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He raised an eyebrow. “Afraid of what?”
“Of your reaction, naturally.”
That surprised him, and he frowned as he dismissed the notion with a classic Gallic “pouf.”
“I don’t beat my daughter, Mademoiselle.”
“Of course you don’t. But your daughter was very tired,” I reasoned, “and upset. And things always do seem quite a bit more frightening when one is lost. Not that she was ever lost herself, really, but she’d lost the people she was with, which rather amounts to the same thing.”
His mouth curved, and I had the distinct impression he found me amusing, but the tone of his voice betrayed nothing. “She would not have lost anyone if she had done as she was told. I gave her clear instructions to remain with her aunt.”
“Yes, but she told me…” I broke off suddenly, realizing my error. It was really none of my business, I thought. This was a family matter, and I ought not to get involved.
Armand Valcourt raised his eyebrow a second time, expectantly. “Yes?”
“Nothing. It’s not important.” I scooped up a forkful of seasoned meat and tried to ignore his suddenly curious eyes, watching me across the table.
“Where exactly was my daughter, Mademoiselle, when you found her?”
I glanced up, saw he wasn’t going to let the matter drop, and sighed. “She was sitting by the fountain just in front of my hotel.”
He frowned. “And did she tell you why she went there?”
“She told me her aunt’s… friend was staying there. I think she hoped they’d come back to the hotel, so she was waiting for them. Forgive me for asking, Monsieur, but the child’s aunt… your sister…”
“My wife’s sister,” he corrected me.
“Shouldn’t someone notify her that your daughter is safe? She must be frantic with worry by now.”
My statement was punctuated by a loud bang from the front hallway, and Armand Valcourt reached, smiling, for his wine glass. “I don’t think that will be necessary,” he said. “This will be Martine now.”
Martine…
At first I thought, It couldn’t be, and then an image flashed into my mind of Armand Valcourt standing close beside the widow at today’s funeral, and I thought, Of course it must be, and I turned expectantly as Martine Muret burst in upon us.
I believe I’d been preparing myself to dislike her, for her beauty if nothing else, but the moment the door from the hallway flew open all my preconceived notions went out of the window. In place of the coldly glamorous woman I’d expected, I saw someone who seemed scarcely older than her wayward niece, with cropped black hair and large eyes liquid in her bloodless face. And “frantic with worry,” I now saw, was an understatement. Martine Muret was terrified.
“Armand, I cannot find her,” she broke in, ignoring me completely in her distress. “Lucie, she is gone. I have looked everywhere, but—”
“Calm yourself, Martine,” her brother-in-law said, raising one hand to stop the woman’s flood of speech. “Lucie is fine, she’s safe in bed.”
“Oh, thank God.” Her knees caved weakly in relief and she dropped suddenly onto a tapestry-covered chair by the long windows. Touching a hand to her brow, she seemed to notice me for the first time, and the look she sent her brother-in-law was faintly quizzical.
In a few brief, unembellished sentences, he explained who I was, and how I’d come to be there.
“I am so grateful to you, Mademoiselle.” Her smile was a fleeting shadow on that lovely, fragile face. “You cannot know how I have suffered these past hours, searching for my niece. One reads such horrible things in the newspapers, you know, and I was so afraid…” She couldn’t even finish the thought out loud. Her pale hand brushed her temple once again, and she said quietly: “I would never have forgiven myself.”
I mumbled once again that it was nothing, that I’d been only too glad to help Lucie, that they’d already been too kind… And pushing aside my empty plate, I glanced down at my wristwatch. “But I’m afraid I really must be getting back to my hotel.”
“I will drive you,” Martine said, as if determined to repay the debt. “Where are you staying?”
“The Hotel de France.”
I caught the flicker of surprise, the too-bright smile. “Oh, yes?”
“Martine has friends there,” said Armand Valcourt. Leaning back in his chair, he lit a cigarette, and the lighter’s click was as violently loud as the cock of a loaded gun. “But I think, perhaps, that I should drive you down myself. To see you get back safely.” He stressed that last word, “safely,” and Martine’s eyes flashed a quick response.
I glanced from one face to the other, sensed the coming storm, and diplomatically excused myself to use the bathroom. In spite of the fact that arguing was to the French what complaining about the weather was to the English, I’d never learned the knack of it. I hated arguments. I particularly hated being in the middle of them, and so I loitered as long as I could in the little toilet under the front stairs. Which rather backfired when Martine and Armand came into the hall. Trapped, I could only stand and wait, pretending not to hear the angry voices.
