It was dark when they drew up at the hotel. Howard went slowly up the stone steps to the door, the concierge following behind him with the bags. The old man pushed open the heavy oak door and went into the hall. By his side, the door leading into the estaminet flew open, and there was Madame Lucard, buxom and cheerful as she had been the year before, with the children round her and the maids grinning over her shoulder. Lucard himself was away with the Chasseurs Alpins.
They gave him a vociferous French welcome. He had not thought to find himself so well remembered, but it's not very common for English people to go deep into the Jura. They chattered at him nineteen to the dozen. Was he well? Had he made a good crossing of the Manche? He had stopped in Paris? And in Dijon also? That was good. It was very tiring to travel in this sale war. He had brought a fishing-rod with hun this time, instead of skis? That was good. He would take a glass of Pernod with Madame?
And then, Monsieur votre fils, he was well too?
Well, they had to know. He turned away from her blindly. 'Madame,' he said, 'mon fils est mort. ll est tombé de son avion, au-dessus de Heligoland Bight.'
Chapter 2
Howard settled down at Cidoton quite comfortably. The fresh mountain air did him a world of good; it revived his appetite and brought him quiet, restful sleep at night. The little rustic company of the estaminet amused and interested him, too. He knew a good deal of rural matters and he spoke good, slightly academic French. He was a good mixer and the fanners accepted him into their company, and talked freely to him of the matters of their daily life. It may be that the loss of his son helped to break the ice.
He did not find them noticeably enthusiastic for the war.
He was not happy for the first fortnight, but he was probably happier than he would have been in London. While the snow lasted, the slopes were haunted for him. In his short walks along the road before the woodland paths became available, at each new slope of snow he thought to see John come hurtling over the brow, stem-christie to a traverse, and vanish in a white flurry that sped down into the valley. Sometimes the fair-haired French girl, Nicole, who came from Chartres, seemed to be with him, flying along with him in the same flurry of snow. That was the most painful impression of all.
Presently as the sun grew stronger, the snow went away. There was the sound of tinkling water everywhere, and bare grass showed where there had been white slopes. Then flowers began to appear and his walks had a new interest. As the snow passed his bad dreams passed with it; the green flowering fields held no memories for him. He grew much more settled as the spring drew on.
Mrs Cavanagh helped him, too.
He had been worried and annoyed to find an English woman staying in the hotel, so far from the tourist track. He had not come to France to speak English or to think in English. For the first week he sedulously avoided her, together with her two children. He did not have to meet them. They spent a great part of their time in the salon; there were no other visitors in the hotel in between time. He lived mostly in his bedroom or else in the estaminet, where he played innumerable games of draughts with the habitués.
Cavanagh, they told him, was an official in the League of Nations at Geneva, not more than twenty miles away as the crow flies. He was evidently fearful of an invasion of Switzerland by the Germans, and had prudently sent his wife and children into Allied France. They had been at Cidoton for a month; each week-end he motored across the border to visit them. Howard saw hun the first Saturday that he was there, a sandy-haired, worried-looking man of forty-five or so.
The following week-end Howard had a short talk with him. To the old solicitor, Cavanagh appeared to be oddly unpractical. He was devoted to the League of Nations even in this time of war.
'A lot of people say that the League has been a failure,' he explained. 'Now, I think that is very unfair. If you look at the record of that last twenty years you'll see a record of achievement that no other organisation can show. Look at what the League did in the matter of the drug traffic!' And so on.
About the war, he said: The only failure that can be laid to the account of the League is its failure to inspire the nations with faith in its ideals. And that means propaganda. And propaganda costs money. If the nations had spent one-tenth of what they have spent in armaments on the League, there would have been no war.'
After half an hour of this, old Howard came to the conclusion that Mr Cavanagh was a tedious fellow. He bore with him from a natural politeness, and because the man was evidently genuine, but he made his escape as soon as he decently could. The extent of his sincerity was not made plain to Howard till the day he met Mrs Cavanagh in the woods, and walked a mile back to the hotel with her.
He found her a devoted echo of her man. 'Eustace would never leave the League,' she said. 'Even if the Germans were to enter Switzerland, he'd never leave Geneva. There's still such great work to be done.'
The old man looked at her over his spectacles. 'But would the Germans let him go on doing it if they got into Switzerland?'
'Why, of course they would,' she said. 'The League is international. I know, of course, that Germany is no longer a member of the League. But she appreciates our non-political activities. The League prides itself that it could function equally well in any country, or under any government. If it could not do that, it couldn't be said to be truly international, could it?'
'No,' said Howard, 'I suppose it couldn't.'
They walked on for a few steps in silence. 'But if Geneva really were invaded by the Germans,' he said at last, 'would your husband stay there?'
'Of course. It would be very disloyal if he didn't.' She paused, and then she said: That's why he sent me out here with the children, into France.'
She explained to him that they had no ties in England. For ten years they had lived in Geneva; both children had been born there. In that time they had seldom returned to England, even on holiday. It had barely occurred to them that she should take the children back to England, so far away from him. Cidoton, just across the border into France, was far enough.
'It's only just for a few weeks, until the situation clears a little,' she said placidly. Then we shall be able to go home.' To her, Geneva was home.
He left her at the entrance to the hotel, but next day at déjeuner she smiled at him when he came into the room, and asked him if he had enjoyed his walk.
'I went as far as the Pointe des Neiges,' he said courteously. 'It was delightful up there this morning, quite delightful.'
After that they often passed a word or two together, and he fell into the habit of sitting with her for a quarter of an hour each evening after dinner in the salon, drinking a cup of coffee. He got to know the children too.
There were two of them. Ronald was a dark-haired little boy of eight, whose toy train littered the floor of the salon with its tin lines. He was mechanical, and would stand fascinated at the garage door while the concierge laboured to induce ten-year-old spark-plugs to fire the mixture in the ten-year-old Chrysler. Old Howard came up behind him once.