Madame Paula
Turning his head and glancing back into the room, he saw Dora’s eyes, big, round, startled. He knew by her expression that he had not sufficiently guarded his own.
“Who is it?” she whispered.
“Just one of those street merchants,” he replied. “I suppose you often get them here?”
“I’ve never known one call before,” she answered.
They waited, and heard, faintly, a door open. Then voices conversing, but sliced by the acoustics. One—low, suave—came to them sideways along an outside wall; the other—quick and sharp—reached them via interior passages. The words of neither were audible in the parlour. They formed an incoherent, ill-matched duet.
The duet ended abruptly. The door slammed, making the parlour door tremble for a moment through the impact. Silence followed.
“Madame Paula hasn’t moved,” reflected Hazeldean. “She’s still standing just inside the front door. I’d give a fortune to know what she’s feeling!”
Suddenly he gave the window curtain a little jerk, to pull it farther across the glass, and retreated into the middle of the parlour. A figure went by the window slowly, making a vague smudge. The footsteps died away.
“Aren’t you ever going to tell me!”
Something inside the girl was snapping.
“Yes—I must now,” he answered.
A draught, or feeling of space, made him swing round towards the door. It was open, and a woman stood in the passage, looking in upon them. He knew it was Madame Paula at once. She was so exactly as he had pictured her. Her large bosom almost filled the width of the doorway, and her high complexion and too-gold hair loomed unnaturally, almost garishly, in the dimness. The air became heavily scented. Perhaps the scent, also, had made him turn. The one thing that had not made him turn was sound. Madame Paula had reached the door and opened it noiselessly.
“I was wrong,” thought Hazeldean. “She wasn’t standing just inside the front door. She was on her way here!”
“Oh, a visitor!” said the unpleasant woman, with feigned surprise.
Dora broke in quickly.
“Yes, he came to inquire the way,” she exclaimed, “and I’m letting him see a map.”
Her voice sounded breathless. Hazeldean got an uneasy impression that she was losing her head, and that she not merely disliked Madame Paula, but dreaded her.
“She’s been very kind,” he added to the girl’s statement. “I was utterly lost.”
“Well, have you found your way now?” asked Madame Paula.
She spoke English well, with only a slight accent.
“Sufficiently, for the moment,” he answered. “But Boulogne takes some knowing. It’s a delightful place.”
“So people say who don’t live in it.”
“Not having lived in it myself, I stick to my opinion. By the way, am I right? Is this a pension?”
“Mais oui!”
“Avez vous un chambre, si je le desire? Now, you see that my French isn’t as good as your English. I like this spot so much, I thought I might perhaps spend a night here.”
Madame Paula did not respond at once. She gave a quick glance at Dora, who was unable to conceal her sudden pleasure in the suggestion. He would not have made it if he had not divined her approval in advance.
“A room,” repeated Madame Paula. “Why—yes—it might be managed.”
He had expected a refusal.
“You’re not quite full up, then?”
“I think I have one room vacant, m’sieur. Perhaps I could show it to you?”
“Now?”
“Why not?”
He could think of no reason why not, yet he discovered a queer reluctance within himself to leave the room, and he attributed it to over-anxiety regarding the girl’s safety during his absence.
“You’ll come back?” said Dora. “I want to talk to you about the Notre Dame—you must see that!”
“Thank you, I’ll be back,” he answered. “All this is most fortune—I’m in luck.”
He followed Madame Paula out into the passage. He wished she had not been so particular to close the door. They walked for a moment or two in silence. In the narrow passage he found the woman’s scent almost nauseating. “But if I were another sort of a man,” he told himself, “I would find it delicious. Does Mr. Fenner find it delicious?” Suddenly Madame Paula spoke.
“I am not sure about the luck,” she said, with a kind of hard directness. “Did you notice she is a little—as you say—not all there?”
“I certainly did not notice it,” responded Hazeldean.
“Well, it is true.”
She touched her forehead, then gave a little shrug. On the point of expressing incredulity, Hazeldean changed his tactics. It occurred to him that by diplomacy he might add to his knowledge.
“How tragic!” he said. “And how nice of you to look after her. If she is weak-minded, I am sure she cannot be a relative!”
If he hoped Madame Paula would melt under the fatuous compliment, he was disappointed. She continued in her hard voice—he was sure she had another voice more in keeping with her scent:
“Has she been telling you things?”
“Yes.”
“Ah!”
“The way about Boulogne.”
“I do not mean that!” she frowned.
“What other things should she tell me—a stranger?” he replied.
“But that is what I say—she is not normal,” retorted Madame Paula almost impatiently. They had reached the front hall now, and she had stopped. “If she told you any other things, you would not believe them?”
“Madame Paula—” he began.
“Oh, you know my name,” she interrupted.
“It is over your door. How can I say whether I would believe things or not till I know what the things are? All this is very mysterious! May I know what’s in your mind, so I can be warned when I go back to her?”
Madame Paula’s frown grew.
“But—you will see—it would not be wise to go back to her,” she exclaimed.
“Oh, come—”
“Listen! I know! It is best to go.”
“But you are showing me a room—”
“I have no room. That was an excuse. She is tired, excited. Believe me, m’sieur, I know her well, and I know when she needs to be quiet. I will tell her you did not like the room, and that you found it was late—and you asked me to make your excuses.”
She moved towards the front door as she spoke. He did not follow her. When she got to the door she turned, with her hand on the knob.
“Well?” she rasped.
He shook his head good-humouredly.
“I believe you’ve got a room,” he insisted.
“And why should I say I have not, if I have?”
“Because you’re afraid I will excite Miss Fenner—”
“Oh! You know her name, too?”
“We introduced ourselves. But don’t worry. If I take the room there will be no need for me to disturb her—”
Madame Paula stamped her foot.
“Mon Dieu!” she cried. “Are you, too, weak in the head?”
Dora Fenner was not the only person in Madame Paula’s pension, Hazeldean decided, who was suffering from nerves this afternoon.
“If I am weak in the head, it is all the more necessary for me to cover the sensitive headpiece,” he remarked smoothly. “I have left my hat in Miss Fenner’s room.”
She looked at him suspiciously, as though aware that he had not worn a hat.
“Well, wait and I will get it.”
She turned and sped past him quickly, and came back with suspicious speed.
“It is not there,” she said.
“I’ll look myself,” he retorted.
She barred the way. He saw she was growing flustered, and as she lost her assurance he began to show his.
“Madame Paula,” he said, changing his tone, “that hat was an excuse, like your room. You didn’t have a room, and I didn’t have a hat. But if I cannot see Miss Fenner, I shall wait to see her uncle, Mr. Fenner, and you will be wise to raise no more objections. I’ve brought some very terrible news.”
Madame Paula’s too-red mouth opened. He watched her crumple with uncharitable satisfaction.
“What—news?” she stammered.
“You will forgive me,” he answered firmly.
She breathed hard for several seconds. Then, regaining a little of her lost composure, she said:
“Very well, m’sieur. I am a helpless woman, and I can do nothing. Yes, I have a room. It is right, I see now, that you should have it. Please come this way.”
She turned and invited him towards another passage. He followed her along it, and they mounted a twisting flight of stairs. At the top she paused.
“Have you told Miss Fenner yet?” she asked.
“Not yet,” he replied.
“I think that is well, m’sieur. Perhaps she could not stand it. Her uncle should be told first—he will know how to pass it to her. Terrible news? Mon Dieu! You will pardon my rudeness, m’sieur. But how was I to know, when you took so long to—?”
Her voice trailed off. She moved on to a small door.
“This is the best I have,” she muttered, pushing the door open. “I will tell Mr. Fenner as soon as he returns. Any minute now. Such things make one weak. My legs are jelly!”
She stood aside as he went into the room. It was an attic, with a small window in a sloping roof.
“Is this really all you have?” he asked.
He received no answer. She had vanished, and he heard the key turning softly in the lock.