The Closed Harbour (6 page)

"Who's that, Henri?"

"A Monsieur Labiche."

"Bring him in."

Labiche blinked a little as he passed from darkness to light.

"Oh," she said, "it's you. You're a menace, Labiche, a menace."

Labiche smiled. "You know why I've come?"

Madame Lustigne was seated on a sort of throne, it always reminded him of a throne, and she was looking at him, and smiling, but this was to his disadvantage, she goaded and tormented Labiche about his figure.

"You may sit down? You are always saving somebody, why can't you let people alone? You're wrong anyhow, she came of her own accord."

The door was open, Madame Lustigne was looking, not at Labiche, but out through this open door. There was a voice outside. Labiche looked, too.

It was at this moment that he saw Marius who had just come in by the front door. His startled look made the woman ask, "anything the matter?"

"That man," said Labiche, "I know him, at least I've seen him before."

"So have I, Monsieur," said Madame Lustigne, "a generous gentleman."

Marius passed the door.

"Where is she?" asked Labiche.

"Where d'you suppose a girl would be at this hour?"

"You have the advantage of me."

"Then go and see. Room fourteen, and mind she doesn't take advantage of you, these girls who look like nuns—."

"I'll find it," Labiche said, and went to the door, just as Marius was coming in.

"Ah Captain. There you are. Is it Lucy again?"

She rose, and went to him, put out her hands, held his own, "I'm always glad to see you, Captain."

Marius drew away his hands, went and closed the door. He did not like Madame's smile when he came towards her.

"That man," said Marius, "who's that man. That's twice I've seen him."

"How excited you are, my Captain. Please to sit down, I'll call Henri for a drink. Brandy?"

He did not answer, but heard her go to the door, open it and call Henri.

"This bloody man, where've I seen him before, I believe he's following me."

"Your drink, my Captain."

He looked up. She was standing there, smiling down at him.

"You do not wear very well to-day," she said, she lifted his cap off his head and laid it on her dressing-table.

She brought a chair and sat beside him, put an arm round him.

"Tell me your sins, Captain. What have you done to-day."

She put her hand under his chin, "you should shave more often."

She stroked the rough beard, "is it Lucy again?" she asked, "perhaps you're in love with my Lucy, Captain, a beautiful girl, but so's champagne when the bottle's full. She's no brains, poor child, but who on earth wants brains."

Her scent was clouding over him, he could feel her breath. He sat there, not speaking, not responding, she thought, "to-night, he looks utterly stupid."

Marius had waked up shivering, somewhat surprised to find himself still on the timbers. He had dragged himself away, he could still hear the laughter of the pair who were sitting at the other end of the pile.

"Young lovers" he said, and had hurried away.

He had not been "back there." The very thought of it chilled him, the silence like a knife, the meal spread out, the two staring, wooden faces.

"They know, of course they know. I'll tell her to-night, I can't stand it any longer. Poor Madeleine—"

"Do wake up, you're falling asleep," Madame Lustigne said, "you can't possibly see Lucy like that."

"Leave me alone."

"I can't. You're in my room, I want you to get out. Lucy is waiting."

"Who's that man?"

"Him. A miserable little clerk," she said, "why. You're becoming afraid of your own shadow. Are the police after you?"

He looked so dejected that she flung her arms about him, "come, come, don't be sad, Captain, life's far too short. Enjoy yourself. I'm just going to have my supper. Would you like to join me?"

He sat up. "I
am
hungry," Marius said.

"You've been out all day?"

He nodded.

"No luck?"

"No luck."

"Oh dear, how sad. Perhaps to-morrow. You've not been home all this day?"

"No."

"Of course, you're hungry, that's what it is."

He kept looking towards the door.

"Nobody will disturb us," she said.

"What's his name?"

"Labiche, he's a sort of saint, but an ugly one," replied Madame Lustigne. "He's actually here to steal one of my girls. And I'm letting him. Think of that?"

Marius couldn't think. He had fallen fast asleep.

He ate greedily enough when he woke.

"Perhaps the Captain came here to hide?"

"I came here to look for a man."

"And have you found him?"

"He won't see me."

"A friend of yours?"

"Of my father's."

"You have a father then?"

"He's dead."

"But if it was to hide, well then—this is the place, the world knows that."

"Why d'you say I'm hiding," he protested stubbornly, "I'm looking for a ship."

"Plenty of them."

He was as stubborn with his silences.

"I could see a certain person."

"I'm a Captain," Marius said, "I have my merits."

"Oh God. You've Captain on the brain. Here, more bread."

"I wish I knew why that man is following me."

"Him. He's not following anybody except his own inclinations, he's a damned nuisance. St Vincent de Paul indeed. And the Apostleship of Seamen. There, Captain, I've got it. He will help you."

"Him?"

"Why not. You want a ship, he works in a shipping office."

"Where?"

"The Heros."

Marius slapped his knee. "There. I knew I'd seen him before. The Heros. All the same he's following me, I feel he is, it scares me—"

"You'd think a murder had been committed. Now get out, Captain, will you, I have other friends, and one is waiting outside. Please get out."

She pushed him out through the door.

"Perhaps I'm getting a little tired of him, all the same," she thought.

"Sometimes he's such a nuisance, in spite of his money, and one can't afford nuisances. Perhaps he
is
hiding. Perhaps he's made away with somebody. In which case—."

She sat down at her dressing-table, began powdering her face.

"One does not want trouble with the police, who does? Come in," she called, hearing the knock, and Labiche walked in.

"Madame Lustigne."

"Well?" She saw his reflection in her mirror.

"I am taking Jeanette now," he said. "She wept bitterly, her mother was broken-hearted about it. You understand?"

He had a feeling she was smiling.

She swung round on him. "Are you following that Captain?"

"Captain?"

"You know who I mean. He's here now, you've scared the very guts out of him. He's a good patron here. I don't like my patrons followed around. Are you following him?"

"I came for Jeanette. True, I've seen this man, he is continually at the Heros, but Monsieur Follet refuses to see him, says he's beyond the pale."

"Indeed?"

She turned her back on Labiche and continued her toilet.

"Can't nobody make a living without you barging in?"

"I've the girl outside, I'm quite satisfied, Madame Lustigne. As to the Captain, you judge me wrong. I'm sorry for him. I've seen him every day for weeks, sometimes I feel sad at the way Philippe treats him, it must be humiliating. If only Captain Marius would let me talk to him, I'm sure something could be done. It's sad for his womenfolk. They are here, too."

"I didn't know that. Has he done a crime?"

"A ship of his was lost under mysterious circumstances—"

"That's nothing, I thought he'd murdered somebody, that's all."

She looked at the little watch on her wrist.

"Get out, Labiche, I've a friend coming in."

She could hear heavy steps in the stone corridor.

"He walks like an elephant," she thought.

She got up, walked across to the door, opened it wide, said, "get out."

She saw Jeanette against the wall, she supposed it must be Labiche's outsize handkerchief she was holding to her eyes. She looked straight at the girl, and seemed to pin her to the wall by her fierce, penetrating look.

"Miserable little bitch," she said, and banged the door the moment Labiche reached the corridor. She stood behind it listening to them go.

"This Captain. I must talk to him. There is something about him—" she smiled, and it spread all over the mirror—"I wish he did not always choose Lucy."

"Come in, Lucien," she called, and the elephant came in, tall, blonde, grey suited, his hat in his hand.

"Come," she said, and as he sat down on a corner of the bed she stroked his balding head.

"The people I've had in today," she exclaimed angrily, "first that Inspector saying I hadn't done this and I hadn't done that, then a miserable Captain and on top of that something—oh well," and she tittered and showed her teeth and leaned against Lucien.

"D'you think I'm a very wicked person, Lucien?"

"You're lovely," he said.

"Call Henri," she said.

It was turned seven o'clock. Marius had not come in. Madame Marius and her daughter were seated in the kitchen. The old woman stared with some disgust at the table, the laid out meal.

"One evening he will not come back at all," she thought. She looked at her daughter. "Madeleine?"

"Yes mother?"

"I think I'll go to the Benediction to-night." They so rarely went out in the evenings that it came as a surprise to Madeleine when she said this. She did not wish to go, but felt she must.

"Very well," she said.

So they had got ready and left the house. Madame Marius walked beside her daughter, very erect. Sometimes she would glance down at the woman beside her. And sometimes she hated her:

"She has the calmness—oh, she's like a cow."

Such docility, such resignation, such terrible calm. It seemed too much to bear.

It was only a few hundred yards to St Sulpice's, but Madame Marius walked to it as with closed eyes, she seemed neither to see nor sense the things about her, there was only this daughter at her side, following meekly, silently, devotedly.

"Perhaps I am indeed lucky with such a daughter," she thought. She looked at her, gripping her arm.

"If it wasn't for where one had to walk, the things through which one had to pass, I would dearly love to go to the High Mass to-morrow for the celebration—but no, it doesn't matter," and Madeleine detected a sudden sad note in her mother's voice.

"Let's think about it," she said, and smiled up to her mother.

There were some people just ahead of them, making for the evening service, already they had turned into the gravel path leading up to the church. And then they themselves had reached its door, pausing only for a moment to bless themselves at the font, then as they usually did, to seek the darkest corner of St Sulpice's, the last bench but one. They knelt for a moment or two, then sat down.

Madame Marius had already fixed her rosary upon her wrist, the small silver crucifix gripped tight between finger and thumb. She did not pray. The mouth was shut tight, she stared steadily ahead, she seemed to be watching God.

Each morning they came for the Mass, for the Sacrament, and they sat in the same place. Now they were like mice, drawn into the deep silence of the church.

In contrast to her mother's tenseness, this folding in on herself as it were, Madeleine appeared always relaxed, at ease, prayed as was her heart's wont, never took her eyes from the altar. Her mother sat stiffly, knelt stiffly, as though she were on some kind of sentry duty.

"Oh God! I have forgiven him. I am now content. Please make mother charitable, pardon the cruelty of her years, through Christ our Lord."

She was kneeling, but the mother had not noticed her movement. She still sat still, as stone is, she felt the beads cool within her hand, she looked towards the Tabernacle.

The soft organ strains stole into the air almost like that of water, and Madame Marius listened to the music.

Everywhere there were flowers, tall proud lilies, piled velvety roses, and at the feet of the Virgin the green herbage whose scent rose high, climbing beyond the tall pillars, it seemed to be locked about the Virgin's feet. Saint Francis held the child, whose pink cheek brushed the bright nosegay reaching upwards. St John, tall and lean seemed shadowed by nothing but his own bone. Madeleine had noticed the absence of flowers here, but she remembered his life, and she understood.

People came in, walked slowly and quietly up the aisles, she watched them genuflect, and they seemed to carry about their persons the last remaining warmth of the sun, and the dying light. The organ strains grew louder, she knew it would soon be time. The music leaped like fountains, the air vibrated under the mass of sound. Madeleine remained kneeling and did not once turn to look at her mother, but if she had done so she would have found the eyes closed at last, and nothing coming from her save her laboured breathing.

"Oh God! Help Eugene. Forgive him, through Christ our Lord."

As her lips trembled under the words she was suddenly conscious of eyes staring at her, and knew that her mother was watching her. She sensed the powerful body leaning towards her.

She spoke in a low voice, and Madeleine slightly turned to her, straining her ears to listen.

"What mother?"

"You have made up your mind, Madeleine?" she asked, and the slack of the beads swung to and fro as she spoke.

"You are sure of this, certain?"

"Yes mother, I know it is right. I will always be with you, mother."

"I'm old," her mother said, "I knew long ago."

"Yes," Madeleine said, "I know you are old. I have made up my mind."

"I only wished to be certain, Madeleine."

"I am certain. Isn't that enough?"

Madeleine watched the candles spluttering in their holders, the rock-still blooms in their vases.

"The priest was unable to come last evening, he was called out to the dying."

"Of course," her mother said, "one understands that, one is not stupid."