‘Armand, I cannot find her,’ she broke in, ignoring me completely in her distress. ‘Lucie, she is gone. I have looked everywhere, but—’
‘Calm yourself, Martine,’ her brother-in-law said, raising one hand to stop the woman’s flood of speech. ‘Lucie is fine, she’s safe in bed.’
‘Oh, thank God.’ Her knees caved weakly in relief and she dropped suddenly onto a tapestry-covered chair by the long windows. Touching a hand to her brow, she seemed to notice me for the first time, and the look she sent her brother-in-law was faintly quizzical.
In a few brief, unembellished sentences, he explained who I was, and how I’d come to be there.
‘I am so grateful to you, Mademoiselle.’ Her smile was a fleeting shadow on that lovely, fragile face. ‘You cannot know how I have suffered these past hours, searching for my niece. One reads such horrible things in the newspapers, you know, and I was so afraid …’ She couldn’t even finish the thought out loud. Her pale hand brushed her temple once again, and she said quietly: ‘I would never have forgiven myself.’
I mumbled once again that it was nothing, that I’d been only too glad to help Lucie, that they’d already been too kind … And pushing aside my empty plate, I glanced down at my wristwatch. ‘But I’m afraid I really must be getting back to my hotel.’
‘I will drive you,’ Martine said, as if determined to repay the debt. ‘Where are you staying?’
‘The Hotel de France.’
I caught the flicker of surprise, the too-bright smile. ‘Oh, yes?’
‘Martine has friends there,’ said Armand Valcourt. Leaning back in his chair, he lit a cigarette, and the lighter’s click was as violently loud as the cock of a loaded gun. ‘But I think, perhaps, that I should drive you down myself. To see you get back safely.’ He stressed that last word, ‘safely’, and Martine’s eyes flashed a quick response.
I glanced from one face to the other, sensed the coming storm, and diplomatically excused myself to use the bathroom. In spite of the fact that arguing was to the French what complaining about the weather was to the English, I’d never learned the knack of it. I hated arguments. I particularly hated being in the middle of them, and so I loitered as long as I could in the little toilet under the front stairs. Which rather backfired when Martine and Armand came into the hall. Trapped, I could only stand and wait, pretending not to hear the angry voices.
‘I’ve already told you I was sorry,’ snapped Martine Muret. ‘What more do you want?’
‘I want you to behave responsibly, to show some consideration for my feelings, Lucie’s feelings, instead of thinking only of yourself.’ He wasn’t really shouting, but his voice was cold and hard and carried clearly. ‘Do you realise what can happen to a child, alone at night? Do you?’
‘Of course I do,’ she shot back. ‘What do you think, Armand, that I wasn’t worried myself? That I wasn’t sick with fear when I realised she was missing? Is that what you think?’
‘I think you were too occupied with other things to notice she was gone. Which one was it, this time?’ he asked her. ‘The German or the Englishman? Or have you grown bored with them already, and found someone else?’
‘I don’t see that my private life is any of your business.’
‘When it affects my daughter, it’s my business. My God, Martine, what were you thinking of? We buried him today, or have you forgotten this?’
A silence followed, stung by the echo of those words. ‘I forget nothing,’ said Martine, at last, in a calm and quiet voice. ‘And how dare you judge my feelings, Armand. What do you know of love?’
I heard her cross the foyer and start up the staircase, her footsteps treading lightly over my head. Still, I waited until those footsteps were completely out of earshot, until I’d heard the click of Armand Valcourt’s cigarette lighter, before I decided it was safe to emerge.
He was standing at the foot of the stairs, his expression quite relaxed and natural. Only the jerking movement of the hand that held the cigarette betrayed his anger. By the time I reached him, even that small action had been brought under control. His eyes, on mine, were normal. ‘Ready?’ he asked me. ‘Yes? Then let us go.’ And handing me my jacket, he ushered me out into the waiting night.
CHAPTER TEN
… the Graces, group’d in threes,
Enring’d a billowing fountain …
He drove a Porsche. That didn’t surprise me overmuch – the flashy red sports car rather suited him – but it did set me wondering. If Armand Valcourt owned a car, why had he taken a taxi from the station yesterday morning? Come to think of it, why had he taken the train? I only wondered for a moment, then I asked him.
He shrugged. ‘I always take the train when I go to Paris. Martine might need the car, you see, if there were some emergency with Lucie. And anyway, I’d be a fool to drive the Porsche in Paris.’ He shot a sideways glance at me. ‘Why the smile?’
‘Was I smiling? Sorry. It’s only that I used to live in Paris, so I understand completely. My father once backed into a Mercedes. The owner wasn’t very … understanding.’
Armand laughed. ‘No, I don’t suppose he would have been.’ I felt again the flashing glance. ‘How long were you in Paris?’
‘Five years. But it was ages ago. I was only twelve when we left.’