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The man had been staring at me steadily, his eyes in shadow, but now, as if awaking from a trance, he bent his head, the corners of his hard mouth lifting in a smile that surprised me with its kindness. “It is true, Madame,” he told me gravely. “I am not the father of Mademoiselle Lucie. But please, do come in.”
Numbly, I stepped into the brilliantly lit foyer, and felt the child’s fingers loosen from my grasp. The man named François shut the door firmly behind us, and I noticed for the first time that he was an older man, in his sixties, perhaps, or even early seventies. Old enough to be the child’s grandfather. He drew himself up gravely and looked down at the small figure beside me.
“So, Mademoiselle, you have had an adventure tonight, have you not? A bath, I think, and then to bed.”
“I have not had my supper…”
“Just water and dry bread, tonight,” he threatened her, but he didn’t look as if he meant it, and she wasn’t a bit fooled. “Say thank you to the kind lady, Lucie, for bringing you home.”
She turned to me, her dark eyes noticeably clearer and less miserable. “Thank you, Madame.”
“You are most welcome.”
I solemnly accepted the kiss she gave me, before François sent her off with a playfully imperious sweep of his hand. Giggling, she galloped up the elegant staircase that curved upwards from the foyer, her small feet making no noise on the thick red carpet as she trailed her hand along the
painted wrought-iron railings of the banister.
I felt the man’s eyes on my face again, with a curious intensity, but as I met his gaze the impression vanished. He cleared his throat and spoke. “This is a very kind thing you have done, Madame. The streets can be quite dangerous for a small child, and her adventure might not have ended so pleasantly. I am grateful to you for bringing her home.”
“It was no trouble, honestly.”
“You will wait here, please, Madame,” he commanded me, as I turned to leave. “Monsieur Valcourt, I am sure, will also wish to thank you.”
My hesitation must have shown, because he said to me again: “Wait here, please,” before he finally left me. The tone of his voice left no room for argument. I linked my hands behind my back like a chastened schoolgirl and did as I was told, feeling a childish twinge of apprehension, as though it had been myself and not the girl Lucie who’d gone wandering off against the rules. This was, I thought, what happened when one got involved in other people’s problems.
Still, I had to admit that my situation was not entirely without interest.
The inhabitants of the Clos des Cloches, like Jim Whitaker, evidently bought their clothing tailor made. The tangible evidence of wealth met me here at every turning. Not only wealth, but old and polished wealth, generations of it, handed down with pride from time immemorial. The plush red carpet, the marble floor on which I stood, the golden sconces on the white-painted walls, the rich, dark tones of the gilt-framed portraits—all this spoke to me of money and of privilege.
A portrait by the staircase drew my eye, and I moved closer to examine it. It showed a boy just entering his teens, a boy with thick black hair and great dark eyes that watched me, lifelike. Those eyes, I thought, were faintly familiar…
“Good evening, Madame.” The deep voice spoke suddenly out of the air behind me.
I had not heard him come into the foyer, but my startled reaction was not due solely to the unexpected nature of his entrance. Pulling my eyes away from the portrait, I turned slowly round to face Monsieur Valcourt, and had the satisfaction of seeing his own features change abruptly.
“You…” he said, the flash of surprise in his dark eyes quickly swallowed by a spreading warmth.
I lifted my chin a fraction and summoned up the brightest smile I could muster. “You owe me twenty-five francs, Monsieur,” I told him.
I ought to have been furious, I told myself. No doubt he had thought it a marvelous joke to be mistaken for a taxi driver, and he had certainly enjoyed that joke at my expense. It was a rotten thing to do, and I should have despised him for it. But the best I could manage was a kind of limpid irritation, and even that would not hold up beneath the smooth persuasion of his smile.
“I owe my daughter a debt, I think,” he said, coming forward. “I am Armand Valcourt.”
“Emily Braden.” I shook his hand stiffly, keeping the contact as brief as possible.
“You’re angry with me.” I did not answer, and his breath escaped him on a sound that wasn’t quite a sigh. “I never said, you know, that the taxi was mine. If you had asked, I would have told you no, I was just waiting for the driver to collect my luggage from the train, that’s all. But,” he spread his hands, in self-defense, “you didn’t ask.”
“You might have told me, later. When we met the second time.”
“I might have, yes. But by that time you were convinced I drove the taxi. I thought it would embarrass you to find out who I was. And it was no great sacrifice for me to drive you to your hotel.”
“You took my money,” I reminded him.
“You were most insistent, as I recall.” His eyes were gently mocking above his smile. “I did not keep your money, Mademoiselle. I gave it to my friend, Jean-Luc, who owns the taxi. And if it matters, he also was not pleased with me, when he found I’d taken his taxi. So I have been twice reprimanded.” Not that he looked particularly remorseful. He thrust his hands in his pockets and tilted his head to one side. “Am I forgiven?”
“Possibly.” I softened, noting he had switched to calling me “Mademoiselle” in place of the more formal “Madame.” The change implied a subtle move in our relationship as well—no longer strangers, but acquaintances.
“But you are right,” he said, “I must repay you. Have you eaten yet?”
