Day of the Arrow Page 5

  The irony of the situation was that in a sense what he wished was coming true; on this somber morning he would hold all the clues in his hand, but he would not be able to recognize them.

  The silence continued, and Lindsay fell to thinking of the explosive possibilities of words. Supposing he were to turn now and say to Philippe, ‘Why haven’t you slept with your beautiful wife for three years?’ or ‘You know, I suppose, that Françoise has a lover,’ or even ‘Philippe, please tell me: what was that girl doing in your tower with a dead dove?’ The stupid thing was that a child could say those things and, in all probability, triumph through the direct, devastating approach; woolly adults, lost in conventional mazes of their own making, must remain silent, waiting for things to work themselves out—missing chances, wasting time, and, in the end, probably making a mess of the whole thing.

  Philippe said, ‘One day—it doesn’t seem like seven years ago—I went along to the family lawyer for the usual annual session of total boredom; all I was interested in was the amount of money I could expect from the estates—we’d planned a rather expensive trip to India and Japan. I remember being extremely irritated because there wasn’t as much as I’d expected. And then the old boy said . . . Do you know it’s as clear to me as if he’d said it this morning? He said, “But, Monsieur le Marquis, they’ve had another bad year down there!” ’ He shook his head bemusedly. ‘Nothing very striking in that, you might say—just a dozen ordinary words strung together. But they brought the whole of my world tumbling down round my head. I stood there, staring at him like a witless idiot. Then I turned and ran out of his office.’

  They rode in silence for a few moments. Sunlight fled over them and dropped away into the valley.

  Philippe said, ‘It was that use of the word another. Do you know I suddenly felt . . . a panic, James. I suddenly felt, “I must go to them.” In my mind’s eye I saw the whole valley, more than that, the whole estate—and all the people in it were looking towards me. I couldn’t wait to get down here. I rushed back to Françoise. She was in her bath, I remember; she must have thought I was mad. I said, “Françoise, things are in a mess at Bellac, I must go down there.” I got out the Bentley we used to have then—it was five o’clock in the afternoon—and I started off. I didn’t stop at all; it took me nine hours. I didn’t even think of letting anyone at the chateau know that I was on my way.’

  He laughed again, reliving, Lindsay realized, the strange exhilaration of that night.

  ‘I got here at two in the morning. I stopped the car at the head of the valley . . .’

  Lindsay thought, In exactly the same place that I did.

  ‘It was summer, James. Very warm, very still. I stood there looking at it in the moonlight, listening to the owls, and a dog barking miles away, and the ducks on the lake making a fuss about something. And do you know . . . I could feel . . . I could feel all those wasted years peeling off me.’

  He had reined in his horse and was staring at the vineyards, which were golden suddenly in one of those dramatic flashes of sunlight; Lindsay, glancing at him, realized that he was not seeing anything but the wide valley under the moon, not hearing anything but the owls, and the night wind in the pines, and the noise of the ducks, alarmed by a fox perhaps.

  ‘I got a rug out of the car and rolled myself up in it. I lay down on the grass. I felt . . . I felt suddenly that I had become myself.’ He shrugged; to him it was as simple as that.

  ‘And the people here? They were pleased to see you? After all that time?’

  Philippe said, ‘They . . . expected to see me.’

  ‘Expected!’

  He turned, and Lindsay was astonished by his expression—perhaps even shocked. The whole face seemed to have changed; for a moment it was almost crafty, and the dark eyes were burning with an extraordinary inner light. In spite of himself Lindsay felt a moment’s . . . yes, fear. And with the fear came a sudden burst of excitement; he was absolutely and positively sure that he stood on the brink of complete understanding—that this man stood on the brink of complete explanation. But the moment died; that strange light faded out of Philippe de Montfaucon’s eyes, and the moment died with it. His voice when he spoke again was colorless. ‘Things were in an appalling state. It was very hard work; it took three years to get the place back on its feet, but I managed it.’

  They had reached the vineyards. ‘And now,’ he said. ‘Now . . .’

  The whole timbre of his voice had changed. Where, a moment ago, Lindsay had heard a true note of ecstasy, he now recognized, and just as surely, the tones of despair, abject despair. Surprised, he turned to look at the man beside him, and, as he did so, he again smelled that elusive scent which had bothered him as he drove down into the valley the day before.

  ‘Now?’ he questioned, but already he thought that he knew the answer.

  Philippe was staring at the vines, tier upon tier of golden vines mounting to the skyline. ‘Rotten,’ he said. ‘There won’t be a bunch of grapes, not one single bunch, worth picking.’

  Lindsay, shocked, looked along the miles of vineyard and, turning, at the massed terraces on the other side of the valley.

  The other man followed his eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘all of it. Don’t ask me why, I don’t know. The experts don’t know. They’ve proved that very conclusively. They came down last year in their hordes, and the advice they gave, at a price, would fill a library. Every single vine . . .’ His voice was rising out of despair into a tight, ugly anger. ‘Every single vine was treated. Treated! God, we handled them like thousand upon thousand of expectant mothers; I shan’t tell you what it cost me—it makes me retch to speak the figure. And now . . .’

  Lindsay was so appalled that he hazarded the question: ‘Was it . . . well, as bad last year?’

  Philippe de Montfaucon looked at him then—a look of such blank purposeful despair that he should not, had he really thought about it, have been surprised at anything else, however fantastic, that was to happen. The voice had sunk to flat bitterness again. ‘Last year,’ he said, ‘and the year before. Not only the vines; the corn too. They’ve lived on potatoes.’ He bowed his head and, for what seemed a long time, was lost in contemplation of his saddle. ‘One comes at last,’ he said finally, ‘to an acknowledgment of one’s responsibilities.’

  And this, on looking back, James Lindsay was to remember to his dying day.

  They rode back into the valley in silence. A group of laborers sitting by the side of the track touched their straw hats in deference as Philippe de Montfaucon rode by; he acknowledged their salute with an absent-minded wave of the hand. Out of the corner of his eye Lindsay thought he saw one of them raise his mug of wine to their passing. Curious, he turned, to find that they had all of them imitated this movement. They drank to their lord’s health; he thought it a pretty gesture of respect, of solidarity, in view of what Philippe had told him, in the face of disaster.

  They met also a man on a horse, who was presumably some kind of factor. Philippe said, ‘I’ve been up on La Bosse. The whole lot will have to go; there’s no point in pretending they won’t.’

  The man nodded grimly and pushed his hat onto the back of his head. ‘Everyone knows how hard you tried, M. le Marquis; there’s nothing but loyalty.’

  Philippe nodded, withdrawn. ‘The point is, Must we replant? Is this something in the vines themselves?’

  ‘Only you will know that answer, M. le Marquis.’

  Lindsay wondered a little at this reply, but Philippe did not appear to find it surprising. He smiled and looked up, meeting the man’s eyes. ‘Do they say that I know the answer?’

  ‘Yes. All say it.’

  Philippe nodded again. The conversation was over. The man tilted his hat forward again and rode on—not without darting a quick, appraising look at Lindsay.

  After a moment he said, ‘They must think you’re a magician.’

  Philippe laughed. ‘Oh yes, they do.’

  Then, changing the subject abruptly—typic
ally: ‘Tell me about your painting. Do you make money?’

  Knowing that he had been politely side-tracked and curious because of it, Lindsay found himself describing his life in London. He was aware of the fact that Philippe de Montfaucon was not in any case listening to him; he looked suddenly exhausted, pale, almost as if he were finding it hard to stay in the saddle.

  Lindsay knew how unpopular any reference he might make to this would be; sickness, in other people no less than in himself, had always been something that this man would never discuss. And now, for the first time, Lindsay found himself wondering why; found himself once again considering the thing that he had said to Françoise the previous evening. Perhaps, indeed, her husband was a sick man; perhaps the kindly family doctor, of whom she had spoken, had merely been telling her what Philippe wanted her to hear—husbands had hidden their own mortal illness from wives before. But in that case he would surely have invented some excuses for her before abandoning her bed, and not only her bed but her room; and sickness could not explain what she had called his ‘interior withdrawal’ from her. Lindsay himself had seen the dead face of disinterest, almost of dislike, that he had turned to her over the heads of their children. Again the edge of that question grated against his brain: What had she done to make him like this? He had thought it disloyal and unfair, but was it? Husbands and wives could do things to each other without being aware of what they did.

  He was still asking himself questions as they rode over the drawbridge and under the echoing gatehouse into the beautiful, tree-lined Cour d’Honneur.

  The boy, Christian, was sitting on the edge of the fountain that occupied the center of the courtyard; quite evidently he was waiting for them, and he made no pretense of his waiting, but simply sat, relaxed, watching them approach. Only when a groom ran forward to take the horse did he move. He came abreast of the riders a moment after the groom, who was already reaching for the reins of both mounts; but the young man stretched out his hand, and Lindsay noticed that the groom jumped back almost as if he had been slapped. Christian took the reins of Philippe’s horse and held the animal while he dismounted; the groom, having apparently recovered from whatever it was that had so disconcerted him, took over from Lindsay.

  It had been a curious incident. Indeed it was still curious, for the groom stood there, not looking up, waiting, until Christian turned and held out the reins to him.

  But Philippe was laughing now, and the color had returned to his face; he threw an arm round the young man’s shoulder and then rumpled the black hair. The boy looked up, laughing also.

  It was the first time that Lindsay had seen them together; he had not expected this degree of intimacy between them.

  As if aware of his eyes on them Philippe took his arm away from the young man’s shoulders, but the gesture had been made—and made, Lindsay realized a little too late, intentionally. He found himself looking into Philippe’s eyes, and they were darkly serious, perhaps a trifle mocking; they said, as clearly as if he had spoken the words, ‘Very well, so you are curious.’

  Lindsay was sure that nothing except the incident that he had just witnessed, with all its implications, would have caused him actually to want to sit next to the Comtesse de Vignon at luncheon. Françoise, when he asked her to see that this happened, gave him one of her dark stares, only a little disconcerted. ‘You had an interesting ride, I hope,’ was all she said.

  ‘Yes, very.’ He was surprised to find that he felt noncommittal; he certainly had no intention of discussing his morning with her in front of other people; deeper than this, however, he discovered that he already felt in some way disloyal to Philippe. He found himself studying the composure, which Françoise wore as a mask, with interest; he was beginning to see that this whole matter was a question of masks, though he could not say, in spite of his curiosity, that he was looking forward to that merry midnight when the masks were removed, revealing the true faces beneath.

  He had a suspicion of what Philippe might be concealing. About Françoise, because she was a woman, he was a good deal less sure; but he had once known her very well, and he knew that she was concealing something. Moreover, because she was supposed to have enlisted his aid, he resented this state of affairs.

  The Countess Betty, having spent her entire morning among horses and men who cared only about horses, was in an excellent mood; her voice resounded about the small salon in which they were taking their preprandial apéritifs. She had fixed herself to one of the two new guests, a tall, handsome and distinguished gentleman with gray, curling hair. She was saying, ‘It’s no good, you mustn’t be cross with me, but the whole idea of hunting in Italy simply strikes me as funny. I mean do you have foxes, for a start . . . ?’

  Françoise said sotto voce, ‘Prince Rinaldo Cottanero, since you’re so interested.’

  Lindsay said, ‘Indeed, yes; I’ve never moved in such circles. His lady friend is decorative.’

  ‘She is . . . was a model—one of the top ones. He usually has models.’

  Lindsay said, ‘I wonder why. I understand they’re extremely bad value—not that I’m an expert on the haute monde.’

  ‘You may be,’ Françoise replied at her flattest, ‘before you leave Bellac. Her name is Natasha; it’s a pity but she’s Swiss.’

  Just as they were going in to luncheon Tante Estelle arrived, looking, today, like a beige moth and holding in one hand a piece of tapestry work, in the other a silver pomander which she was pressing to the end of her long nose as if she expected the whole company to offend it.

  Françoise swore competently under her breath. Tante Estelle, as if in answer, said, ‘I know, I know, my dear: I never sent word. But you know I can’t resist new faces.’

  There was hiatus while another place was laid. As the table was round, this involved the moving of every piece of silver and crystal upon it. Meanwhile Tante Estelle and Lindsay were introduced to the prince and his decorative friend. Lindsay decided that her eyes were just alive, even though her facial muscles were dead; he found later that she had a small, sweet, child’s smile of which she seemed to be ashamed. She never spoke unless the operation was imperative.

  Tante Estelle gazed at her for a moment and then said, ‘You really are extremely lovely—what a strain it must be. Smell this.’ And, tangentwise as ever, she shot the pomander out under Lindsay’s nose.

  ‘Mothballs,’ he said, surprised.

  ‘Camphor, child; I have a touch of sinus; the doctor says it’s useless, but I disagree. I shall put it on the mantelpiece so as not to spoil the flavor of the salmon trout which I know we’re going to have because I sent Marianne down to the kitchen to find out.’

  Thereupon they sat down at the reorganized table. Of the people that Lindsay knew to be in the castle—and he was never exactly sure of the number the whole time he was there—only Philippe and the boy, Christian, were missing. Nobody, for one reason or another, mentioned either of them.

  The Comtesse de Vignon, separated from Prince Cotta­nero, rediscovered Lindsay by her side. ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘the painter!’ While she was laughing at this—which was apparently, as far as she was concerned, a merry quip—Lindsay found time to wonder how her husband, that spare, rather saintly looking man who spent his life among the lepers in Africa, and of whom one occasionally caught a glimpse in a newsreel, had ever come to marry her. There could never even have been prettiness, and she was, he thought, the last type of Englishwoman that a Frenchman would find attractive. The laughter over, she was now saying, ‘Marvelous stable young Philippe keeps here. If you’ve an eye for beauty you’d better go and take a look.’

  Ten minutes of this, to Lindsay, stultifying subject led him to the loophole for which he had been looking. She said finally, ‘Well, I’ll tell you, I thought I had some damn fine horses, but Bellac’s been an eye-opener to me.’

  Lindsay said, ‘Oh, you haven’t stayed here before then?’

  ‘No, this is my first visit.’

  ‘Your son’s too?’
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  ‘Well, of course; I said it’s my first visit, didn’t I? Marvelous fish, Françoise. Local?’

  Lindsay was aware of his hostess’s eye fixed on him while she explained how and where the salmon trout had been caught; he avoided it.

  ‘Mind you,’ added the Comtesse de Vignon, with her mouth full, ‘God knows how one is supposed to keep track of the young these days, let alone bring ’em up.’

  ‘Christian travels about a good bit?’

  ‘Never stops. Good thing, I say—broadens the mind, don’t you think?’

  Lindsay nodded, occupied with his own thoughts. On his left Natasha sat in contented silence stuffing enormous quantities of excellent food into her exquisite figure. He spoke to her now and again—eight times, to be precise, during the meal; for reply he received five affirmatives and three negatives. There was plenty of time to devote himself to his study of Christian—too much, indeed, for what the boy’s mother had to tell. Yet a picture did form itself: a large, rather lackadaisical chateau on the upper reaches of the Seine where life was centered on the stables in which the redoubtable countess raised and trained some of the finest hunting and racing horseflesh in the whole of France. In this house the great festivals of the year were the big race meetings, both French and English; the Comtesse de Vignon was one of those international figures who are never absent from the inner circles of any gathering of the turf. It was clear that her son, much to her chagrin, had other interests—declined to accompany her on her travels even when the Sorbonne gave him leisure to do so.