Pied Piper (20 page)

She said: ‘Because of our old friendship.’

He made one last effort to dissuade her. ‘But mademoiselle,’ he said, ‘that friendship, which I value, was never more than a slight thing—a mere hotel acquaintance. You have already done more for me than I could have hoped for.’

She said: ‘Perhaps you did not know, monsieur. Your son and I … John … we were good friends.’ There was an awkward pause.

‘So it is quite decided,’ she said, turning away. ‘We are quite of one mind, my mother and I. Now, monsieur, I will show you your room.’

She took him down the corridor and showed him the room. Her mother had been before her, and had laid out upon the bed a long, linen nightgown, the slumber-wear of Monsieur le Colonel. On the dressing-table she had put his cut-throat razor, and a strop, and his much-squeezed tube of shaving-paste, and a bottle of scent called F
LEURS DE
A
LPES
.

The girl looked round. ‘I think that there is everything
you will want,’ she said. ‘If there is anything we have forgotten, I am close by. You will call?’

He said: ‘Mademoiselle, I shall be most comfortable.’

‘In the morning,’ she said, ‘do not hurry. There are arrangements to be made before we can start for Brittany, and one must make enquiries—on the quiet, you will understand, monsieur. That we can best do alone, my mother and I. So it will be better if you stay in bed, and rest.’

He said: ‘Oh, but there are the children. I shall have to see to them.’

She smiled: ‘In England, do the men look after children when there are two women in the house?’

‘Er—well,’ he said. ‘I mean, I didn’t want to bother you with them.’

She smiled again. ‘Stay in bed,’ she said. ‘I will bring coffee to you at about eight o’clock.’

She went out and closed the door behind her; he remained for a time staring thoughtfully after her. She was, he thought, a very peculiar young woman. He could not understand her at all. At Cidoton, as he remembered her, she had been an athletic young creature, very shy and reserved, as most middle-class French girls are. He remembered her chiefly for the incongruity of her close-curled, carefully-tended head, her daintily-trimmed eyebrows and her carefully-manicured hands, in contrast with the terrific speed with which she took the steepest slopes when sliding on a pair of skis. John, who himself was a fine skier, had told his father that he had his work cut out to keep ahead of her upon a run. She took things straight that he made traverse upon and never seemed to come to any harm. But she had a poor eye for ground, and
frequently ran slowly on a piece of flat while he went sailing on ahead of her.

That was, literally, about all the old man could remember of her. He turned from the door and began slowly to undress. She had changed very much, it seemed to him. It had been nice of her to tell him in her queer, French way that she had been good friends with John; his heart warmed to her for that. Both she and her mother were being infinitely kind to him, and this proposal that Nicole should come with him to Brittany was so kind as to verge on the quixotic. He could not refuse the offer; already he had come near to giving pain by doing so. He would not press a refusal any more; to have her help might make the whole difference to his success in getting the children to England.

He put on the long nightgown and got into bed; the soft mattress and the smooth sheets were infinitely soothing after two nights spent in haylofts. He had not slept properly in a bed since leaving Cidoton.

She had changed very much, that girl. She still had the carefully-tended curly head; the trimmed eyebrows and the manicured hands were just the same. But her whole expression was different. She looked ten years older; the dark shadows beneath her eyes matched the black scarf she wore about her neck. Quite suddenly the thought came into his mind that she looked like a widow. She was a young, unmarried girl, but that was what she reminded him of, a young widow. He wondered if she had lost a fiancé in the war. He must ask her mother, delicately, before he left the flat; it would be as well to know in order that he might avoid any topic that was painful to her.

With all that, she seemed very odd to him. He did not understand her at all. But presently the tired limbs relaxed, his active mind moved more slowly, and he drifted into sleep.

He slept all through the night, an unusual feat for a man of his age. He was still sleeping when she came in with his coffee and rolls on a tray at about a quarter past eight. He woke easily and sat up in bed, and thanked her.

She was fully dressed. Beyond her, in the corridor, the children stood, dressed and washed, peeping in at the door. Pierre ventured in a little way.

‘Good morning, Pierre,’ said the old man gravely. The little boy placed his hand upon his stomach and bowed to him from the waist.
‘Bonjour
, M’sieur Howard.’

The girl laughed and ran her hand through his hair. ‘It is a little boy
bien élevé
, this one,’ she said. ‘Not like the other ones that you have collected.’

He said a little anxiously: ‘I do hope that they have not been a trouble to you, mademoiselle.’

She said: ‘Children will never trouble me, monsieur.’

He thought again, a very odd young woman with a very odd way of expressing herself.

She told him that her mother was already out marketing in the town, and making certain enquiries. She would be back in half an hour or so; then they would make their plans.

The girl brought him the grey suit of her father’s, rather worn and shabby, with a pair of old brown canvas shoes, a horrible violet shirt, a celluloid collar rather yellow with age, and an unpleasant tie. ‘These clothes are not very chic,’ she said apologetically. ‘But it will be better for you to wear them, Monsieur Howard, because then you will
appear like one of the little
bourgeoisie
. I assure you, we will keep your own clothes for you very carefully. My mother will put them in the cedar chest with the blankets, because of the moths, you understand.’

Three-quarters of an hour later he was up and dressed, and standing in the salon while the girl viewed him critically. ‘You should not have shaved again so soon,’ she said. ‘It makes the wrong effect, that.’

He said that he was sorry. Then he took note of her appearance. ‘You have made yourself look shabby to come with me, mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘That is a very kind thing to have done.’

She said: ‘Marie, the servant, lent me this dress.’

She wore a very plain, black dress to her ankles, without adornment of any kind. Upon her feet she wore low-heeled, clumsy shoes and coarse black stockings.

Madame Rougeron came in and put down her basket on the table in the salon. ‘There is a train for Rennes at noon,’ she said unemotionally. ‘There is a German soldier at the
guichet
who asks why you must travel, but they do not look at papers. They are very courteous and correct.’ She paused. ‘But there is another thing.’

She took from the pocket of her gown a folded handbill. ‘A German soldier left this paper with the
concierge
this morning. There was one for each apartment.’

They spread it out upon the table. It was in French, and it read:

Howard read it through quietly twice. Then he said: ‘It seems that I am one of the rats, madame. After this, I think it would be better that I should go alone, with the children.’

She said that it was not to be thought of. And then she said, Nicole would never agree.

The girl said: ‘That is very true. It would be impossible for you to go alone, as things are now. I do not think you would get very far before the Germans found that you were not a Frenchman, even in those clothes.’ She
flipped the paper with disgust. ‘This is a German thing,’ she said. ‘You must not think that French people talk like this, Monsieur Howard.’

‘It is very nearly the truth,’ he said ruefully.

‘It is an enormous lie,’ she said.

She went out of the room. The old man, grasping the opportunity, turned to her mother. ‘Your daughter has changed greatly since we were at Cidoton, madame,’ he said.

The woman looked at him. ‘She has suffered a great deal, monsieur.’

He said: ‘I am most sorry to hear that. If you could tell me something about it—perhaps I could avoid hurting her in conversation.’

She stared at him. ‘You do not know, then?’

‘How should I know anything about her trouble, madame?’ he said gently. ‘It is something that has happened since we met at Cidoton.’

She hesitated for a minute. Then she said: ‘She was in love with a young man. We did not arrange the affair and she tells me nothing.’

‘All young people are like that,’ he said, quietly. ‘My son was the same. The young man is a prisoner in German hands, perhaps?’

Madame said: ‘No, monsieur. He is dead.’

Nicole came bursting into the room, a little fibre case in her hand. ‘This we will carry in your perambulator,’ she said. ‘Now, monsieur, I am ready to go.’

There was no time for any more conversation with Madame Rougeron, but Howard felt he had the gist of it; indeed, it was just what he had expected. It was hard on the girl, terribly hard; perhaps this journey, dangerous
though it might be, would not be altogether a bad thing for her. It might distract her mind, serve as an anodyne.

There was a great bustle of getting under way. They all went downstairs; Madame Rougeron had many bundles of food, which they put in the perambulator. The children clustered round them and impeded them.

Ronnie said: ‘Will we be going where there are tanks, Mr. Howard?’ He spoke in English. ‘You said that I might go with the Germans for a ride.’

Howard said, in French: ‘Not to-day. Try and talk French while Mademoiselle Rougeron is with us, Ronnie; it is not very nice to say what other people cannot understand.’

Rose said: ‘That is very true, m’sieur. Often I have told Ronnie that it was not polite to speak in English.’

Madame Rougeron said to her daughter in a low tone: ‘It is clever that.’ The girl nodded.

Pierre said suddenly: ‘I do not speak English, m’sieur.’

‘No, Pierre,’ the old man said. ‘You are always polite.’

Sheila said: ‘Is Willem polite, too?’ She spoke in French.

Nicole said: ‘All of you are polite, all
trés bien élevés
. Now we are quite ready.’ She turned and kissed her mother.

‘Do not fret,’ she said gently. ‘Five days—perhaps a week, and I will be home again. Be happy for me, maman.’

The old woman stood trembling, suddenly aged.
‘Prenez bien garde,’
she said tremulously. ‘These Germans—they are wicked, cruel people.’

The girl said gently: ‘Be tranquil. I shall come to no harm.’ She turned to Howard.
‘En route, donc
, Monsieur
Howard,’ she said. ‘It is time for us to go.’

They left the apartment and started down the street, Howard pushing the loaded pram and Nicole shepherding the children. She had produced a rather shabby black Homburg hat for the old man, and this, with his grey suit and brown canvas shoes, made him look very French. They went slowly for the sake of the children; the girl strolled beside him with a shawl over her shoulders.

Presently she said: ‘Give me the pram, monsieur. That is more fitting for a woman to push, in the class that we represent.’

He surrendered it to her; they must play up to their disguise. ‘When we come to the station,’ she said, ‘say nothing at all. I will do all the talking. Do you think you could behave as a much older man? As one who could hardly talk at all?’

He said: ‘I would do my best. You want me to behave as a very old man indeed.’

She nodded. ‘We have come from Arras,’ she said. ‘You are my uncle, you understand? Our house in Arras was destroyed by the British. You have a brother, my other uncle, who lives in Landerneau.’

‘Landerneau,’ he said. ‘Where is that, mademoiselle?’

She said: ‘It is a little country town twenty kilometres this side of Brest, monsieur. If we can get there we can then walk to the coast. And it is inland, forty kilometres from the sea. I think they may allow us to go there, when it would be impossible for us to travel directly to the coast.’

They approached the station. ‘Stay with the children,’ she said quietly. ‘If anyone asks you anything, be very stupid.’

The approach to the station was crowded with German transport lorries; German officers and soldiers thronged around. It was clear that a considerable detachment of troops had just arrived by train; apart from them the station was crowded with refugees. Nicole pushed the pram through into the booking-hall, followed by Howard and the children. The old man, mindful of his part, walked with a shambling tread; his mouth hung open a little, and his head shook rhythmically.

Nicole shot a glance at him. ‘It is good, that,’ she said. ‘Be careful you do not forget your rôle.’

She left the pram with him and pressed forward to the booking-office. A German
Feldwebel
, smart and efficient in his grey-green uniform, stopped her and asked a question. Howard, peering through the throng with sagging head and half-closed eyes, saw her launch out into a long, rambling peasant explanation.