Valentina (29 page)

‘To shoot with the right hand is difficult enough when your opponent is Grunowski,' Monsieur Revillion argued, and the other man, whose name was Gautier, agreed with him. ‘To attempt it left-handed, with only a week or two's practice, this is suicide, Colonel! We will see him commit murder, that's all!'

‘You know the circumstances, gentlemen,' De Chavel said, ‘and you've agreed to act as my seconds; I must ask you to stop pestering me with advice I have no intention of taking. What time is it?'

‘Nearly five. He's late.'

The fourth man, standing a little apart from them, was a surgeon; the Count had arranged for him to be there, as was the custom; he approached them and introduced himself. They bowed, and resumed their short pacing up and down. The doctor came up to De Chavel.

‘The appointment was for a quarter to five, sir. It's past five now. It's not usual to be late for an affair of this kind.'

‘My opponent hasn't the habits of a gentleman,' De Chavel said coldly. ‘Waiting doesn't disturb me, I assure you.'

By five-thirty Monsieur Revillion made a decision. ‘Colonel, it's obvious your challenge isn't going to be met. The Count isn't going to face you. Let us go home. You can count honour satisfied.'

‘Nothing will satisfy my complaint except to kill him.' The Colonel bowed to them both. ‘Since he's a coward as well as a scoundrel, I'll have to seek him out. Be good enough to come to his house with me. He's going to meet me whether he wants to or not.'

‘As you insist,' Gautier spoke, ‘we must comply, M. Revillion. Personally, I think it is all quite mad.' Gautier, a junior clerk in the French Government service, whose family were respectable trades people in Avignon, considered the principle of duelling a ridiculous old-fashioned foible indulged in by stupid aristocrats.

On the way to the Count's house he sat in one corner of the carriage and sulked. Revillion went to the door, while De Chavel waited. It was answered immediately, and there was a quick glimpse of lights and people in the hall beyond as he went inside. Ten minutes later he was back; his face was white.

‘You can go home, Colonel,' he said. He pulled the coach door shut and rapped on the roof for the driver to move on. ‘Count Grunowski won't be fighting any duel with anyone. He was found shot dead in his bed this morning. Murdered! The house was full of police.'

For a moment De Chavel said nothing. ‘Who did it?' he asked.

‘A maid, they said. Used to work for his wife; she's disappeared. The senior police official there said he doubted they'd ever find her. But she certainly saved
your
life!'

‘Yes,' De Chavel said, ‘I believe she did.'

The summer months at Czartatz were very hot; in the first week after the Colonel left for Warsaw, Valentina spent as much time as possible in the grounds, for the house and its associations with him haunted her unbearably. She was easily tired, and there were physical signs of her condition which made it uncomfortable to drive round the estate. She spent long hours in the shade of a small summer house, sewing and reading, forcing her mind to occupy itself with something besides hysterical fears for his safety. He would never come back to her; rationally she accepted that, and her despair was so intense it was almost peaceful; irrationally she abided by her promise to wait until the end of the month, to give him the time he had asked for, before she admitted that he must be dead. The days went by and became a second week and then a third; she was suspended, waiting, and she carried his last letter to her in her dress, and read it over carefully, again and again. She didn't weep any more; her grief was too deep for any physical relief like tears; she succumbed to an increasing lethargy, sewing and reading less as she sat alone in the hot garden, drowsing the empty hours away. It was the end of the month, and he had not come back. She went out to the summer house as usual, a young footman carrying cushions and her basket of embroidery, and she settled into the large wicker chair under the shaded roof, covered with flowering creeper. ‘I shall be back before the end of the month.' It was the last day of July. Now she could admit it. He was dead. She felt so tired, so empty; the child was sapping her physical strength and without him her spirit failed completely. It was as if her heart had stopped. Valentina leant back and closed her eyes and two slow tears came trickling down. A shadow fell upon her from behind, but she did not see it; the shadow lengthened as a man came to the back of the chair and silently bent over her.

‘Valentina,' De Chavel said softly, ‘will you marry me?'

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1965, 1966 by Anthony Enterprises Ltd

Cover design by Mauricio Diaz

ISBN: 978-1-5040-3256-8

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