"But yes, m'sieur! The Vicomte Etienne!"
"The Vicomte?"
"Of the Château du Cingle d'Enfer—above the river, on the bend."
Well, at least that made the identification certain: Lexy simply hadn't been able to twist her Anglo-Saxon tongue round Etienne d'Auberon du Cingle d'Enfer, and had reduced him in typical Lexy-fashion to 'Tienne!
"What d'you know about him?"
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Conflicting loyalties strove with each other in Raymond Galles's face, his sixteen-year commitment to the British against what might well be a more ancient identification with the Languedoc, which was older than either England or France, whose armies had each arrived here as foreign occupiers in their day.
"What d'you know of him?" repeated Roche patiently.
Galles shrugged. "He was with the General during the war—
he passed through here once, in the spring of '44. . ." he ran out of steam prematurely at that point in the history of the Lord of Hell's River Bend, so far as Roche could translate Something-Something.
"He was in the Bureau Central de Renseignements—or the Organisation Civile?" prompted Roche.
Galles spread his hands. "I do not know of such things—he was with the General, that I know. But I was going to say ...
he was very young then. And after the war he was of the Quai d'Orsay in Paris for many years, and seldom here."
"But now he's back?" Galles nodded. "Now he is back, yes."
So the older loyalty was the stronger. Or, if that was merely a romantic historical illusion, perhaps Galles was only a garagiste and car-hirer now, and knew no better. But either way he would have to depend on London now, and Thompson in Paris before that.
He grinned and shrugged at the Frenchman. With all the trouble and strife poor France had had since the end of the dummy5
war—with the falling franc and Indo-China, and now Algeria, and most recently Suez and the impotence of the West during the Hungarian rising against the Russians . . . not to mention the endless succession of governments, each as short-lived as it was feeble ... no one could find much comfort in the Fourth Republic, and a one-time follower of the ageing General de Gaulle would be more disillusioned than most.
"He's probably just pissed-off with politics altogether," he confided. "And I can't say I blame him . . . Mollet or Bourges-Maunoury—Eden or Macmillan . . . they're all the same!"
The addition of British prime ministers to French ones appeared to do the trick: the shrug-and-grin came back to him, only more eloquently, as only a true Frenchman could package such a mixture of regret and resignation.
Nevertheless, in view of Galles's equivocal attitude, an over-sudden loss of interest in d'Auberon might be unwise.
"Still, you'd better check up on him, I suppose—why he's here, what he's doing, and so on. Let me know if you turn up anything of interest." He raised his hand in farewell, and then checked himself as though an afterthought had struck him. "Presumably Madame Peyrony knows about him?"
Galles gave him a guarded look. "That is very likely," he agreed. "She knows a great many things."
"The young ladies seem scared of her—"
As Roche spoke Galles turned without warning and began to dummy5
polish an imaginary blemish on the gleaming bonnet of the car.
"What's she like, Madame Peyrony?" persisted Roche.
Galles went on polishing for a few seconds. When he looked up at Roche again his eyes were still on guard, but the ghost of a smile had relaxed his mouth. "She is a great lady, M'sieur Roche. And my advice to you is . . .if you should decide to lie to her about anything, lie very carefully."
Roche left him to his polishing.
XI
IF IT WAS gloomy under the trees which overshadowed the Chateau Peyrony on all sides, it was positively sepulchral inside the house: what little evening light the leaves permitted to approach it was further checked by the heavy drapery at the windows; and the single electric bulb in the chandelier high above Roche's head, inadequately fed by Raymond Galles's ancient generator, did little more than illuminate the crystal droplets around it.
"Christ!" murmured Roche under his breath.
"Yes," whispered Jilly, who could hear him because she was standing very close to him. "Decor by Charles Addams, Lexy says. With additional advice from Boris Karloff. And it's not much different in broad daylight, either."
"I was thinking of Dickens." He could smell her perfume, but dummy5
beyond it smells of dust and unopened rooms. By comparison, The Old House at Steeple Horley had smelt fresh and had been full of light and excitement.
"Dickens?" She felt for his hand.
"Miss Havisham's house." He squeezed her cold fingers.
"With me as Jean Simmons and you as John Mills, you mean?" She squeezed back. "But you're too tall for him . . .
we'll have to recast with Stewart Grainger as Pip—okay?"
Her juvenile film-going must date from the same period as his own. "If there's a choice I'd prefer to be James Mason,"
he hissed down at her.
She shook her head. "Sorry—no resemblance . . . apart from the miscasting."
Somewhere in the bowels of the house a door closed.
"David Audley's got an old house, Lexy says," whispered Jilly.
"Full of ghosts, she says it is. Like this one."
It was on the tip of Roche's tongue to agree, with the only difference being that the most likely ghost in The Old House would be wearing smartly-pressed battle-dress. It also rather suprised him that Lexy, of all people, had picked up such vibrations.
But neither of those thoughts would do. "This isn't a very old house, not really ..." He screwed up his eyes in an attempt to penetrate the gloom ". . . Second Empire, at a guess. The furniture looks like Second Empire—"
"Sssh!" Her fingers tightened, and then let go.
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The crone-in-waiting, well camouflaged in her shapeless black dress, reappeared on the landing halfway up the staircase ahead of them, like one of the Chateau Peyrony's resident spectres.
But, ghost or not, she was beckoning them now.
Their destination, as soon as they'd reached the main landing at the head of the stairs, was clearly marked by the bright strip of light under the door in front of them, even before the duty ghost tapped on it.
"Entrez."
At least the voice was thoroughly unghostlike, with only the slightest quaver of age beneath its feminine strength.
Roche followed Jilly Baker out of the gloom into the light.
The first thing he saw, other than a general impression of a room full of things which only its size prevented from seeming cluttered, was the fire burning in a grate, set in a white marble fireplace surmounted by the inevitable ormolu clock and a huge portrait of what looked like the Empress Eugenie.
"My dear Gillian—" the voice, with its strangely softened 'G', orientated him immediately to the speaker "—how good of you to come!"
Unlike Madame Goutard, the shopkeeper's wife, Madame Peyrony had never been a great beauty—the face was too dummy5
thin, the nose too Roman, even allowing for the depredations of time which had sharpened both. And the eye which settled on Roche, too, did not appraise him with anything like the once-upon-a-time might-have-been Goutard longing: either he was out of her class, too far below it for consideration, or sex had never figured largely in her calculations of worth and need.
" English, Madame? Je crois . . . ici on parle français, n'est-ce pas?" The confidence had come back into Jilly's voice, and into her face.
"One speaks French to those who need to have French spoken to them, my dear—like the incorrigible Alexandra, who has a good ear, but no mind . . . and that young man, David Audley, who has too much mind, but no ear." Her eyes, which had been darting back and forwards from Roche to Jilly, finally settled on Roche. "But there are those who do not need such instruction, so I gather . . . . Introduce me, Gillian, my dear."