6
TWO NIGHTS LATER Hartmann went to visit Anne in her rooms. He parked his car near the station and set off on the short walk to the rue des Acacias. At the end of the street he saw a faintly familiar figure buying a newspaper. He was a short man in a thick coat and a black hat; his trousers finished two or three inches above his ankles. He was standing on the pavement, apparently unsure what to do next.
Hartmann went up to him. ‘Monsieur?’
The other man looked at him. There was no recognition in his eyes.
‘You don’t remember me, do you, monsieur?’
The older man took off his hat and rubbed his bald head vigorously. ‘I can’t say I do.’
Hartmann said, ‘The Lion d’Or, yes?’
‘Yes, I know it.’
‘But you’re the Patron, are you not, monsieur?’
‘Yes indeed. Yes, I am.’
Hartmann introduced himself.
‘Good God, I do remember now. I remember your father. He used to come to the hotel. That was years ago. Before the war, I think.’
Hartmann smiled. ‘You remember him?’
‘Oh yes. Quite well.’ The Patron frowned a little. ‘Quite well.’ He seemed less certain this time.
‘I used to come in myself when I was young. Sometimes I had to run errands or pick things up from someone there. It was a good meeting point for us, you see – half way towards where we lived.’
‘Absolutely. It’s still a good meeting place for people.’
‘That’s how I recognised you,’ said Hartmann. ‘I remembered your face from when I was a boy.’
The Patron looked increasingly confused.
‘But I never see you in the hotel now,’ said Hartmann.
‘Good God, no. That woman, she runs the place. I have my other – other interests.’
‘Of course.’
Hartmann wasn’t sure if he was embarrassing the Patron; perhaps he too was on his way to some illicit rendezvous. He tried once more to see if he remembered anything about Hartmann’s father, but the old man looked perplexed and began clenching his newspaper.
‘Here,’ he said, thrusting it towards Hartmann. ‘Did you see this?’
The headline read: SALENGRO CLEARED. The Chamber had debated the result of General Gamelin’s court of honour inquiry and had cleared the minister of any suspicion of desertion by the margin of 427 votes to 103.
‘That’s excellent news,’ said Hartmann.
‘I suppose so. I don’t follow half of what’s happening, though. I don’t know whose side I’m supposed to be on.’
‘I know. It’s confusing. Would you like to come and have a glass of beer with me? There’s a café just nearby.’
‘No. I mean, thank you, but I must get back. I don’t go out much, you see. I just thought I’d try a little walk today, but I want to go back now.’
‘Of course. One thing, monsieur. There’s a waitress on your staff. She’s called Anne. You let her go away for a few days. She was very pleased by it and I know she wanted to thank you.’
‘Anne?’
‘Yes, she hasn’t been there long. She took over from a girl called Sophie.’
‘I remember. She came and saw me in my study. I thought she wanted more money. That’s what it’s usually all about.’
‘It was very kind of you to let her go.’
‘I thought I had to! I thought it was the law nowadays.’
‘But even so.’
‘Hmm.’ The Patron began to fiddle with his newspaper again. ‘Probably get pregnant before the year’s out. They usually do. Bring them in from the little villages, teach them to speak so they can be understood – not all that dialect – and by the time they’re able to do the job some local boy’s seduced them.’
‘Well. Let’s hope for the best.’
‘Absolutely. Now then . . .’ He seemed to be searching for a name. ‘Hartmann,’ he said firmly. ‘I must be off.’
‘Of course, monsieur. Goodbye.’
They shook hands and the Patron shuffled off down the boulevard. Hartmann bought a paper, stuffed it in his pocket, and hurried on.
It had grown cold, and Zozo the cat no longer prowled the perimeter wall but lay curled beneath the gas-ring in the recess of the stairs. Hartmann’s breath left cumbersome trails on the frosty air as he crossed the courtyard. He knew as if by telepathy exactly the effect that the sound of his footsteps was producing in the waiting girl.
While Anne went next door to return some sewing things she had borrowed from Mlle Calmette, he glanced around the little sitting-room which was full of objects whose provenance Anne had at one time or another explained to him. On the mantelpiece was a china figure that Louvet had given her for her sixteenth birthday. On a low shelf by the fireside was a pallid doll which was all that remained of her rustic childhood. He had seen in her bedroom the photograph of her mother. The view of Parisian roofs, painted in a shaky watercolour, had been bought, she had told him, from savings she had made from working at her first job in Paris when she and Louvet lived in Vaugirard. On her dressing-table was a china box that had belonged to her mother, in which Anne kept pins and slides. She made coffee in an enamel pot given to her by Delphine, her fellow-waitress at Montparnasse, when she left Paris. On a table by itself, proudly displayed, was the gramophone, with half a dozen heavy black records in brown paper sleeves beside it.
Each object was charged with meaning; their combined significance made up her life. He thought of the profusion of his unknown possessions in the Manor: their number and anonymity gave him refuge, but these few things, each with its treasured reference, laid Anne naked.
She returned, flushed and smiling, Hartmann took a half bottle of brandy from his coat pocket and poured two glasses. There was a silent tension between them, as if each expected the other to move first.
She gazed at him, looking into the eyes beneath their black brows, focusing on the narrow gleam of light that shone there. He looked back at her, seeing her own eyes glowing against the pale white of her skin, the handful of freckles visible beneath them.
After a moment Anne went to her bedroom and took a small box from the top drawer of the dressing-table.
‘Charles,’ she said, returning to the sitting-room, ‘I’ve got a present for you.’
‘For me? Why?’
‘It’s just something I saw,’ she lied. ‘Something I thought you’d like.’
‘You’re wicked, Anne. You shouldn’t be buying me presents. I’m not at all pleased.’
She laughed; he showed no sign of displeasure.
Carefully he opened the box. Inside was a pair of oval gold cuff-links joined with narrow chains.
‘But Anne . . . this is ridiculous. These are beautiful. You can’t – you shouldn’t . . .’ She laughed again. ‘How on earth did you manage it?’
‘Never mind about that. Do you like them?’
‘Of course I do. They’re the nicest pair I’ve ever had, but I just hate to think how –’
‘Please don’t worry about that. Put them on if you want. I wasn’t sure what shape you liked,’ she added, which was untrue, since she had taken careful note of all the cuff-links he had worn over the past month.
Hartmann fitted them to his sleeves as Anne watched excitetly. She had saved the money she had made working at the Hartmanns’ and also borrowed some from Pierre. She had done some sewing for Mlle Calmette, who took in a small amount of work to augment her income, and although it had meant sitting up late into the night it all seemed worth it now as she saw Hartmann pull back his jacket sleeve and insert the links with his long, articulated fingers, twisting his wrists so that the flat palm of his hand became visible as he fitted them into place.
Anne couldn’t quite understand his response. He seemed pleased, as she had hoped, but also troubled. She had told him not to worry about the expense, yet, unusually for him, he looked embarrassed. There must be some other reason, though she couldn’t think what it might be. When he took her in his arms he squeezed her so tightly it felt as if he were struggling with some feeling in himself and were using the physical exertion to control it. Then she felt his hand lift up her chin, and when he looked into her face his body relaxed. He smiled and kissed her gently.
Four days after the visit of the surveyor, Hartmann rose early to read some papers. He asked Marie to make some tea and take it up to Christine in bed. It was seven o’clock and barely light outside, with a sleety drizzle coming in off the lake. As he looked through the glass panels of the front door a boy on a bicycle appeared and shoved a newspaper through the letter-box. Hartmann picked it up, tucked it under his arm and made off through the dining-room towards his study. As he did so, his eye was caught by three letters: SAL. He stopped and opened the newspaper to find the headline: ‘Salengro Found Dead.’
The opening paragraphs were written, or rewritten, in the style favoured by editors seeking to impart a sense of urgency.
Roger Salengro, Minister of the Interior, was found dead in his apartment in Lille yesterday. Police were called to the house after neighbours reported a smell of gas. M. Salengro was found in the kitchen.
The apartment, in which M. Salengro lived alone since the death of his wife last year, was unheated. A cold supper left by his maid the night before had not been touched . . .
Four days ago M. Salengro was given an overwhelming vote of confidence in the Chamber after allegations in certain parts of the press that he had deserted during the war.
Jean Zay, a cabinet colleague, commented last night: ‘He was a sweet, timid and extremely sensitive man.’
He is said to have been depressed by the death of his wife and upset by the allegations made against him in the press. Police do not suspect foul play.
Since their argument over whether Christine should have shown the photographs to Anne, relations between Hartmann and Christine had been tense, but Christine felt that her long period of waiting was nearly over. It had taken courage to control her natural urge to confront Hartmann with his infidelity, but she was glad she had managed it, because she sensed that the struggle in him was reaching a climax. It was beginning to turn out just as she hoped: Hartmann was growing entangled in the coils of his own conscience, without any prompting from her.
Just before lunch Antoine telephoned from Paris to say that Salengro’s death was being hailed by the right-wing press in Paris as a confession of guilt. They had kept a flame of hatred burning for Salengro since he had signed the government decree outlawing the fascist leagues in June, and now they felt they had their revenge.
When Hartmann told Christine of his conversation with Antoine, she said, ‘You mustn’t take it so personally, Charles. These things happen.’
‘Apparently.’
Marie brought in some artichokes and a vinaigrette. Christine began to talk about Roussel and how badly he had let them down. While she spoke, she watched Hartmann closely. In all the time she had known him she had never seen him so listless. She kept up her chatter, but all the time with one eye on him. She waited till Marie had brought in the main course before she moved into the vacuum left by Hartmann’s lack of spirit.
‘Why were you so angry with me the other day, Charles, when I told you I’d shown those photographs to the girl – to Anne? Perhaps it was a little indiscreet, but I wouldn’t have thought it mattered that much.’
‘No. Perhaps it doesn’t. I felt you’d taken advantage of her position to taunt her, but maybe I’m wrong.’
There was silence except for the sound of their cutlery on the china and the remote ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall.
Christine braced herself. ‘Charles, there isn’t anything going on between you and that girl, is there?’
Hartmann stopped with a glass of wine half way to his lips, his eyes suddenly alive again. ‘Going on?’
‘Yes, it’s just that . . .’ To her mortification and surprise Christine found herself blushing. ‘I heard rumours . . . I don’t know how to say it . . .’
‘Well, don’t say it,’ said Hartmann. ‘Don’t even allow yourself to think it.’
He looked down at the table and tore off a piece of bread, not noticing for a moment that Christine had begun to cry, the tears running over her round cheeks. Then he stood up and walked round the table to where she sat. He put an arm around her shoulders.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I haven’t been myself lately. So much has been happening . . . And I haven’t been kind to you, Christine, I know that, and I’m ashamed.’
Christine took the hand that rested on her shoulder and stroked the long fingers.
‘I have no excuses,’ he said. ‘I’ve neglected you and you’ve been very patient. Just give me a little more time. Just a week or two –’
‘Two weeks?’
‘All right, a week. Just seven days to get my thoughts straight.’
‘Oh, Charles, I can’t. Do you know what this uncertainty means to me?’
‘I’m sorry, Christine. Sorrier than you can imagine. But just this tiny bit longer. Just seven days and everything will be fine, everything will be as it always has been. Can you wait that long?’
Christine nodded, biting her lip. It was unsatisfactory and left her anguish quite unaltered, but she sensed that her best chance still lay in waiting. Hartmann’s sense of duty could then be relied on to force the issue to its conclusion; he was not the sort of man to ask for more time or try to escape from his commitment.
He left the room, and Christine, against all her normal practice, poured herself a glass of wine. Hartmann’s eloquence had stopped him from having to make a confession, it was true, but she was glad he had said nothing that would have been hard for her to live with afterwards. She might yet emerge triumphant if she could find the courage necessary to keep her resolve stuck fast for just a few more days.
The damp bracken flattened out beneath Hartmann’s feet as he strode through the woods. He scrambled down the brick wall of the dyke and out to the beach beyond, where the sea had retreated out of sight. In the pines on the headland a slow wind was gathering.
Hartmann felt his head throb and flare with different emotions, none of them his own making. It was as if his mind had been opened up to other people and he had no way of shutting off their feelings as they pulsated in the empty space of his brain. He thought of the box full of letters he had come across in the attic and of the desires he had failed to read in them. He thought of Roussel, and the premonition he had felt, but failed to understand, as they stood surveying the Manor together. He thought of the slow anguish of Christine in the face of his impotence and the rumours that had reached her. Most of all he thought of Anne, and here his imagination stalled. He felt the passion of her love for him and he felt her anguish so surely that he thought it was his own.
He had taken apart his feeling for her bit by bit and told himself that he could see no wrong in it. He wanted only to be kind to her, to let her enjoy herself away from the drudgery of the hotel; there was nothing evil or base in his motive. Even when he admitted that he was only trying to justify his physical longing for her in neutral terms, still he could see no harm in it. There was something wrong, he had persuaded himself, in a society that could think of such generous feelings as unacceptable. Equally, he thought, something was limited in his own understanding of the world when he could not find the grounds of argument on which to explain away the paradox of his good intention and the guilt he felt about it. He blamed his narrow intellect, his cramped imagination, and reassured himself that sooner or later these and other complications would be unravelled.
He kicked his feet in the sand. Above him a sea-gull squawked and bent slowly on the wind.
There was only his feeling for Anne with which he could comfort himself. There was no atom in him which did not wish for her happiness and release. But all this fine feeling was of no use when confronted by the simple paradox of her dilemma: she could not be properly loved until she had disclosed the full story of her life; but by choosing him, at that moment in his own life, as the recipient of her trust, she had set in motion a slow but inevitable rejection. Its pattern would duplicate in her the effects of that first abandonment which had so far shaped her existence, and thus ensure that evil would be triumphant, repeating itself as naturally as if by breeding.
Hartmann stopped walking and for a moment was able to shut off the thoughts that chased each other across his head. For a moment he could see things clearly, in perspective, and he felt calmer; but no sooner had he repossessed himself than a switch seemed to be thrown and he became once more charged with emotion which seemed to belong to other people but which he experienced as his own.