The Scapegoat (31 page)

I lit a cigarette with a sigh, and, leaning back against a tree, wondered how far we were from St Gilles. There was no sound of man or gun or bird, nothing but the light and dismal patter of the rain. Presently, damp and stiff, my bandaged hand starting to throb, I dragged myself to my feet, and with my hell-hound in tow started off once more through the fastness of the wood, feeling, as the poet did before me, that my companion would be with me through the nights and through the days and down the arches of the years, and I should never be rid of him.

There was no break in the weeping sky to give direction. I could not tell whether we walked north or south, east or west, and César was no help to me. Still leashed, he trotted at my side as docile as a poodle, stopping when I stopped, suiting his pace to mine. Suddenly he stiffened, and almost under my feet a pheasant rose and flew in alarm into the undergrowth ahead. As we scrambled through a belt of narrowing trees another bird took off, and yet another, for we must have inadvertently stumbled upon some hiding-place or lair. In the distance I could hear shouts and then a shot, but away to the left of me, and the startled birds were swerving to my right.

Then I saw, some little way ahead, that at last the trees were clearing. We were coming to another of those broad rides traversing the woods which I had hoped to find before. We stumbled on to it, wet, bedraggled, as covered with leaves and brushwood as a poacher and his cur. And I perceived, not twenty yards away, Paul and Robert staring at me, while posted down the ride, like sentinels on guard, the line of sportsmen waited in ignorance for the birds I had prematurely scattered.

G
aston appeared from nowhere with the car. He also had the flask, last seen in the hotel bedroom at Le Mans and now refilled with cognac, which I swallowed humped on the back seat of the Renault. Through the misty windscreen I watched the disconsolate figures of the sportsmen, baulked of their prey, turn and disappear once more through the belt of trees in hopeful quest of less elusive quarry. Gaston, devoted, anxious, peered into my face, suggesting that Dr Lebrun should be summoned to attend me, but he read my symptoms wrongly. My hand was not hurting me, nor was I in a high fever: the cognac was the solace that I needed.

After a while, the flask emptied, we jolted once again over ruts and muddy ridges. I recollect a low farm building, the trackway beside it already filled with cars, and waiting to welcome me at the doorway the tenant of the farm, immense, red-faced, bucolic, and his chattering shrimp of a wife. They led me into a huge barn, and I barely had time to huddle in the far corner, screened from the open door, before the
chasseurs
entered, thirsty, tired, and steamy wet, turning the barn to babel until the rafters rang. Servants from the château hastened round with the wine which Gaston had brought. I remember Renée on one side of me and the man from Le Mans upon the other, and Renée telling him in great detail the story of the bonfire, and explaining that ever since I had been in a state bordering upon delirium, and nobody understood it except herself. Scarcely had she finished when the man from Le Mans started chattering about high finance, coups on the Bourse, gambles successfully won. My head reeled. Here was the one
man who might have helped me – surely he must be the one Béla had spoken of? – and I didn’t even know his business or his name.

‘I’m flying to London late tonight,’ he said. ‘The usual monthly trip. If there’s anything I can do for you there, you know where to find me.’

In my haze of alcohol, I thought for one crazy instant that he had plumbed my secret. I stared at him, shaken, then caught at his sleeve and said, ‘What are you getting at? What do you mean?’

‘Exchange of pounds,’ he replied briefly. ‘If you have any English friends, I know how to work it. Easiest thing in the world.’

‘Friends?’ I asked. ‘Indeed I have English friends,’ smiling foolishly, knowing myself secure. Of course he had not guessed, of course he did not realize what I meant. ‘I have a very good friend in London who lives near the British Museum,’ I said. ‘He’d exchange pounds for francs any day of the week, if he could get them.’ And because I was speaking of the self who sat beside him, and the joke seemed to me exquisitely funny, I added, ‘Give me a piece of paper and a pen.’

He handed me his pocket diary and Biro, and laboriously I wrote my own name and address in block capitals, and gave the diary back to him in drunken solemnity, saying, ‘Any assistance you give this chap you’ll be giving to me; we’re closer than brothers.’ Then I burst out laughing, thinking him extremely stupid not to see the point. Next I was aware of someone touching my elbow. It was Marie-Noel, and she was saying, ‘Uncle Paul wants to know if you are going to say a few words, or shall he?’ Before I could answer the financier was clapping vigorously, and suddenly the whole company was banging and stamping, and the financier was patting me on the shoulder, saying, ‘Go on, Jean, make a speech.’ In a haze of alcohol, surrounded on all sides by a sea of faces, I thought, this is where I make my mark as seigneur of St Gilles. I may
have ruined the sport this morning, but now I am in form.

‘Mesdames et messieurs,’
I began, ‘once again it is my pride and pleasure to welcome you upon this happy occasion, and although, alas, an accident has prevented me from taking an active part in the proceedings, at least I am consoled by the fact that my brother has deputized so well. It is not an easy thing to do, to take another’s place, as I am perfectly aware. The truth of this was forced upon me only yesterday morning when I was down at the
verrerie
looking through the accounts.’ I pulled myself up. What the devil was I saying? The two identities were merging into one. ‘Be that as it may,’ I floundered, ‘I am not here to talk about the
verrerie
but about shooting …’

I felt someone jogging my elbow – it was the financier, scarlet in the face, making signs to me to finish, murmuring for my ear alone, ‘Have you gone crazy, you idiot?’ In front of me were the other faces, puzzled, uneasy, and it dawned upon me that my speech was not entirely a success, and that it would be best to finish it speedily with some jocular remark.

‘In conclusion,’ I said, lifting my glass, ‘I will only add this – that my damaged hand today surely prevented disaster. The marquis was wise to go home when he did. If I had carried a gun …’ and here I paused for emphasis ‘… some of you present might never have survived.’ I stopped, oddly relieved to have uttered my own truth, but I could not understand why nobody clapped. However feeble my joke may have seemed to them, surely courtesy demanded at any rate a show of applause? Instead, there was a shuffling of feet, and everybody began to move away and outside as though the barn had suddenly become unbearably warm and they longed for the open air. My words had been lamentably few, but I could not see how they had in any way been offensive.

Renée was with me again, and Dr Lebrun. ‘I think you must have a touch of fever,’ he said. ‘It would be wise to get back to the château as soon as possible.’

‘Nonsense,’ I said, ‘my hand isn’t hurting at all.’

‘All the same,’ he said, ‘you’d be wiser to lie down.’

I was in no condition to argue. I allowed myself to be led by Gaston to the car, and as we turned out of the farmyard I could see the straggling line of sportsmen moving off to their afternoon objective. It was still raining, and I did not envy them.

‘My speech didn’t seem to go down very well,’ I said to the silent Gaston at my side, half excusing myself, half trying to turn it into a matter for laughter between us.

He did not answer for a moment. Then the corner of his mouth twitched.

‘Listen, Monsieur le Comte,’ he said, his voice an apology, ‘you had a little too much to drink, that was all.’

‘Was it so noticeable?’ I said.

I felt rather than saw the shrug. ‘People are sensitive,’ he said, ‘especially about the past. It doesn’t do to mix up war and peace and make a joke of it.’

‘But I didn’t do anything of the sort,’ I said. ‘I was speaking of something quite different.’

‘Excuse me, Monsieur le Comte,’ he said, ‘I misunderstood you. So did they.’

We drove the few miles back in silence. As I got out of the car, and he stood waiting for further orders, it struck me suddenly that possibly not all the guests would be returning for refreshment later. It might be that some of them would now make excuses and go home. I put the point to Gaston.

‘It is one of those things, Monsieur le Comte,’ he said, ‘that are best left to the discretion of those concerned. In any case, if few turn up to drink in the dining-room, I can promise you that the kitchen quarters of the château will be completely filled.’

I went upstairs and crept softly into the dressing-room so as not to disturb Françoise. Throwing myself down on to the bed, I slept instantly. I was woken by someone whispering in my ear. The whisper was at first soft, part of a breaking dream.
Then it came louder, and opening my eyes I saw that it was dark, raining still. A figure stood by the bed. It was Germaine, the little
femme de chambre
.

‘Come quickly, Monsieur le Comte,’ she was saying. ‘Madame la Comtesse is unwell, she is asking for you.’

I sat up instantly, switching on the light. Germaine looked frightened, and I did not understand why she should have come to me.

‘Where’s Charlotte?’ I said. ‘Has she sent you for me?’

‘Charlotte is downstairs, Monsieur le Comte,’ she whispered. ‘There is a great crowd in the kitchen eating and drinking, you understand, all those who were at the shoot today, and Charlotte told me to stay with Madame la Comtesse because she wanted to join the others below. It isn’t often, she said, that there is company at the château, and surely for once I could stay upstairs and listen, for Madame la Comtesse was sleeping and would give no trouble.’

I was up now, and struggling into my jacket. ‘What’s the time?’ I asked.

‘It’s after eight, Monsieur le Comte,’ she said. ‘There are still a few guests in the dining-room with Monsieur and Madame Paul and Mademoiselle Blanche, but not so many came as were expected. Gaston told us that a number had gone home because they were wet through, and also because you, Monsieur, were unwell and things were not quite as usual.’

I straightened my tie and smoothed my hair before the mirror. At least I was sober again.

‘What’s the matter with Madame la Comtesse?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know, Monsieur le Comte,’ she answered, looking frightened once again. ‘She was sleeping, and then she started to groan and to ask for Charlotte, but Charlotte had told me not to go down for her, so I went to the bed and asked if there was anything I could do. I told a lie, I said I could not find Charlotte. Then she asked for you, not Mademoiselle Blanche or the doctor or anyone else, only Charlotte or you,
Monsieur le Comte, and she said to come at once, no matter where you were or what you were doing. I was frightened, she looked so ill.’

She followed me out of the dressing-room and up the stairs. Away below I could hear the sound of revelry from the kitchen quarters, curiously in contrast to the usual deep silence of St Gilles. We passed through the swing-door on to the third corridor, and at once the music and the laughter stopped. We were shut off from sound, enveloped in shadow, for this part of the château had no part in the merriment below.

When we came to the bedroom door I paused, something telling me I should go in alone, and asked Germaine to wait outside in the corridor. The room was dark. Only a feeble glow from the stove enabled me to distinguish the shape of the furniture, of the bed, and because I did not want to disturb the comtesse by turning on the light, I went to the window and eased the shutter so that a streak of pallor might at least fall upon the carpet and make the darkness grey. As I folded back the shutter I could hear the steady rain running in the lead guttering as I had imagined it would in winter, churning and tumbling the rubble of dust and leaves, sweeping them down to course out of the gargoyle mouth. Looking from the window I saw that the mist had descended too. The château was isolated in its plot of ground above the empty moat, like a dead world lost in vapour.

Her voice came to me, faint and strangely guttural, from the depths of the vast bed. ‘Who is it?’

‘It’s I, Jean.’

I moved away from the window and went to her. I could see nothing but her form under the covers, not her face.

‘I’m ill,’ she said. ‘Why didn’t you come before?’

Her words, ‘Je
souffre
’, do not lend themselves to another language. The distress is there, physical or mental, embraced in the single phrase.

‘What do you want me to do?’ I asked.

She moved restlessly, and I knelt down beside the bed and took her hand.

‘You know perfectly what I want you to do,’ she said.

There were medicines on the table beside the bed, and I glanced towards them, perplexed, but she shook her head, impatient, exasperated, and moaned, thrashing her head from side to side. ‘Charlotte keeps it next door,’ she said, ‘in the dressing-room, in the drawer of the cupboard there. Surely you remember where it is?’

I got up, went into the dressing-room, and switched on the light. There was only one cupboard in the small room, with a single drawer, and this I opened. Inside were two boxes, one of them still half-wrapped in paper which I recognized. It was the same wrapping that had covered the gift in the valise, the gift which I had given into Charlotte’s hands that first evening in the château. I took the wrapping off now, and opened the box. It was full of little ampoules packed one upon the other in layers of cotton wool. They contained liquid, and a label upon each, with the single word morphine. I opened the other box. It held a hypodermic syringe. There was nothing else in the drawer. As I stood there, staring, I heard her calling me from the bedroom, ‘Jean, why don’t you come?’ Slowly I took the syringe out of its box, and one of the ampoules, and laid them on the table below. There was cotton-wool on the table, and a bottle containing spirit, but in the days of the war, when these things had been familiar to me, kneeling beside a doctor on the floor of an air raid shelter, or in an ambulance, I had never had the feeling of revulsion that possessed me now. Then we acted in mercy, to deaden pain. This was different. I understood at last what it was that Jean de Gué had brought his mother from Paris. But his mother was not ill or dying, neither was she in pain.