Catherine’s letter from the Hardwickes came as a complete surprise.
Jim had finished his work at the British Museum sooner than he had
expected, and the English weather remaining persistently raw and cold
he and Clare had decided to set off at once for Rome and Florence,
travelling for economy’s sake, via Newhaven-Dieppe. Crossing by the
night boat they were due to reach Paris early Saturday morning, and as
they would have only a short time between trains Catherine felt she
must snatch this opportunity of seeing them. Hence her sudden decision
to return to the city and sleep at the apartment in order to get an
early start.
She was now almost fit again, nerves calmer and eyes bright with
renewed energy. Yet up till two days ago she had felt languid and
unequal to any effort, so much so that there was a physical excuse for
her behaviour towards Geoffrey, much as she reproached herself for her
apparent coldness. What had he thought of her? She knew he had been
puzzled and disappointed, but she had been unable to pretend an
emotion she did not feel. Now all that was changed. Perverse though it
seemed, she longed to be alone with him, to touch him and respond to
his advances, this time freely, with a full realization of all he
meant to her.
Geoffrey! The vision of strength filled her mind all the way back in
the train. To-morrow she would see him, atone for her tiresome
conduct. It pleased her to know from Elspeth that he did not wear his
heart on his sleeve, that neither the wealthy young woman in Passy nor
the beautiful Irish girl who had tried to ensnare him during the past
year had met with the slightest success. That he was beginning to be
regarded as a hardened bachelor enhanced his value in her eyes and
simultaneously flattered her own self-esteem.
To-morrow! It was not long to wait. She would meet the Hardwickes, and
then, perhaps, lunch with him. Her heart swelled with excitement.
It was nearing midnight when she arrived at the Gare
Fontainebleau-Avron, secured a taxi, and set off towards her own
quarter. The night was mild and soft, with a gusty breeze that held a
hint of moisture. A pale moon dodged among floating clouds lit by the
glow of the city, the buildings to left and right cast masses of
shadow, laced occasionally by a golden ribbon of light where a door
stood open. She leaned back, drowsy and content.
What a relief to think things were all going smoothly! Did Jeanne
faintly suspect that her power was almost at an end, that when she
returned--if she did return--it would be to find herself displaced by
capable nurses? Perhaps she did know what was in the air, and was
taking this method of withdrawal, hoping to evade the police before
her thefts were proven. In that case, Eduardo too would vanish. Only a
few days now…
Triumphant reflections--yet it was with a slight feeling of dread that
she approached the house. Possibly it would have been wiser to let
Jeanne know she was coming to-night, but there had seemed no need,
particularly as she planned to slip out early in the morning and get a
cup of coffee on the way to the station.
With her key ready, she opened the side door, and directed the driver
to set her bags in the hall. Then very quietly she crept up the
stairs, listening at every step.
All serene, no reason to fear that anything had gone wrong in her
absence. What a fool she had been to worry! She had made herself
miserable for weeks past anticipating events not in the least likely
to materialize. She must take herself in hand and stop making
mountains out of molehills.
She had meant to go straight to bed, but now there was nothing to
prevent her doing so she succumbed to the temptation to dally, and
consumed considerable time in aimless trifles. She wrote a dozen
post-cards of Fontainebleau to friends at home, added a long
postscript to her letter to Barbara, and sat before the mirror
dreaming of the past week and still pleasanter days to come. More than
half an hour had gone by and still she had not bothered to finish
unpacking. Boring task! She would leave it till next day.
Finally she opened the cupboard to put away her hat and coat, and as
she did so her eye fell on the parcel containing the new hat Honorine
had copied for her. Only once had she tried to wear it, on which
occasion she had more or less given it up as a failure. Now she took
it out of the bag and looked it over, frowning.
What was wrong with the thing? It was all but identical with the one
she had just removed, pale green felt and the same model, chosen
because it suited her particularly well. Yet the old one, getting
shabby now, was still smart, while the copy somehow missed its aim. An
experiment in economy which had ended in waste; but then she had
ordered it purely as an excuse for trying to secure information about
Adolph Blom, so she must not complain.
Humming a tune--it was the Albeniz tango, she recalled with tender
reminiscence--she tried the hat on once more, setting it at a
different angle and arranging her hair at the sides. A survey in the
glass brought agreeable surprise. Why, it was not so bad, after all!
Like this, the flat wing at the right hugging her cheek, it looked
distinctly possible. The colour, anyhow, was admirable. Geoffrey liked
her in green.
As the thought rose to her mind, a tide of red flooded her face, with
the result that the hat became positively becoming. Ah, that was it!
She had been pale before.
Taking her lipstick from her bag she touched her lips lightly, then
stood back to note the improvement. As she did so her sleeve brushed
the bag to the floor, and its contents spilled in every direction.
“Damn!” she muttered with annoyance, stooping to retrieve the fallen
articles.
Were they all here? Latchkey, powder-compact, diary, cards for a
private view of pictures, but no lipstick. She searched for several
minutes, then gave it up. It must have rolled far away under some of
the furniture. Never mind, she could find it easily in daylight.
As she straightened up she stood still and sniffed the air
inquiringly. Some queer odour had crept into the room. What was it? It
could not come from outside, for the window was tightly closed. She
sniffed again with growing intentness. Smoke… something was burning.
But where? Not, surely, in the apartment. It couldn’t be, unless the
careless Berthe had left the gas-stove in the kitchen alight with a
saucepan upon it.
She opened the door and peered into the passage. Here the smell was
distinctly noticeable, acrid, insistent. She went along softly towards
the back of the apartment, came to the kitchen door and looked in. No,
there was nothing wrong in this quarter. Yet the odour increased,
carrying with it a pungent flavour of burning varnish. There was even
a faint streaked haze in the air, hovering in her direction from the
passage on the court side. At the same moment her ear detected the
ominous crackle of flames.