Chapter FOURTEEN

“But you aren’t actually afraid of anything, are you? You don’t think Mme. Bender is any the worse for what you’ve just told me?”

Geoffrey was trying hard to read Catherine’s thoughts. Was she keeping something back? He fancied she was more deeply troubled than she was willing to admit, but he could not quite get at the cause of her anxiety.

It was late Sunday afternoon; the air was soft with the first full tide of spring, and half the Latin Quarter thronged the pavements, or lingered at little tables in front of the cafés, sipping apéritifs. Everywhere were flower-sellers laden with tulips and daffodils, while on the street corners venders of balloons exhibited their huge soaring bunches of multi-coloured grapes. The whole presented an effect of pageantry and that outpouring of the holiday spirit which Paris knows so perfectly how to achieve.

Catherine and Geoffrey, having quitted the rue d’Assas, had sauntered aimlessly across the space beside the Café des Lilas, ancient haunt of long-haired poets, and turned into the narrow avenue of flowering chestnuts which leads like the neck of a bottle to the Luxembourg Gardens. Now that they were alone, the girl had hastened to pour out the story of the past week, her pent-up feelings finding relief in the recital. Yet that her companion, in spite of his evident sympathy, did not take the situation as seriously as she did, was plain from the question he asked at the end.

She bit her lip, and considered for several seconds before framing a reply.

“I don’t know what to say. On the surface things are going on much as usual. Mme. Bender was prostrated for two days, exactly as long as that woman kept to her word about leaving, but the minute Jeanne gave in and said she would stay my cousin revived again. Now she’s just as she was before.”

“Do you think this maid actually meant to go?”

“Not for a moment! I’m sure it was only a bluff on her part, but it was a most effective one. She’s got her mistress now exactly where she wants her, more than ever under her thumb. Oh, I was blind not to see it before! Hermione was right. It’s terrifying to think that any human being can be so completely dominated by another.”

He let his eyes dwell on the straight parallels of chestnuts stretching ahead before speaking.

“I wonder if there’s any use trying to persuade her to go into a nursing-home? It seems to me she would be better off with expert care.”

“Of course! I have thought so from the beginning. But it is very difficult, as the doctor pointed out to me when I spoke to him. She has got some morbid dread of being put under restraint, and if one overruled her there’s no telling what might happen. That, I begin to see, is at the root of her fear about losing Jeanne, who probably keeps her frightened with tales of French asylums.”

“So she believes Jeanne alone is standing between her and a sanatorium?”

“Exactly. I tell you that creature is fiendishly clever! Whether because of egotism and jealousy or from some other motive, she has made Germaine think no one but herself is capable of a disinterested devotion. Everyone else is an enemy--even I.”

Her cheeks flushed, there were tears in her eyes. He could see how deeply she was hurt.

“That’s absurd!” he exclaimed hotly.

“Absurd or not, it’s true! I can’t bear to speak of it. You see, ever since that afternoon I have noticed a change in Germaine towards me. There’s a barrier between us, she isn’t frank any more, and I know only too well it’s because of those vile accusations Jeanne made against me. She thinks--oh, it’s too shameful!--that I am staying there simply for what I hope to get out of her.”

“Can’t you make her see how false all this is?”

“How can I? If I protest against the insinuations, the fact of doing so amounts practically to an admission. It’s not as though she said anything openly, it’s only a sort of subtle reproach in her manner. No, there’s nothing I can do.”

“Except,” he suggested, “to leave there altogether.”

She turned for a moment in his direction, then shook her head.

“I can’t do that,” she answered firmly. “I’d like to, but I daren’t.”

“Why?” he demanded. “It’s not as though you could help matters by staying. What can you do?”

“Someone must be there,” she replied obstinately, “if only to keep an eye on those servants. She’s so utterly alone! Why, she even refuses now to see Hermione--another result of Jeanne’s work. If I go away, she’ll be completely cut off from the world.”

He nodded thoughtfully.

“I see your point,” he said. “But, after all, you can’t be with her long. What about your visit to Italy?”

“That’s off. I’ve written to the Hardwickes to say I’m not joining them after all. Too bad, but it can’t be helped.”

He stopped stock-still in astonishment.

“Is there any real need to sacrifice yourself like this?”

“I don’t know. I hope it may do some good! Anyhow I feel I must see things straightened out for Germaine before I go away. Perhaps you think I’m foolish, but I believe you would do the same in my place.”

He said no more. Secretly he was exulting over the knowledge that he was not going to lose her in a few weeks’ time. The future suddenly held out rosy hopes.

In silence they passed through the big iron gates into the gardens. Ahead of them stretched the grey palace of the Luxembourg, and in the amphitheater before it the round basin of water shimmered in the sun, white-winged boats flying across its bosom, and the fountain lifting a plume of diamond spray. Tiny children, dressed like gay dolls, darted about with hoops and balls, street urchins in black aprons chattered clamorously, rusty crows of old women huddled on the seats above which the stone queens of France gazed down in a majestic circle.

Close to the statue of Marguerite de Valois they found a seat and resumed their conversation.

“Now as to this thieving business,” said Geoffrey, offering his companion a cigarette. “I don’t say you are wrong, but it’s possible Mr. Bender did dispose of certain things before he died. It strikes me that for those servants to sell anything as conspicuous as a Manet would be taking a frightful risk.”

“Would it?” she retorted. “I’m not so sure. If I had not happened along, who would have been the wiser?”

He was forced to admit the logic of this.

“I daresay they are rogues,” he said reflectively. “The moment you spoke of their cutting down the household expenses I had my suspicions. You say no one comes to the flat?”

“Not a soul, except that horrid little man I told you about. I suppose he is Jeanne’s lawyer, but I am not satisfied about him somehow. I can’t help thinking he is mixed up in this, though I can’t guess how. Do you know, I actually went and had a hat copied at Honorine’s, merely to try to find out about him; but although I’ve been to her place several times, I have not seen him again.”

Geoffrey continued his own train of thought.

“Of course, the paintings would fetch large sums, even if sold through a _receleur_,” he remarked.

“A _receleur_? What’s that?”

“A receiver of stolen goods. Naturally such sales could not be conducted through legitimate channels.”

She made an excited gesture.

“The little _notaire_!” she cried. “Perhaps that’s what he is--a receiver of stolen goods. Had you thought of that?”

“By Jove, you may be right! That’s a thundering good suggestion. I wonder if we can find out?”

He pondered the idea, bending forward and examining the pebbles underfoot with close attention. Presently without looking at her he spoke again:

“When you said just now that you wanted to stay there to keep an eye on the servants, had you anything in mind beyond the fact that they may be dishonest?”

She started slightly, shifting her gaze from the impertinent profile of the sculptured queen to the leafy avenue stretching out behind them.

“Nothing definite,” she answered reluctantly. “After all, stealing is bad enough. No, I don’t know that there’s anything else.”

He studied the tip of his cigarette.

“Yet you are nervous about something. Am I right?”

How observant he was! She had tried to conceal her secret from him, but he had guessed it in spite of her.

“It’s only an instinctive feeling,” she admitted guiltily. “I can’t define it. Do you think me frightfully stupid?”

The confession brought relief. Since Wednesday she had battled with a nameless dread, vague yet sufficiently strong to account for her letter to the Hardwickes. She had been haunted by the consciousness of impending disaster, the more to be feared because of its obscurity--something which would require all her wits to circumvent.

Instead of replying he asked another question:

“Do you happen to know if this maid is trying to induce her mistress to make a will?”

“It’s odd you should speak of that,” she answered, surprised. “As a matter of fact, she has not done anything of the sort. It was the very point she made to prove to Germaine she had no mercenary motives. She brought it out like a trump card.”

“Ah!” he exclaimed in satisfaction, “that’s good!”

“Why?” she demanded, puzzled.

“Why? Simply that if what she declares is true, then there can be no actual danger threatening your cousin. You see what I mean?”

“Not quite.”

“I’ll make it plainer. Unless we can show that this woman is trying to secure a will in her favour, then it is clear she has everything to lose and nothing to gain by her mistress’s death. In short, it is to her own interests to take the best possible care of Mme. Bender, knowing that she can profit so long as the latter lives, but no longer.”

“Of course!” she cried. “How dense I must seem!”

A load of anxiety slipped from her heart. Why had she overlooked this utterly reasonable point of view? She understood now something of the nature of her recent apprehension.

“In fact,” he continued, “I’ll go so far as to say that the surer we are that the maid and the butler are fleecing their mistress, the better guarantee we have for her personal safety. Not that the thefts can be allowed to go on. We must do all we can to find proof and send the servants packing. It may be hard, though, since we can’t look for any assistance from Mme. Bender herself.”

“She won’t believe anything wrong of Jeanne, nor does one dare ask her about the pictures, as any reference to Cousin Harry upsets her terribly. Besides, she does not think for herself any more, she only expresses Jeanne’s opinions.”

“Well, we must do our best without her. There’s another matter, too, I should like to mention now we’re on the subject. While I was in Havre the maid came to the office to obtain a duplicate key to Mme. Bender’s safety-deposit. I don’t know if there was anything wrong about it, but you might just try to find out if your cousin has that key in her possession.”

Her eyes dilated with fresh suspicion.

“The safety-deposit? That’s where Germaine’s pearls are kept, in fact most of her jewellery; Hermione told me so. Oh! do you suppose Jeanne has designs in that direction?”

He laughed.

“Even if she has, you needn’t worry. Banks are pretty careful.”

“Just the same, I don’t like the look of it. Poor Hermione! She’s dreadfully in the dumps. That’s another thing Jeanne is responsible for. She has succeeded in cutting Mme. Bender off from her one remaining friend.… Heavens! is it almost seven o’clock? I must fly!”

“I’ll drop you, if I may. I am going over to the other side anyhow,” he lied cheerfully.

“If you’re quite sure,” she agreed doubtfully.

His pulses leaped as he fancied he caught a gleam of pleasure in her eyes. Was it faintly possible that she, too, was glad to delay the moment of separation?

At the corner of the Boulevard they got into an open taxi, and in another moment were racing towards the river, the soft breeze in their faces. Catherine looked happier now. Colour stained her cheeks a delicate rose, and her eyes had lost the fear-ridden look so noticeable a little while ago. Geoffrey studied her with appreciation, delighting in the trim lines of her grey homespun coat and skirt, her tiny, close-fitting hat and the slender fineness of her hands and feet.

“Did you like my sister?” he inquired abruptly.

She started at the suddenness of the question.

“Oh, tremendously! She’s rather like you, don’t you think?” she added naïvely, then blushed a deeper red.

“I wanted you two to meet,” he said slowly, then was silent because of the thought in his mind. “I hope,” he went on, “that you’ll go and see her at Fontainebleau when she asks you, as she’s sure to do. You’ll like my brother-in-law--he’s an etcher. Odd chap, but a decent sort.”

“I’d love to go,” she said hesitatingly. “Perhaps a little later. Just now I hate leaving Germaine.”

“What rubbish! You can’t stay tied to her for the rest of your life!”

She laughed at his impatient tone.

“I know you think I’m over-scrupulous. Never mind--I’ve a plan in my head which may help to straighten things out. Don’t ask me what it is yet--it mayn’t succeed,” and she smiled at him tantalizingly.

At the Cours la Reine they were caught in a traffic block. It was dusk now, and the river on the one hand, the Place de la Concorde on the other glittered with a million stars. Suddenly Catherine gave a smothered cry.

“Look!” she whispered, grasping her companion’s arm. “There is Eduardo, driving Mme. Bender’s car. And do you see the man with him? It’s the creature from the rue d’Amsterdam I have been talking about!”

Following her eyes, Geoffrey spied a jet-black Rolls, upon whose front seat slouched the Portuguese, his sullen face lit by an adjacent street lamp. The features of the man beside him were hidden by a wide-brimmed hat, but as the taxi crept forward a few yards they could be seen in profile.

Geoffrey uttered an astonished exclamation.

“By Jove, I know the fellow! At least I’ve seen him.…”

“Where? Who is he?” demanded the girl eagerly.

He thought hard, then shook his head, chagrined.

“That’s the worst of it. I’m hanged if I know!” he admitted.