Girl at the Lion D'Or (13 page)

Mme Bouin resumed her more normal manner. ‘I shall be speaking to Monsieur the Patron later today and will let you know what he has to say on the matter. Now I’m sure the head waiter has some work for you, mademoiselle.’

‘Thank you, madame.’

The same night André Mattlin came into the town bar and ordered a drink. He told Anne of some new plans he had been commissioned to prepare for the Mayor, and watched the pull of her skirt around her hips as she worked.

He lit a cigarette. ‘I’ve got more work than I can handle, that’s the problem. When you’ve had experience of working on major projects in Paris everyone in a little place like this wants to hire you.’

‘I don’t know why you don’t go back to Paris,’ said Anne, pouring a glass of beer for another customer.

‘Paris is finished. It was fine in the twenties, and till a few years ago perhaps, but not any more. People are scared, there’s not enough money, and they’re obsessed by the Germans.’

‘But aren’t we all?’

‘I suppose so. I don’t suppose there’s much we can do about it. If they want to invade us they will. They’ll just walk in.’

‘They won’t
walk
in, surely? We’ll fight.’

‘No. Never again.’ Mattlin swirled his drink around the glass.

‘Why did you leave your job in Paris?’

‘I’ve told you.’ Mattlin puffed on his cigarette. ‘The place was finished. And the company I worked for, they – I – it was ridiculous. I was the only competent young architect there. All the older ones just wanted to build like latter-day Haussmanns, all that monumental stuff, and I was the only one with any idea of the modern movements. So I had to do all the hard work while some of these other time-servers became partners.’

‘So you resigned?’

‘I – yes.’ Mattlin nodded energetically, the curls on his head wobbling slightly as he did so. He had narrow greyish eyes, underscored with a darker grey after too many nights’ excess, a long nose which started to hook about an inch before the end, and an upper lip on which the brownness of the pigmentation was blurred into the skin above at certain points, giving rise to doubts about what was lip and what was face and, in the more general sense, what was the difference. His cheeks were slightly concave and, though the chin was firm, there was a suspicion of a second beneath it when he lowered his head, as he often did, to take up a drink or cigarette. Despite these flaws he was a good-looking man, the features somehow fitting together to make a whole that was more impressive than its parts. Perhaps the high bony forehead gave it dignity, or perhaps it was a triumph of proportion over detail, like a building by the despised Haussmann.

‘What’s this I hear,’ he said to Anne, ‘about your living in lodgings with that Calmette woman?’

Anne was taken by surprise. ‘How did you know?’

Mattlin smiled. ‘Everyone knows. And I couldn’t tell you where I’d heard it. It’s true, isn’t it?’

‘It’s not definite. Monsieur the Patron has got to approve it.’

‘Who’s paying for these rooms?’

‘It’s none of your business, monsieur, if you don’t mind my saying.’

Mattlin smiled, ‘I thought as much.’

Anne blushed, then, feeling ashamed at herself for showing guilt where there was none, blushed even more, so her eyes stung with the burning. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said, fumbling with some glasses below the bar.

‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Anne,’ said Mattlin.

‘Of
course
it’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ she said, straightening up and furiously addressing herself to him.

Mattlin smiled. ‘Of course.’

Anne took a tray and hurried round the bar to gather any empty glasses she could find. Mattlin watched her as she leaned across the tables. He had no idea who was paying for her rooms and had been surprised when his random shot went home: clearly there was something going on or Anne wouldn’t have looked so guilty, but he didn’t believe that Hartmann had made her his mistress. Hartmann, to Mattlin’s relief, had ceased to be a competitor for the affections of the women they knew, and Mattlin doubted that he would have changed his mind now. If he had, then there were ways of making sure his suit would be unsuccessful. In the meantime it did no harm for Anne to believe that he thought Hartmann was keeping her as a mistress, and it would serve his purposes if confusion on the issue were spread as far as possible.

Anne felt indignant as she loaded her tray, but she knew she lacked even the consolation of having been honest. There was nothing dishonourable in what she was doing, she was sure, yet she was forced to conceal the facts of it with half-lies, and her reputation would suffer in this small town just as much as if the rumours were true.

Before he left, Mattlin made her agree to go out with him the following night. It was the last thing she wanted to do, but she could see that if she refused it would only make him more suspicious.

That had been three days ago and now, as she set about tidying the apartment for Hartmann’s visit, Anne had still heard no word from Mme Bouin, so she presumed the Patron had made no objection to her staying there. Or perhaps he had been too busy even to see his manageress.

The butcher who sold her the chicken had also given her an old bacon knuckle, which she had added to the pot, and some beef bones which she had boiled to make stock for the soup. As she went about her rooms, dusting the mantelpiece, straightening the chairs, she had to sniff continuously to make sure the chicken had not boiled over and quenched the flame beneath it, thus leaving the gas to leak freely on to the landing. Usually when she went to check she found that the flame had sunk so low that the liquid in the pot wasn’t even gently simmering. The only position in which the gas-ring worked properly was fully open, when it let out a fierce and continuous blast; at lower temperatures it flared and died capriciously, as dictated by the clogged inlets from the pipe to which it was connected.

Anne went to change her clothes. There was not a great selection from which to choose and, after a moment’s thought, she chose a wine-coloured dress which was striking but demurely cut. She spent more time going through a box of combs and slides and earrings. In the end, after some minutes in front of the mirror, she was satisfied.

As she changed, Anne reflected that she had spent all the day preparing and waiting. Hartmann, no doubt, had had other things to do. There was his job and those boxes full of papers he had to read for it; there was his wife, and the large house to look after and the workmen to supervise; then there were his friends to see and play tennis and chess with: there was Jean-Philippe, whom she liked best, and his brother Jacques, the jolly one; and the persevering Mattlin; and the other people in Paris to whom he had made vague reference. All day Hartmann would have been occupied with these things while she had had nothing to do but think about him. Since he had last seen her and made the appointment for this evening he had probably not thought about her once, while she, who was so dependent on his bidding, had had to wait and hope that perhaps he might look into the Lion d’Or; that he might send one of his scribbled notes or might request an earlier meeting; might even contact her to confirm that he was coming. Perhaps, she thought, that is why I have reached this pitch of feeling so soon, when I hardly know him, because I have nothing else to think about, no way of my own of influencing events; while he, once he has decided what shall happen next, can merely turn his mind to other things. She felt a rush of resentment as she lifted the lid and peered once more at the now perversely bubbling chicken; but she could think of worse ways of passing a day than in this gentle simmer of anticipation.

Hartmann had in fact divided his day between despatching telegrams to Paris and discussing at some length with Jean-Philippe Gilbert, in whom he had confided, his position with regard to Anne.

Jean-Philippe viewed Hartmann’s dilemma with detached amusement. He warned him to be very careful in his visits but couldn’t otherwise see why Hartmann was perplexed. ‘It’s simple,’ he said. ‘Almost every married man in this town has a mistress. So long as it’s kept private, nobody minds. So long as it doesn’t cause your standard of living to fall – which distresses the wives – the system works well. Keep up appearances, that’s all that matters. To do what you’re doing – to worry when you haven’t yet done anything wrong – is the worst of both worlds.’

Hartmann laughed. ‘I suppose you’re right. Here, you must try some of this wine. I don’t know what it is, because the labels were washed off when my father’s cellar caved in, but this bottle’s very good. Go on, give me your glass.’

‘You never used to be like this, you know. You never used to have these scruples.’

‘I know. I’m getting older. I thought you stopped changing when you reached a certain age, but you don’t. Your good health.’ For fear of talking too much about himself, Hartmann made inquiries about Jean-Philippe’s life. They forgot the problems of Hartmann’s lust and conscience until Jean-Philippe was leaving, when he agreed to tell Christine, if it should be necessary, that Hartmann had spent the evening with him.

At about the time Anne was changing, Hartmann put on an old jacket and went for a walk along the side of the lake and out towards the sea. As he thrust his hands deep into the pockets he felt a crumpled letter and pulled it out. It was the one from Etienne Beauvais, his friend near Bordeaux, inviting him for a weekend. He read again the hearty conclusion: ‘Bring yourself a companion. All is discretion here! Do come, Charles; it will be a jolly party and we haven’t seen you for a long time.’ He looked at the date on top of the letter: it was nearly a month old and he had quite forgotten about it.

An hour later he drove his car at high speed through the pine forest and out into the sandy unwelcoming plain with its smaller cluster of houses round which children were playing. On the seat next to him was a bottle of the same unidentified wine he and Jean-Philippe had been drinking earlier and a bunch of flowers he had gathered on his walk through the woods and stored furtively in the boot before re-entering the house. As he accelerated uphill and back into the pines, he felt the exhilaration of the schoolboy who is breaking bounds. For several moments he enjoyed the feeling along with the rush of air over the windscreen. Then he thought: why should I feel this when I’ve done nothing wrong? What bounds have I broken? As he slowed the car at the approach to the crossroads on the edge of town, he felt once more the stirrings of conscience. Then he looked again at his feeling and found in it nothing but pleasure and kindness and an eagerness to please. He swung up into the long boulevard with its stripped trees and powered the car on up to the Place de la Victoire.

Anne’s day of waiting ended as she heard at last the ring of the street doorbell and Mlle Calmette wobbling over to open it. Then she heard the old woman’s front door close behind her, and there remained only the sound of Hartmann’s footsteps crossing the gravel of the courtyard. She felt a pounding in her throat. She heard him on the stairs to her apartment where she knew he would be assailed by the smell of cooking. She stepped out on to the landing, her cheeks a little flushed against the darkness of her hair. She was apologising and welcoming him and her words were falling over each other; she took his proffered hand, the patch of colour in her face not unlike the colour of the slide which held back her hair just above the ear. She noticed that he moved and spoke with slow movements, presumably to calm her.

He opened the wine and poured some for her. She took it and sipped from the glass, looking at him over the rim as though she feared he might vanish if she let her gaze leave him. Hartmann laughed and raised his own glass to her.

‘Oh, monsieur, I hope you won’t be disappointed in the dinner. It’s so difficult with the gas-ring. I’m not complaining, of course, you know, but . . . it doesn’t give out a regular heat and it’s been very difficult, so I hope you won’t be disappointed.’

‘Of course not. What are we having?’

‘Coq au vin,’ said Anne, with a hint of surprise. ‘It’s what you asked for.’

‘Is it? Of course, yes. I’m sorry if it was such a nuisance. You could have done anything. I don’t mind, I just wanted to come and see you were settled all right.’

‘You’d forgotten that’s what you asked for, hadn’t you?’

‘I – well, yes. I’ve no recollection of it at all.’

Anne began to laugh. ‘And to think of the trouble I went to.’

Hartmann laughed too. ‘I don’t even particularly like it, as a matter of fact.’

‘Now
really
!’

He gave her the flowers he had gathered in the woods and she went to find a vase for them, glad to have a chance to compose herself a little.

Hartmann meanwhile glanced around the room. On a sideboard was a small pile of books and he walked over and picked them up. The first one was a cloth-bound edition of
Essays
by Montaigne. Although old, it had been recently purchased, as the bookseller’s pencilled inscription inside the front cover made clear. Recalling their conversation in the attic, Hartmann felt a wave of embarrassment. He put down the books and turned away from the side-table to see Anne coming back into the room with the flowers arranged in a striped blue vase.

Anne had read some of the essays in the book Hartmann said was his favourite but appeared unwilling to discuss them with him. He didn’t press her, but deferred to her opinions and tried to guide the conversation into areas where she would feel at ease. Sometimes, he noticed, she would grow quite voluble in her enthusiasm but then would suddenly stop, as though she were afraid of talking too much or too inconsequentially. Then he would begin his slow prompting again, leading her forwards until her self-consciousness was once more overcome by her natural exuberance.

The food at least had turned out as well as could be hoped, and when they had finished the wine Hartmann had brought, Anne went to find the bottle of brandy she had purchased for his previous visit. Hartmann stood with his back to the fireplace and looked around the room, which was lit not only by the candles but also by a dangling light above the table that had a white crocheted shade like an old maid’s bonnet.