl?’
‘A boy—and they are both getting on quite well. Now, may I have your famous reasons?’
Bonnecourt laughed again.
‘Yes. First, there is my wife. I wished to arrange that my family should bring her over to stay with them, when I leave.’
‘Well I should have thought you could have settled that with Pauline in five minutes’ Lady Heriot said crisply. ‘No need to hang about here for over twenty-four hours! What was the other reason?’
‘Ma voiture!’
Lady Heriot just managed not to laugh. She had known Bonnecourt for over twenty years, and for many of them had recognised his fantastic attachment to his old Bugatti, which only his constant attention and mechanical skill kept on the road at all. But for a man to risk his neck, even for such a vintage rattle-trap, struck her as both funny and crazy.
‘The boys said that it had been put in our garage’ she said, ‘after you brought Madame Jamieson down to the Clinique.’
‘Yes—I ventured to take this liberty. But with these éléments of the Sureté everywhere I was anxious! I did not wish to leave France without ensuring its safety.’
Again Lady Heriot only refrained from laughing with some effort. Which was Bonnecourt most anxious about, his wife or his car? Her guess was the voiture—he had had it longer! But arbitrary as she was, she could always adjust her tone to the immediate need, and switch from asperity to gentleness.
‘My dear friend, I perfectly comprehend both these anxieties of yours’ she said, pleasantly. ‘As regards your car, I doubt whether even the Sureté would attempt to touch it on our premises; and we will gladly keep it for you as long as you wish. But surely for Madame your wife, the essential thing is your safety; and this is what I have come over here to arrange—since you have failed to take the trouble to do that yourself!’ she added, with a return to her earlier brusqueness.
‘And how does Miladi propose to ensure my safety?’ Bonnecourt asked smiling—Lady Heriot always amused him when she got tough.
‘Oh, I leave the arrangements to the experts, like poor Colonel Jamieson! What I now ask of you, Bonnecourt, is to remain in this house until you hear from him, or from me. It is essential that he can see you. Have I your promise?’
‘Miladi, yes—unless the Sureté should come, and I am obliged to leave.’
‘Will you then go to Pamplona?’
‘Yes, I will.’
‘If you do have to leave, you must arrange to send a message.’ Lady Heriot considered. She had no knowledge whatever of Secret Service procedure; but she had plenty of commonsense, and an intimate acquaintance with all Bonnecourt’s family. ‘Let Pauline telephone to me’ she said—Pauline, in her opinion, was more reliable than Marceline.
‘Telephone calls may be tapped’ Bonnecourt interjected.
‘Of course’—the old lady spoke impatiently. ‘Give me a moment, and I will think what she is to say.’ She paused. ‘Yes:—“The foreign order has been executed”. Will that do?—just what a shop might say, I think.’
‘It is perfect. Miladi ought to be in Intelligence!’
Marceline came in with a tray of coffee.
‘Oh, how good of you, my child.’ Lady Heriot poured herself out a half-cup. ‘Call Nick’ she said to Bonnecourt—‘We really must get home.’
The hunter went through and summoned Nick, who was smoking in an arbour in the well-stocked kitchen-garden, with a low whistle—when the young man came in Bonnecourt asked him whether he had any idea of Colonel Jamieson’s plans on his behalf? ‘Madame your Mother seemed to think he desired to see me.’
‘Yes, he does. That’s important, I gather.’
‘But if I must remain here to meet him, how long is it before he returns?’
‘No notion. As long as it takes him to fix with the D.B. to make the Sureté lay off you, I imagine’ Nick said airily—‘which you probably know more about than I do.’
‘That could take all eternity!’
‘Not with him, I think. I got the impression that he is a fast worker.’
‘And if he fails?’
‘Then I’m sure you’ll be told, provided you stay put.’
‘What sort of a man is he?’ Bonnecourt asked, with sudden interest.
‘I’ve hardly seen enough of him to know. Good-looking; very able, I should say—or he wouldn’t be where he is; rather débrouillard—and the tiniest bit stuffy’ Nick added.
‘Stuffy? What does this mean?’
‘Oh well, rather formal. He’s Scotch, like my Father.’
The hunter laughed, and changed the subject. Or didn’t he, Nick wondered, when Bonnecourt said—
‘I am so glad that Madame Jamieson has got a son, and that she is well. Pray give her my best congratulations.’
‘Right—I will.’
‘This is a most wonderful person’ Bonnecourt said slowly; he spoke as though the words were being drawn out of him by some force beyond his control. ‘Courage; generosity and consideration for others, even when in distress herself. I wish I saw more of the English now, as in the past I did!’ he broke out.
Nick, embarrassed, said foolishly—‘You see us.’
‘Yes; and always with pleasure. But you are not as Madame Jamieson—except for Miladi! They are made somewhat of the same clay.’ He made an impatient movement, as if to jerk himself out of this mood. ‘Allons! I know that Madame votre mère is anxious to get home. But’—he paused in the passage, and held his friend’s arm. ‘If you should hear when this Jamieson is returning, do me a favour, mon cher Nick, and give a coup de fil to my sister Pauline, at the épicerie Pontarlet—she will pass on the message.’
‘How shall I word it?’ Nick asked—after going through all those road-blocks 48 hours earlier he was even more alive than Lady Heriot to the Surete’s activities. ‘I can’t just say “The Colonel has arrived”, can I?’
‘Naturally not. If you hear before he comes, say to Pauline—“The formalities will be completed at such an hour”.’ Bonnecourt grinned as he said ‘The formalities.’ ‘If you only hear after he has arrived, say “Formalities completed here.” But if I knew in advance, I might be able to facilitate matters for the Colonel; perhaps save him a journey.’
‘Don’t go doing anything silly, Bonnecourt!’ Nick said, a little anxiously.
‘Of course not. But do keep an eye on my car, will you?’
* * *
On they way home Nick drove straight through Ste. Marie-des-Pélérins, to save time—to his surprise the road-blocks were being removed, and the car was waved forward.
That Jamieson man seems to be quite effective’ he said—and he repeated the remark as they passed through Pau with no police checks. ‘It’s something to make the Sureté lay off like this, and so fast.’ There was still an agent at the front door, but he stood aside and saluted politely. ‘Fresh instructions, definitely’ Nick observed.
They were only fifteen minutes late for lunch—long enough to cause Lord Heriot to grumble, but not to spoil the food. While they were having coffee the telephone rang—Nick answered it. ‘Yes—yes—good; yes, of course. Yes, one of us will meet you. Yes, we went this morning—that’s all fixed. Oh yes, definitely better already, thank you. Goodbye.’
‘What was all that?’ Lord Heriot asked, rather irritably—he always preferred to take telephone calls himself, to know what was going on; but he could no longer get out of a chair as quickly as his sons.
‘Mr. Julia. He’s coming down on the night train, and he wanted Mrs. Julia to be told.’
‘But you said we’d meet him. That infernal train gets in now at a quarter to six!—I can’t have Pierre turned out at that hour.’
‘I said one of us would meet him’ Nick repeated, patiently. ‘That means me or Dick, not Pierre.’
‘And what’s this about something being “fixed”? I suppose you mean arranged—can’t think why you can’t talk English!’
‘Dearest, he said that to muddle the French, in case they were listening-in’ Lady Heriot intervened.
‘Yes, but what has been arranged, or fixed?’ the old gentleman asked crossly. ‘I hate this being kept in the dark! You haven’t told me why you went to Tardets this morning, Eleanor. Were you “fixing” something?—and if so, what?’
The twins, simultaneously, burst into uncontrollable laughter; but Nick gave a questioning glance at his Mother—she nodded, almost imperceptibly.
‘Dearest, if I tell you, you must promise to be very discreet’ she said gently. ‘You see this is all to do with the Secret Service, so one has to be very careful.’
‘Can’t imagine what you can do for the Secret Service’ her husband replied, sourly.
‘She did what no one else could have done, this very morning’ Nick snapped.
‘Darling! Do leave it to me’ his Mother said reprovingly. She turned to her old husband, and laid her hand on his arm. ‘Dearest, Colonel Jamieson simply must see our nice Bonnecourt; he had disappeared, so I went to Tardets to find out where he was. That’s all.’
‘Oh. Did you find him?’
‘Yes—but I shan’t tell even you where!’
‘Did you see Pauline? Pretty girl, that.’
‘Yes. She wanted to be remembered to you—I’m sure she’d have sent her love, if she’d dared!’
Somewhat pacified, Lord Heriot presently went off to play golf, and Nick immediately rang up Mme. Pontarlet. Planning his call, as he waited to be connected, it suddenly struck him how odd it was that he had no idea of the hunter’s Christian name—to them he had always simply been Bonnecourt. But he didn’t wish to say ‘Your brother’ on the telephone; that might not be wise. When at last he got Pauline herself he said—‘Here Nicolas. I speak for Lady Heriot; I have a message for the person about whom she made enquiries of you this morning. Will you write it down?’ Mme. Pontarlet was audibly flustered, but eventually pronounced that she had a pencil and paper—‘Mais soyez prudent!’ she added anxiously.
‘I am. Write this: “The formalities will be completed tomorrow at 6.30 hours.” Repeat it, will you?’
Poor Pauline repeated the words. ‘But will he understand this?’
‘Yes. Write it down, and then read it over to me.’ After a pause, Mme. Pontarlet read out the message, adding—‘It sounds most strange.’
‘Never mind. How soon can you get it to him?’
‘I send a boy at once—on a bicycle, with a parcel; he will have it within half-an-hour.’
‘Fine; thank you.’ Certainly there were no flies on Pauline!—an admirable idea to send a parcel of groceries as cover for the message.
Luzia was waiting in the hall when he came out of the study after telephoning.
‘I think I go to see Julia, and tell her that Philip returns tomorrow.’
‘Good idea. Is Dick taking you?’
‘No—he took his Father to le golf. But I can walk.’
‘I’ll take you’ Nick said. ‘I rather want to see what the agent situation is at the Victoire, anyhow.’
‘Do not wait for me’ the Portuguese girl said when Nick set her down at the clinic. ‘They may not let me see her at once, if she is resting. I can walk back.’
‘We’ll see’ Nick replied. While he definitely regarded Luzia as ‘booked’ to his brother, he very much enjoyed her company himself.
In fact what with Lady Heriot’s late return to luncheon from Tardets, and then Nick’s telephoning, it was nearly a quarter to four when Luzia walked into the clinic, and the ‘period of repose’ was well over—she was shown into Julia’s room at once.
‘The milk’s come!’ that young woman pronounced triumphantly. ‘He’s had two terrific feeds—one at half-past one, and another just now. The Professor says the natural milk is far the best thing for him, and I seem to have gallons! But he can’t be moved for two months, not even as far as Larége—so as soon as I can move I must shift to the Victoire; there’s always a terrific demand for beds here.’
‘Shall you take the baby to the Victoire?’ Luzia asked, sitting down.
‘No—while he’s so tiny he’ll stay here; I can walk round and feed him. They’ll bottle him at night, so that I can get some sleep. But I wondered, as Philip’s in Paris, if you could go and book me a room? And what about you, darling? Won’t your Father be wanting you back, now that there’s no more cooking and housework to be done? What an angel you’ve been!’
‘Yes, I think I should soon return to Papa. But Lady Heriot—what a sensible, good person this is!—has already planned that I should go up to Larége and pack all your things, and mine, and bring them down, and shut up the house. Philip comes back tomorrow; there was a call from Paris. So now we can get his consent.’ (Portuguese women have an almost Mahommedan attitude towards their menfolk, perhaps because of the long Moorish occupation of their country.)
‘Philip comes back tomorrow?’ Julia exclaimed.
‘Yes; at some terrible time, just before six in the morning! I came to tell you this, but then we spoke of other things.’
‘Well I hope he’ll like the baby’s names! However, it’s done now’ Julia said cheerfully, ‘so let’s go on talking of other things. Where’s Bonnecourt? Did he get to Pamplona all right?’
‘No.’ On the way to the clinic Nick had primed Luzia about his Mother’s activities that morning. ‘He simply stayed in Tardets, too lazy to move himself!’ the girl said indignantly; ‘and also worrying about his terrible old motor-car.’
‘Well when is he going to clear off?’ Julia asked, rather anxiously.
‘Since he did not go, now he waits to see Philip, who has plans for him; Lady Heriot made him promise this. She is formidable, this lady!’ Luzia said admiringly. ‘Her husband, her sons, her friends—for all she arranges everything, and all love her in spite of it. Generally, people hate those who seek to arrange things for them.’
‘Yes’ Julia said, thoughtfully and slowly, staring at a place above the door where the plaster was peeling off the wall. Marriage was hitting her too, as it had hit Philip in the train the night before; probably it would be several years before her extremely small son started hating her because she ‘arranged things’ for him, but in time he would—meanwhile she had a husband who was wholly accustomed to arranging things for himself. Dashing off to Paris without a word to her! And more than half his time spent in remote places overseas. Still staring at the peeling plaster, her mind turned to her former pupil and dear friend; she would have her marriage problems too, especially if she took a young Heriot for her husband, with their Low-Church Scottish outlook.
‘Yes—Lady Heriot has made a splendid job of her marriage’ she said. ‘Not always an easy thing to do. Luzia, don’t answer if you don’t want to, but what goes on between you and Dick?’
‘He goes on proposing, and I go on saying that I have not made up my mind,’ she said blithely.
‘Do you like him? Could you marry him?’
‘I think so, in time; but not till I am sure. I will not be hurried! I should wish Papa to meet him and like him, also; it would be rather cruel to marry against Papa’s wishes, since I am his only child.’
This sage, considerate continental view of marriage—as a family concern, not just a matter of one’s individual preferences or passions, struck Julia forcibly. There would be fewer divorces and ‘broken homes’ in England and America, she reflected, if it prevailed in those countries too. She had thought a good deal about Dick and Luzia, and about the old Duque, to whom she was much attached; after all, she was responsible for bringing the two together, however involuntarily. Now—
‘Would your Father mind your marrying a Protestant very much?’ she asked.
‘Oh no—why should he? I am a Catholic, so my children will be brought up as Catholics, whoever I marry’ Luzia said. There was a joyful certainty, a serene assumption of something unbreakable in the girl’s voice, as well as her words, which again struck Julia with great force.
‘Do you think the Heriots would mind their grandchildren being Catholics?’
Again Luzia was perfectly calm and clear.
‘She. no; she is without such prejudices. The old Lord—probably yes; but in the end he agrees to what she wishes, and she will wish what her sons wish.’
‘Have you talked to her about it?’ Julia asked, surprised by this certainty.
‘Merciful God no! But I stay there now some days, and I have come to know them.’
Julia’s real preoccupation was still with her dear pupil’s happiness, and whether Dick Heriot, amiable and well-bred as he was, would be an adequate partner for someone of Luzia’s intelligence and subtlety. But that could not be approached directly.
‘Where should you live?’ she asked.
‘If Dick should get this appointment that he so much wants at Lacq, I suppose partly here; but if he and Papa got on well, and he came to like Portugal, I think later we should have to live there. Someone must look after Gralheira; it is a big estate, and the peasants must be watched over, and their interests safeguarded. I could learn to do this, of course, but it would involve being there a great deal of the time. And one cannot have a good marriage if the husband works in one country, and the wife in another!’
You’re telling me! Julia thought; but all she said was—
‘No; it is rather complicated.’ Again the girl’s sense of duty and responsibility impressed her. This was the old Europe, where property-owners expected to make personal sacrifices to ‘safeguard the interests’ of their tenants—a very far cry from the world of slum-landlords and take-over bids.
Luzia had been reflecting too.
‘Yes. It is complicated. I do not see it clearly yet, Miss Probyn.’ (Julia was touched by the old familiar form of address, reflecting such a basic part of their relationship.) ‘Nor am I sure in my mind. If I become sure, Dick must come and meet Papa, and see Gralheira, and all there is to do there.’
The old sage-femme came in at this point to say that Madame ought to rest; the baby must shortly be fed again. As they kissed one another Goodbye Julia said—‘Bless you. dear child. Take your time! And you’ll go and book me a room at the Victoire, a week from tomorrow, won’t you? I’m sorry you should have the bother of packing my things and shutting-up Larége, but that will be a great help, too. There are no bills except at the farm for the milk, and at Barraterre’s for the bread. You’ll have to get the money from Philip—how lovely that he’ll be back tomorrow.’
‘I do all this. I like to do something for you, who hare done so much for me, and been so patient when I was a silly child.’
* * *
When Luzia left the clinic she found Nick and the Dauphine outside. ‘I said you should not wait’ she remarked, as she got into it.
‘Well, I did wait. The agent has cleared off from the Victoire—Colin’s car is empty. Full marks to Jamieson’ Nick said approvingly, starting his engine.
‘Oh, but now we go to the Victoire’ Luzia said, as the young man set off in the opposite direction.
‘Why?’ He pulled up, and turned carefully in the stream of traffic on the Route de Toulouse.
‘I must book a room for Mme. Jamieson—in a week she leaves the Clinique, and stays there to feed the baby, till it can be taken home.’
The room booked, Nick drove Luzia back; his parents were having a rather late tea.
‘Mrs. J. all right?’ Lord Heriot asked.
‘Yes—the milk has come, and now she nourishes the child’ Luzia said, with continental frankness. ‘Lady Heriot, I am so sorry that we are late, but I went to take a room for her at this little hotel.’
‘Why doesn’t she come and stay here?’ Lord Heriot grunted—he liked Julia, and could never have too much company.
‘I think it would be rather far—the infant remains in the Clinique, and must be fed every two hours; from the Victoire she can walk round in exactly one minute.’
‘Good God!’ This astonishing arrangement silenced Lord Heriot. ‘Every two hours!’ they heard him mutter, as he stumped off to his study.
Later Luzia succeeded in getting her hostess to herself, and explained that Julia agreed to her going up to Larége to pack, close up the house, and pay the remaining bills. ‘It may take more than one day, but I could stay at Barraterres.’
‘Certainly not. If you stay anywhere it must be with the Monniers. But I see no need for you to stay at all; Dick can drive you up and down—he has nothing in the world to do, and I expect he would like to.’ Like Julia, Lady Heriot rather wanted to know how things stood between her Dick and the Portuguese heiress, but she did not attempt a direct approach. ‘And he’s quite useful about things like switching off the water and the electricity’ she added. ‘Of course you’ll have to do that when you’ve finished in the house. Who is the key to be left with? Oh, we can ask Colonel Jamieson when he gets back. All right—you and Dick had better go up first thing tomorrow. It’s Sunday, but you can get on with the packing—Dick can go to Evensong when you come home. I will have some sandwiches got ready.’
‘How kind you are!’ Luzia said. ‘But dear Lady Heriot, there is one other point. As soon as I can, I should return to Papa; only I would rather see Julia safely into the hotel before I go, and do her unpacking and all this for her. But she only leaves the Clinique after another week—would it be inconvenient if I stay so long? Please be frank.’
‘My dear child, the longer you stay the better I, and my husband, and most of the members of my family will be pleased!’ Lady Heriot said briskly. She realised, with a certain approval, that she would get nothing out of Luzia about Dick; the girl was keeping her own counsel. If she spoke to anyone it would be, quite rightly, to Mrs. Jamieson, the friend of her childhood.
Luzia and Dick set off for Larége soon after eight. Colonel Jamieson had been collected off the night train at that unearthly hour by Nick; Dick went to his room and ascertained that the key of the house, if they finished in one day, should be left with Madame Barraterre. Luzia had decided to go to 10.30 Mass up at Larége; they unlocked the house, and she directed Dick to clean out the frig while she was at Church—‘Throw away all, and empty the poubelle; switch off first, and then wash out the dishes of food, and the ice-trays, and wipe down the inside with warm water.’ She hurried off to Mass, passing the tomb of the first Mrs. Bonnecourt in the Churchyard.
To Luzia the packing-up and clearing away was all rather sad. She had loved Larége, and been happy there with her dear Julia—as they ate their sandwiches by the spring she looked with genuine regret across and up the valley at the silver saw of peaks enclosing it. They were drinking some of the country wine which the twins had helped them to buy down in the plain only a few weeks before, and this brought her back to a practical matter—Luzia was never far from the practical.
‘All this wine, which you and Nick bottled for us! Now what do we do with it?’
‘Leave it here. I’m sure the Stansteds will take it off Philip; it’s much better than anything they ever buy.’
‘No—let us take some down for Julia. She enjoys a little wine.’
They finished all the packing, and Dick carried the suit-cases and several bottles along the path to the car; but when he came back, and made to turn off the water and electricity, she stopped him.
‘No! The house is not clean; one cannot leave it so. The floors must be washed, and the stairs also—for this one must have hot water. Oh, how strange that no one in this place will work!’
‘Well we can’t get it done now,’ Dick said.
‘No. We come back, and I do it. But let us go and settle these accounts—that will leave us free tomorrow.’
Dick was slightly appalled at the idea of Luzia scrubbing floors, and resolved mentally to bring up a maid from Pau next day; but he was also impressed. It would be something to have a wife who knew about houses being clean—it had never struck him that this one was not.
Luzia had borrowed some money from Lady Heriot, who had replenished her purse since Nick emptied it. After paying Madame Barraterre—who was full of eager enquiries for Madame Jimmison, and rejoiced at the birth of a son—they left the car in the Place, and went on to settle the milk bill at the farm above Bonnecourt’s house. There was rather a long pause here, while the good woman did sums with a stub of pencil; Dick and Luzia perched on the stone wall outside the farm, looking down onto the dam, and the pool where de Lassalle had sunk his explosives and his time-clock. While she was showing Dick the very clump of rushes by which she had identified the spot for Colin, the door of Bonnecourt’s house opened; the blonde woman came out and walked rather hesitantly up the field towards them.
‘Ah, it is La Comtesse!’ she began—but just then the farmer’s wife came and said that she was owed 16 francs; Luzia paid her and thanked her—yes, they were leaving, and would require no more milk. When the farmer’s wife had gone back into the house she turned to Mme. Bonnecourt. Between Nick and Dick, Luzia had been slightly informed as to the hunter’s movements, and expected an anxious enquiry about them; she was greatly surprised when Mme. Bonnecourt addressed herself to Dick, opened her purse, and handed him 4000 francs in notes.
‘C’est bien Monsieur Nick? You made this loan to my husband—he wished it to be repaid, when the occasion offered.’
Dick was flabbergasted.
‘Have you seen him?’ he asked—after all, only yesterday his Mother had been scolding Bonnecourt in Tardets, miles away. ‘No. He sent word, and the money, and said I should seek occasion to repay you—and this morning I have seen the Countess at Mass, so I imagined that she has returned. I was coming tomorrow, but now I see you here, and come at once.’
Luzia had rather taken to Mme. Bonnecourt when she met her before, and guessed that she did not have too easy a life; she would have liked, now, to say something reassuring, but before she could think of any innocuous sentence the rather faded little blonde said—‘A thousand congratulations to Madame Jimmison on the birth of her son! I am sorry that you do not return to Larége.’ And before either of them could reply she hurried away downhill, across the fields, to the hunter’s house.