The Scapegoat (27 page)

The front door stood wide open and there was commotion in the hall. Gaston, with sleeves rolled up, was edging a heavy sideboard through to the dining-room, assisted by the man in overalls from the garage, another man whom I had not seen before, Germaine, and the stalwart daughter of the woman who washed the linen. As soon as Gaston saw me, and while I was wondering how, without betraying my ignorance, I could find out what this furniture-moving signified, he gasped a message over his shoulder. ‘Monsieur Paul has been looking for you all the morning, Monsieur le Comte. He says you have given no orders yet to Robert. Germaine, go through to the kitchen and see if Robert is still there.’ Then, returning to his labours, he said to the man whom I did not recognize, and who looked as though he might be a gardener, ‘Now then, Joseph, up with the leg at your end. Heave, now.’

Germaine disappeared to the back regions. I waited in the hall uncertainly. Who was Robert, and what orders was I supposed to give? In a moment the
femme de chambre
appeared again, followed by a small, thick-set man with grizzled hair and a scar on his cheek, dressed in breeches and leggings. ‘Here is Robert, Monsieur le Comte,’ she said.

‘Good morning, Robert.’ I held out my hand to him. He shook it, smiling. ‘Well?’ I asked. ‘What is it you want to know?’

He looked up at me, puzzled, then burst into uncertain laughter, as though I had made a joke at his expense and he wasn’t quite certain how to take it.

‘It’s for tomorrow, Monsieur le Comte,’ he said. ‘I thought you would have sent for me yesterday to discuss arrangements, but Gaston told me you were out all day, and then Madame la Comtesse being unwell I did not like to disturb you last night.’

I stared down at him. We were alone. Germaine and the others had retired to the kitchen, their labours finished.

‘Tomorrow,’ I repeated, ‘yes, of course. Quite a number of people seem to be coming. Were you by any chance wondering what we were going to eat?’

He flinched as though the joke had gone on too long. ‘Why, Monsieur le Comte,’ he said, ‘you know perfectly well it is nothing to do with me what you eat. What I must know is your programme for the day. Monsieur Paul says you have not discussed it with him at all.’

I had a sudden wild vision of beating the bounds, of stripping the willow, of bobbing for apples, or whatever the custom might be on the second Sunday in October – some ceremony at which I, as seigneur of St Gilles, must play a leading part. I would willingly resign the role to Paul instead.

‘You don’t think,’ I began cautiously, ‘that for once we might leave the arrangements to Monsieur Paul?’

The man stared at me, astounded. ‘Why, Monsieur le Comte,’ he exclaimed, ‘you have never done such a thing in your life. In all my years in St Gilles you have never suggested it. Ever since Monsieur le Comte your father died, it is you who have organized the Sunday of the
grande chasse.’

This time it must have been I who looked, and certainly felt, as if he had made a joke in poor taste. The
grande chasse –
idiot that I was. There had been constant allusions to it during the past two days, and none of them had made any impression on me. Tomorrow, Sunday, must be the big annual shoot in the district, centring in the domain of St Gilles, planned and wholly organized by the seigneur, Jean de Gué.

Robert watched me anxiously. ‘Are you quite well, Monsieur le Comte?’ he asked.

‘Listen, Robert,’ I said, ‘I’ve had a lot on my mind since I came back from Paris, and, frankly, I’ve not yet worked out tomorrow’s programme. I’ll see you later.’

He looked baffled, frustrated. ‘As you say, Monsieur le Comte,’ he answered, ‘but time is getting on and there is much to be done. Will you see me at two o’clock?’

‘At two o’clock,’ I said, and to be rid of him I went through to the lobby as though to telephone, and waited until I heard him pass through the service door. Then I crossed the hall and
went out to the terrace and down to the shelter of the cedar-tree that had been my refuge the first night. Two o’clock or midnight could make no difference – I should have no programme and no plan. Lecturing on French history had not equipped me for
la chasse:
I did not shoot.

I
remember hearing the midday angelus sound from the village church, and soon afterwards voices from the château, as the gardener Joseph, and I think Robert with him, emerged from a side-door and made their way towards the outbuildings. I was concealed by the low branches of the cedar-tree, and they did not see me. When they had gone I went through the gate in the wall to the grounds beyond, and walked swiftly across the moat to the path beneath the chestnuts, and so to one of the long rides and away into the woods. It did not matter to me where I went, or how far; all I knew was that I had to put myself out of the range of call and somehow decide upon a course of action. The most obvious one was to feign illness – a sudden dizziness, or mysterious pains in my limbs – yet to do so would demand the immediate attention of Dr Lebrun, who would surely know at once that there was nothing wrong. The mere pretext of a chill, of some vague malaise, would never serve. The seigneur of St Gilles would not take to his bed on the day of the big shoot because of stomach-ache. Besides, it was not only tomorrow that made the nightmare. It was today, at two o’clock, with Robert coming for orders once again.

I wondered if I could make Françoise the excuse, but it was too much out of character. However sick his wife might be, it would not matter to Jean de Gué. I could, of course, take the car and disappear, make this exit from the masquerade. Nothing prevented me from doing so, at any hour of the day or night. Now, perhaps, was the moment. I had survived up to the present because nothing had really constituted a challenge. The
relationships within the family had not defeated me, or the intimacy without, or the tricks of language, the hazards of unaccustomed routine, the impossibilities of business and finance. I had plunged into this unknown world like a reckless walker into a morass, each step taking him deeper, each wild flounder committing him more inescapably. But, more fortunate than such a man, if I felt myself held fast and sucked into the depths, I had only to throw myself backwards to be free, to return to the past and take on the self discarded in Le Mans.

I crossed and re-crossed the rides, now deep in the dark woods, then suddenly emerging from the shadows, each ride converging in its turn upon the statue in the centre, surrounding it with compass points of light. I could see no way out of my dilemma, no real answer to the ridiculous situation in which I found myself, except by admitting defeat.

I walked slowly down one of the rides to the statue and stood beside it, looking towards the château. The sky had clouded. There was not the radiant blue of yesterday, and an autumn pallor masked a watery sun. The château itself looked grey and frigid on its plot of ground encircled by the moat, and although the long windows of the salon were thrown open they were not inviting: only darkness came from within. The black and white cattle cropped the grass by the dovecot, and a few yards away a bonfire smouldered, a tongue of flame rising now and again through a column of blue-grey smoke, the rank and melancholy smell of charred wet wood and sodden leaves coming towards me on a wisp of air.

I was filled increasingly with self-disgust. The sense of power and confidence had seeped away, and my likeness to Jean de Gué was nothing but a clown’s covering, a ludicrous mask of paint and powder, already melting, falling away in strips, showing me to myself unchanged, the useless nonentity I had always been. A lifelong inability to handle weapons, to aim with effect at anything, was now to prove my downfall. Anyone with rudimentary training might have bluffed his way to glory by blazing
away at everything on sight: I hadn’t even the knowledge to do that. I knew the butt end from the barrel, but beyond that all was mystery.

I thought of the laughter of Jean de Gué, the laughter of anyone told suddenly of my predicament. Humiliation is not easy to bear, especially when it follows upon complacency. I had been very sure of myself driving away yesterday from Villars with a picture in my mind of Béla feeding her birds on the balcony. I had been confident again this morning, not an hour ago, coming from the foundry with the contract in my pocket. Now I was deflated, the bubble of conceit exploded, lost in the air.

As if it were a symbol mocking me, Jean de Gué’s watch, which I wore on my left wrist, suddenly fell to the ground, smashing the glass. I bent and picked it up. The strap had given – I should have noticed it was worn. Irritated by this new mishap I walked slowly on, the watch in my hand, and I saw that the naked hands now stood at half-past twelve. It was almost time for the midday meal, for sitting at the head of the table in the dining-room, for facing the family, for giving my orders for the shoot. I came to the dovecot, and was protected now by its rounded walls, unseen from the château windows. Marie-Noel must have been playing here earlier, for her cardigan lay forgotten on the swing. I stood by the bonfire, stirring it with my foot, till the bitter, pungent smoke rose up and stung my eyes, and suddenly I was reminded of the well in front of the master’s house in the
verrerie
. There were nettles here, too, and tangled grass, and Marie-Noel’s swing looked as old and neglected as the well had done before the house. The rope had broken again and lay thrown down, useless as the links of the chain; and as I looked at it I saw in my mind’s eye the well-chain wrapped about a man’s limp body, binding it, and the body thrust down the deep black hole of the well to water. I saw the group of men holding to the iron-work, looking down, and then suddenly, in fear and horror, seizing handful
after handful of broken glass from the reject dumps behind the sheds, hurling the jagged pieces down into the dark water with the body, covering it, sinking it, until finally there was nothing left to see but the patch of night sky reflected in the water.

Another gust of smoke came from the bonfire, blown by a gust of wind, and, as suddenly as the image of the dead man’s body had come to me, I knew what I was going to do. I waited for the smoke to drift, then tossed the watch I was holding into the fire. I saw it fall against a heap of glowing embers. Then I knelt down and thrust my hand amongst them until I had the watch. I cried out with the searing agony of pain and collapsed sideways on to the grass, clutching my hand, seizing leaves, grass, anything to cover the scorched flesh, while the broken watch lay forgotten beside me.

I lay a moment, waiting for the faintness to pass, and the retching that I could not prevent, and then, because of the intensity of the pain, I got to my feet and began to run towards the château. I had only one thought – to stop the pain, to get away from light, from air, into the darkness of the open windows. I remember stumbling across the threshold and falling on to the sofa, and seeing the staring, frightened face of Renée and hearing her cry out; and then the darkness that I had sought was with me and about me, but the pain continued. I heard Renée call for Paul, and Paul for Gaston, and I was surrounded by questioning, anxious faces, trying to uncover the hand that I still held against me, shielded by my coat. But I could only rock backwards and forwards, shaking my head, unable to tell them to go away, to leave me alone, because there was only one thing with me, which was pain.

Gaston said, ‘We must find Mademoiselle Blanche,’ and Renée ran out of the room screaming for Blanche. I heard Paul say he was telephoning for the doctor, and I thought dimly, through the pain, that if only I could faint the pain would stop. Gaston was kneeling beside me, and he asked, ‘Have you cut yourself, Monsieur le Comte?’ and I said, ‘No, burnt myself,
you idiot,’ turning away from him, and thinking to myself that if I could swear and blaspheme in English it might help to ease the pain.

Then the others came back, crowding around me once more, the same words passing stupidly from one to the other. ‘He’s burnt himself … it’s his hand … he’s burnt it … but where … but how?’ Then peering faces backed away and Blanche was there, kneeling where Gaston had knelt. She put out her hand to take mine, but I exclaimed, ‘No, it hurts too much.’ She said, ‘Hold him down’ to Paul and Gaston, and they seized me by the shoulders and pinned me against the cushions. Blanche reached for my hand and covered it with something cool and cleansing, spattering the contents of a tube that splayed all over the seared back of my burnt hand. Then she put a bandage over it and fastened it loosely, and told the others that in a moment or two the pain would ease. I shut my eyes and heard the low hum of voices discussing me, always asking the same question – how could it have happened? – and slowly, very slowly, the agony began to be something that could be borne and eventually explained by the sufferer, who was no longer a focus-point of pain but someone who had other limbs as well, another hand, a body, legs, eyes that could open at last and stare up at the people gathered about him.

‘Is that better?’ asked Paul, and I waited a moment and then said, ‘Yes, I think so,’ still uncertain, because the release from immediate pain was still too new. I saw that Marie-Noel had now joined the circle and was staring down at me, her eyes enormous in her small white face.

‘Whatever did you do? What happened?’ asked Renée, and beyond her was Gaston, troubled, unhappy, standing with a glass of brandy that I did not want.

‘My watch fell off my wrist into the bonfire,’ I said, ‘the bonfire out there by the dovecot. I didn’t want to lose it, so I bent to pick it up and burnt myself instead. My own fault entirely. An idiotic, senseless thing to do.’

‘Didn’t you think what you were doing?’ asked Renée.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I didn’t realize the fire was so hot.’

‘You must be completely crazy,’ said Paul. ‘You could have fished the watch out with a stick, any piece of wood by the bonfire.’

‘It never occurred to me.’

‘You must have been very close to the bonfire for it to have fallen off your wrist into the middle of it,’ said Renée.