“But you aren’t actually afraid of anything, are you? You don’t
think Mme. Bender is any the worse for what you’ve just told me?”
Geoffrey was trying hard to read Catherine’s thoughts. Was she keeping
something back? He fancied she was more deeply troubled than she was
willing to admit, but he could not quite get at the cause of her
anxiety.
It was late Sunday afternoon; the air was soft with the first full
tide of spring, and half the Latin Quarter thronged the pavements, or
lingered at little tables in front of the cafés, sipping apéritifs.
Everywhere were flower-sellers laden with tulips and daffodils, while
on the street corners venders of balloons exhibited their huge soaring
bunches of multi-coloured grapes. The whole presented an effect of
pageantry and that outpouring of the holiday spirit which Paris knows
so perfectly how to achieve.
Catherine and Geoffrey, having quitted the rue d’Assas, had sauntered
aimlessly across the space beside the Café des Lilas, ancient haunt
of long-haired poets, and turned into the narrow avenue of flowering
chestnuts which leads like the neck of a bottle to the Luxembourg
Gardens. Now that they were alone, the girl had hastened to pour out
the story of the past week, her pent-up feelings finding relief in the
recital. Yet that her companion, in spite of his evident sympathy, did
not take the situation as seriously as she did, was plain from the
question he asked at the end.
She bit her lip, and considered for several seconds before framing a
reply.
“I don’t know what to say. On the surface things are going on much as
usual. Mme. Bender was prostrated for two days, exactly as long as
that woman kept to her word about leaving, but the minute Jeanne gave
in and said she would stay my cousin revived again. Now she’s just as
she was before.”
“Do you think this maid actually meant to go?”
“Not for a moment! I’m sure it was only a bluff on her part, but it
was a most effective one. She’s got her mistress now exactly where she
wants her, more than ever under her thumb. Oh, I was blind not to see
it before! Hermione was right. It’s terrifying to think that any human
being can be so completely dominated by another.”
He let his eyes dwell on the straight parallels of chestnuts
stretching ahead before speaking.
“I wonder if there’s any use trying to persuade her to go into a
nursing-home? It seems to me she would be better off with expert
care.”
“Of course! I have thought so from the beginning. But it is very
difficult, as the doctor pointed out to me when I spoke to him. She
has got some morbid dread of being put under restraint, and if one
overruled her there’s no telling what might happen. That, I begin to
see, is at the root of her fear about losing Jeanne, who probably
keeps her frightened with tales of French asylums.”
“So she believes Jeanne alone is standing between her and a
sanatorium?”
“Exactly. I tell you that creature is fiendishly clever! Whether
because of egotism and jealousy or from some other motive, she has
made Germaine think no one but herself is capable of a disinterested
devotion. Everyone else is an enemy--even I.”
Her cheeks flushed, there were tears in her eyes. He could see how
deeply she was hurt.
“That’s absurd!” he exclaimed hotly.
“Absurd or not, it’s true! I can’t bear to speak of it. You see, ever
since that afternoon I have noticed a change in Germaine towards me.
There’s a barrier between us, she isn’t frank any more, and I know
only too well it’s because of those vile accusations Jeanne made
against me. She thinks--oh, it’s too shameful!--that I am staying
there simply for what I hope to get out of her.”
“Can’t you make her see how false all this is?”
“How can I? If I protest against the insinuations, the fact of doing
so amounts practically to an admission. It’s not as though she said
anything openly, it’s only a sort of subtle reproach in her manner.
No, there’s nothing I can do.”
“Except,” he suggested, “to leave there altogether.”
She turned for a moment in his direction, then shook her head.
“I can’t do that,” she answered firmly. “I’d like to, but I daren’t.”
“Why?” he demanded. “It’s not as though you could help matters by
staying. What can you do?”
“Someone must be there,” she replied obstinately, “if only to keep an
eye on those servants. She’s so utterly alone! Why, she even refuses
now to see Hermione--another result of Jeanne’s work. If I go away,
she’ll be completely cut off from the world.”
He nodded thoughtfully.
“I see your point,” he said. “But, after all, you can’t be with her
long. What about your visit to Italy?”
“That’s off. I’ve written to the Hardwickes to say I’m not joining
them after all. Too bad, but it can’t be helped.”
He stopped stock-still in astonishment.
“Is there any real need to sacrifice yourself like this?”
“I don’t know. I hope it may do some good! Anyhow I feel I must see
things straightened out for Germaine before I go away. Perhaps you
think I’m foolish, but I believe you would do the same in my place.”
He said no more. Secretly he was exulting over the knowledge that he
was not going to lose her in a few weeks’ time. The future suddenly
held out rosy hopes.
In silence they passed through the big iron gates into the gardens.
Ahead of them stretched the grey palace of the Luxembourg, and in the
amphitheater before it the round basin of water shimmered in the sun,
white-winged boats flying across its bosom, and the fountain lifting a
plume of diamond spray. Tiny children, dressed like gay dolls, darted
about with hoops and balls, street urchins in black aprons chattered
clamorously, rusty crows of old women huddled on the seats above which
the stone queens of France gazed down in a majestic circle.
Close to the statue of Marguerite de Valois they found a seat and
resumed their conversation.
“Now as to this thieving business,” said Geoffrey, offering his
companion a cigarette. “I don’t say you are wrong, but it’s possible
Mr. Bender did dispose of certain things before he died. It strikes me
that for those servants to sell anything as conspicuous as a Manet
would be taking a frightful risk.”
“Would it?” she retorted. “I’m not so sure. If I had not happened
along, who would have been the wiser?”
He was forced to admit the logic of this.
“I daresay they are rogues,” he said reflectively. “The moment you
spoke of their cutting down the household expenses I had my
suspicions. You say no one comes to the flat?”
“Not a soul, except that horrid little man I told you about. I suppose
he is Jeanne’s lawyer, but I am not satisfied about him somehow. I
can’t help thinking he is mixed up in this, though I can’t guess how.
Do you know, I actually went and had a hat copied at Honorine’s,
merely to try to find out about him; but although I’ve been to her
place several times, I have not seen him again.”
Geoffrey continued his own train of thought.
“Of course, the paintings would fetch large sums, even if sold through
a _receleur_,” he remarked.
“A _receleur_? What’s that?”
“A receiver of stolen goods. Naturally such sales could not be
conducted through legitimate channels.”
She made an excited gesture.
“The little _notaire_!” she cried. “Perhaps that’s what he is--a
receiver of stolen goods. Had you thought of that?”
“By Jove, you may be right! That’s a thundering good suggestion. I
wonder if we can find out?”
He pondered the idea, bending forward and examining the pebbles
underfoot with close attention. Presently without looking at her he
spoke again:
“When you said just now that you wanted to stay there to keep an eye
on the servants, had you anything in mind beyond the fact that they
may be dishonest?”
She started slightly, shifting her gaze from the impertinent profile
of the sculptured queen to the leafy avenue stretching out behind
them.
“Nothing definite,” she answered reluctantly. “After all, stealing is
bad enough. No, I don’t know that there’s anything else.”
He studied the tip of his cigarette.
“Yet you are nervous about something. Am I right?”
How observant he was! She had tried to conceal her secret from him,
but he had guessed it in spite of her.
“It’s only an instinctive feeling,” she admitted guiltily. “I can’t
define it. Do you think me frightfully stupid?”
The confession brought relief. Since Wednesday she had battled with a
nameless dread, vague yet sufficiently strong to account for her
letter to the Hardwickes. She had been haunted by the consciousness of
impending disaster, the more to be feared because of its
obscurity--something which would require all her wits to circumvent.
Instead of replying he asked another question:
“Do you happen to know if this maid is trying to induce her mistress
to make a will?”
“It’s odd you should speak of that,” she answered, surprised. “As a
matter of fact, she has not done anything of the sort. It was the very
point she made to prove to Germaine she had no mercenary motives. She
brought it out like a trump card.”
“Ah!” he exclaimed in satisfaction, “that’s good!”
“Why?” she demanded, puzzled.
“Why? Simply that if what she declares is true, then there can be no
actual danger threatening your cousin. You see what I mean?”
“Not quite.”
“I’ll make it plainer. Unless we can show that this woman is trying to
secure a will in her favour, then it is clear she has everything to
lose and nothing to gain by her mistress’s death. In short, it is to
her own interests to take the best possible care of Mme. Bender,
knowing that she can profit so long as the latter lives, but no
longer.”
“Of course!” she cried. “How dense I must seem!”
A load of anxiety slipped from her heart. Why had she overlooked this
utterly reasonable point of view? She understood now something of the
nature of her recent apprehension.
“In fact,” he continued, “I’ll go so far as to say that the surer we
are that the maid and the butler are fleecing their mistress, the
better guarantee we have for her personal safety. Not that the thefts
can be allowed to go on. We must do all we can to find proof and send
the servants packing. It may be hard, though, since we can’t look for
any assistance from Mme. Bender herself.”
“She won’t believe anything wrong of Jeanne, nor does one dare ask her
about the pictures, as any reference to Cousin Harry upsets her
terribly. Besides, she does not think for herself any more, she only
expresses Jeanne’s opinions.”
“Well, we must do our best without her. There’s another matter, too, I
should like to mention now we’re on the subject. While I was in Havre
the maid came to the office to obtain a duplicate key to Mme. Bender’s
safety-deposit. I don’t know if there was anything wrong about it, but
you might just try to find out if your cousin has that key in her
possession.”
Her eyes dilated with fresh suspicion.
“The safety-deposit? That’s where Germaine’s pearls are kept, in fact
most of her jewellery; Hermione told me so. Oh! do you suppose Jeanne
has designs in that direction?”
He laughed.
“Even if she has, you needn’t worry. Banks are pretty careful.”
“Just the same, I don’t like the look of it. Poor Hermione! She’s
dreadfully in the dumps. That’s another thing Jeanne is responsible
for. She has succeeded in cutting Mme. Bender off from her one
remaining friend.… Heavens! is it almost seven o’clock? I must fly!”
“I’ll drop you, if I may. I am going over to the other side anyhow,”
he lied cheerfully.
“If you’re quite sure,” she agreed doubtfully.
His pulses leaped as he fancied he caught a gleam of pleasure in her
eyes. Was it faintly possible that she, too, was glad to delay the
moment of separation?
At the corner of the Boulevard they got into an open taxi, and in
another moment were racing towards the river, the soft breeze in their
faces. Catherine looked happier now. Colour stained her cheeks a
delicate rose, and her eyes had lost the fear-ridden look so
noticeable a little while ago. Geoffrey studied her with appreciation,
delighting in the trim lines of her grey homespun coat and skirt, her
tiny, close-fitting hat and the slender fineness of her hands and
feet.
“Did you like my sister?” he inquired abruptly.
She started at the suddenness of the question.
“Oh, tremendously! She’s rather like you, don’t you think?” she added
naïvely, then blushed a deeper red.
“I wanted you two to meet,” he said slowly, then was silent because of
the thought in his mind. “I hope,” he went on, “that you’ll go and see
her at Fontainebleau when she asks you, as she’s sure to do. You’ll
like my brother-in-law--he’s an etcher. Odd chap, but a decent sort.”
“I’d love to go,” she said hesitatingly. “Perhaps a little later. Just
now I hate leaving Germaine.”
“What rubbish! You can’t stay tied to her for the rest of your life!”
She laughed at his impatient tone.
“I know you think I’m over-scrupulous. Never mind--I’ve a plan in my
head which may help to straighten things out. Don’t ask me what it is
yet--it mayn’t succeed,” and she smiled at him tantalizingly.
At the Cours la Reine they were caught in a traffic block. It was dusk
now, and the river on the one hand, the Place de la Concorde on the
other glittered with a million stars. Suddenly Catherine gave a
smothered cry.
“Look!” she whispered, grasping her companion’s arm. “There is
Eduardo, driving Mme. Bender’s car. And do you see the man with him?
It’s the creature from the rue d’Amsterdam I have been talking about!”
Following her eyes, Geoffrey spied a jet-black Rolls, upon whose front
seat slouched the Portuguese, his sullen face lit by an adjacent
street lamp. The features of the man beside him were hidden by a
wide-brimmed hat, but as the taxi crept forward a few yards they could
be seen in profile.
Geoffrey uttered an astonished exclamation.
“By Jove, I know the fellow! At least I’ve seen him.…”
“Where? Who is he?” demanded the girl eagerly.
He thought hard, then shook his head, chagrined.
“That’s the worst of it. I’m hanged if I know!” he admitted.