The Scapegoat (19 page)

‘Who is there?’ said Blanche.

I did not answer. When I knocked again I heard footsteps and the sound of a key being turned in the lock, and then the door opened and Blanche stood there in a dressing-gown, her hair released from the screwed knot and hanging straight about her face, giving her, in an instant, that same childish look of
Marie-Noel upstairs. The expression in her eyes, incredulous, alarmed, defeated my purpose. The feud between her and her brother was not my affair. She could, at least, be warned about the child. I thrust the whip into her hands.

‘Keep this,’ I said, ‘or throw it away. Marie-Noel was trying to use it on herself. I suggest you tell her that scourging drives the devil in, not out.’

The expression in her eyes turned to hatred so intense that I stared fascinated, almost hypnotized, by the sudden savagery in that pale, impassive face. And then, before I could say anything more, she had flung herself against the door and locked it, leaving me in the corridor outside, having done no good, perhaps having antagonized her even further. I walked slowly back along the corridor, shocked, dismayed, haunted by the thought of those eyes, so venomous and unforgiving, that surely must once have been wide and full of trust.

As I came to the head of the stair, wondering which way to turn and what was the procedure now, I met the three of them coming up the stairs to bed, one behind the other: Françoise heavy, leaden-eyed and pale; Renée, the spot of colour on her cheek still vivid, the high-necked blouse emphasizing the high-dressed hair; and Paul, his hand on the light-switch, yawning, another newspaper, a local one, underneath his arm. They looked up at me, the three faces caught in the feeble jet of light, and because I was not one of them as they believed, but was outside, a stranger, peering down into their world, it was as though all three of them were naked, without masks. I caught the anguish of Françoise, uplifted on a breath and instantly cast down again in disillusion, with only endurance to sustain her after the one magic moment; Renée triumphant because she believed her body to be beautiful, flaunting desire so that it might be given her again, forever returning, forever unfulfilled; while Paul, bewildered, tired, and envious, wondered what miracle might be achieved, or what oblivion.

We bade each other good night, pairing off like couples at
a set of lancers. As I followed Françoise along the corridor I wondered, dispassionately, how I should have felt had it been otherwise, had Renée been the wife of Jean de Gué. Were attraction and revulsion so near in kind that forced proximity could bridge the gulf between them and make them one? I was spared further speculation because I found that an alteration had taken place in the dressing-room. There was now a bed in the room, a camp-bed, with bolster, sheets and blankets. Oddly, my first instinct was not relief but guilt. What had happened? What was the matter? Then, going to the chest-of-drawers, I saw standing on it the huge bottle of scent, with the glaring motif ‘Femme’. It was untouched.

I thought a moment, and then passed through the bathroom to the bedroom. Françoise was sitting by her dressing-table, pinning her hair.

‘Do you want me to sleep in the dressing-room?’ I asked.

‘Wouldn’t you prefer it?’ she said.

‘I don’t mind one way or the other,’ I answered.

‘That’s what I thought.’

She went on pinning her hair. This, I thought, is one of those issues in married life making for reconciliation or tears or interminable argument, and it would not have happened but for the bottle of ‘Femme’ with the initial B so carelessly scribbled upon it. We had both of us bungled, her husband and myself, and because I believed he would have responded with silence, that was the course I chose too.

‘Very well,’ I said, ‘I’ll sleep in the dressing-room.’

I went back into the bathroom and began to run the water, and as I cleaned my teeth, remembering which was my toothbrush and which my glass, it was once again like those scarce-remembered, queerly familiar second nights at school. The bathroom fittings were no longer strange, the running water came with a sound that was not the home sound yet was now part of a settled scheme; and when Françoise brushed past me to fetch a pot of cream, neither of us talking, she might have
been some dormitory companion of a bygone era from whom I was temporarily estranged. I felt it neither incongruous nor strange to be in vest and pants while she was in a trailing wrapper. I had become part of the bathroom background, and so had she. Only the silence was out of key, and when, in pyjamas and dressing-gown, I went to say good night and found her reading, and she turned to me a pale, indifferent cheek, with none of last night’s anguish and none of last night’s tears, I felt again not so much relief as guilt – guilt that the sins of Jean de Gué had been increased tenfold by his scapegoat.

I went back to the dressing-room and opened the window. Tonight the chestnut trees were still, and there was no clarity, no stars, and no lone figure, either, in the turret-room above. As I climbed into the camp-bed and lit a cigarette, with the thought that this was my second night under the château roof and that twenty-four hours or more had passed since I came to St Gilles, I knew that everything I had said or done had implicated me further, driven me deeper, bound me more closely still to that man whose body was not my body, whose mind was not my mind, whose thoughts and actions were a world apart, and yet whose inner substance was part of my nature, part of my secret self.

W
hen I awoke the next morning I knew there was something I had to do. Something urgent. Then I remembered the telephone conversation with Carvalet, and how I had committed myself, or rather the
verrerie
of St Gilles, to continued production on their terms, without the remotest knowledge of the family resources. All I possessed was Jean de Gué’s cheque-book, and the name and address of his bank in Villars. Somehow I had to get to the bank and talk to the manager, inventing some excuse for my ignorance. He would surely be able to give me a rough idea of the financial situation.

I got up and bathed and dressed while Françoise was still breakfasting in her room, and while I drank my coffee in the dressing-room I tried to visualize in my mind’s eye the lay-out of the Michelin map and the road along which we had come from Le Mans. Somewhere along that road, surely not more than fifteen kilometres or so from St Gilles, was Villars. I remembered noticing the name when I looked up my original course northwest from Le Mans to Mortagne and la Grande-Trappe. I no longer had my maps, but the town should be easy enough to find. When Gaston came into the dressing-room to brush my clothes I told him I was going into Villars, to the bank, and I wanted the car.

‘At what time,’ asked Gaston, ‘does Monsieur le Comte wish to go into Villars?’

‘Any time,’ I said. ‘Ten, half past.’

‘Then I will have the Renault outside at ten o’clock,’ he said. ‘Monsieur Paul can take the Citroën to the
verrerie.’

I had forgotten there was a second car. This would simplify matters. There would be no questions from Paul, no suggestion of coming with me to the bank, which I had feared. I was reckoning, though, without the complications of family shopping. Gaston, naturally enough, must have passed round word of my intention, for I was putting change into my pockets, and was about to go downstairs, when the little
femme de chambre
knocked at the door.

‘Excuse me, Monsieur le Comte,’ she said, ‘but Madame Paul asked if she may go with you into Villars. She has an appointment with the coiffeur.’

I wished Madame Paul another attack of migraïne. The last thing I wanted was another tête-à-tête with her, but there seemed no possibility of excuse.

‘Does Madame Paul know I’m leaving at ten o’clock?’ I said.

‘Yes, Monsieur, she has fixed her appointment for half past.’

I wondered if it was a deliberate scheme for my company. I told Germaine that of course I would take Madame Paul to the coiffeur, and then, with a sudden inspiration, passed through the bathroom to the bedroom, where I found Françoise sitting up in bed.

‘I’m going into Villars,’ I said. ‘Do you want to come?’

Then I remembered that surely every husband kisses his wife good morning, even if he has been banished from her side the night before, and I went up to the bed, and kissed her, and asked her how she had slept.

‘I was restless,’ she said. ‘It was as well for you that you had the camp-bed next door. No, I can’t come into Villars. I shall stay in bed. I’m expecting Dr Lebrun some time this morning. Why must you go? I had hoped you would see him.’

‘I have to go to the bank,’ I said.

‘Gaston could go for you,’ she said, ‘if you want some money.’

‘It isn’t that. I’ve got business to discuss.’

‘I believe Monsieur Péguy is still away ill,’ she said. ‘I don’t
know who is doing his work. The senior clerk, I suppose. He won’t be much use.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘We ought to make up our minds finally, you know, whether I should go into Le Mans for the baby or have it here.’ The plaintive note had come back into her voice, the aggrieved tone of one who feels herself neglected.

‘What do you want to do?’ I asked.

She shrugged her shoulders, apathetic, resigned. ‘I want you to make the decisions,’ she said. ‘I’d like to feel the whole nightmare lifted from me, and that I don’t have to worry any more.’

I looked away from the accusing eyes. This was the moment, I supposed, for problems, intimacy, discussion of the many little troubles of daily life that must be shared by a husband and wife. But because it was not my problem, and the moment not of my choosing, I felt impatient with her that she must produce it now, when all I could see ahead of me was the necessity of getting to the bank.

‘Surely Dr Lebrun is the right person to take charge of all this?’ I said. ‘We have to go on his advice. Ask his opinion when he comes this morning.’

Even as I spoke I knew that I was wrong. It wasn’t what she meant. She needed reassurance, and felt herself to be alone. I wanted, desperately, to say, ‘Look, I’m not your husband. I can’t tell you what to do …’, so that the burden of guilt would lift from me. Instead, as a sop, an attempt to ease my conscience, I added, ‘I won’t be long. I’ll probably be back before he’s gone.’

She did not answer. Germaine came in to take away the breakfast tray, and behind her Marie-Noel, who having kissed us in turn, and bidden us both good morning, immediately demanded to be taken into Villars too.

Here was the perfect counter-plot to Renée: I wondered I had not thought of it myself. When I said that she might come the child watched me with dancing eyes, wriggling impatiently while her mother brushed her hair.

‘It’s market-day,’ said Françoise. ‘You are not to go pushing in those crowds or you’ll catch something. Fleas, if nothing worse. Jean, don’t let her go wandering in the market.’

‘I’ll look after her,’ I said, ‘and anyway, Renée is coming too.’

‘Renée? Whatever for?’

‘My aunt Renée has an appointment at the coiffeur,’ said Marie-Noel. ‘As soon as she heard Papa was going into Villars, she came along to aunt Blanche’s room to telephone.’

‘Ridiculous,’ said Françoise. ‘She washed her hair only four or five days ago.’

I heard the child say something about aunt Renée wanting to look nice for
la chasse
, but I did not listen. I fastened on to a single flash of information, which was that the telephone extension was in Blanche’s room. Blanche, then, had lifted the receiver and listened when I spoke to Paris. If not Blanche, who else? And how much had been heard?

‘I’ll try and keep Dr Lebrun until you come back,’ said Françoise, ‘but you know how he is, he never can stay long.’

‘What’s he coming for?’ asked Marie-Noel. ‘What’s he going to do?’

‘He’s going to listen to baby brother,’ said Françoise.

‘Suppose he doesn’t hear anything – will it mean he’s dead?’

‘No, of course not. Don’t be so silly. Run along now.’

The child looked from one to the other of us, anxious, expectant, and then, for no apparent reason, suddenly turned a cartwheel.

‘Gaston says I have very strong limbs,’ she said.’ He says most girls can’t stand on their hands at all.’

‘Look out …’ warned Françoise, but it was too late. The flying feet overbalanced and crashed upon the little table near the fireplace, scattering a porcelain cat and dog on to the hearth, smashing them irrevocably. There was a moment’s silence. The child picked herself up, scarlet in the face, and looked at her mother, who sat up in bed gazing at the disaster, stunned.

‘My cat and dog,’ she said, ‘my favourite pieces. The two my
mother gave me that I brought from home.’ I thought for a moment that the shock of this sudden accident would be too great for her to feel anger, but a tumult of feeling must have swept over her on that instant, breaking all control, and the bitterness of months, perhaps of years, surged to the surface.

‘You little beast,’ she said to the child, ‘with your horrible clumsy feet, smashing the only things I possess and value in this house. Why doesn’t your father teach you discipline and manners instead of filling your head with all this nonsense about saints and visions? You wait until you have a brother, then he’ll get the petting and the spoiling and you’ll take second place, and a good thing it will be for you and for everybody else. Now leave me, both of you. I don’t want either of you, leave me alone, for God’s sake …’

The child, her face drained of colour, ran from the room. I went over to the bed.

‘Françoise …’ I began, but she pushed me away, her eyes tormented.

‘No,’ she said. ‘No … no … no …’ She flung herself back on her pillows, burying herself against them, and in a futile endeavour to be useful, to do something constructive, however late, I picked up the fragments of the porcelain animals and carried them into the dressing-room, so that her eye should not fall upon them when she looked again. Mechanically I wrapped them in the cellophane and paper that had served for the great bottle of scent still standing on the chest-of-drawers. There was no sign of Marie-Noel, and remembering the night before, and the whip, and – even worse – the threat of the open window, I went out of the dressing-room and up the back stairs to the turret room, running three steps at a time in sudden fear. But when I came to the room I saw with relief that the window was closed, and that she was undressing, folding her clothes neatly on a chair.