Crusader's Tomb Read online

  ‘I did not understand’ – she spoke in a confidential undertone – ‘that M’sieur was truly an artist.’

  ‘But I told you so when you engaged me.’

  At the mention of that first interview, when she had used him so sharply, a deep blush spread over her smooth complexion, extending beyond her round, solid chin into the column of her muscular neck.

  ‘Ah,’ she said, lowering her eyes, ‘I did not greatly heed what was said at that time. I had not then the pleasure of knowing M’sieur as I do now … after these weeks of pleasant intimacy, when he has taught my children, associated with me in my household, and always with the politeness and reserve which come only from true distinction. M’sieur Stephen …’ it was the first time she had addressed him by his name and as she did so an extraordinary thrill made tense the skin of her substantial breasts … ‘even if you had told me nothing, I would know from this picture that you are highly gifted.’

  Her fulsome words were embarrassing, but he said pleasantly:

  ‘Perhaps you would care to have it?’

  The question, with its implications of purchase, made her withdraw slightly, but only for an instant. She answered earnestly:

  ‘Yes, M’sieur Stephen, and I shall speak of it to my husband this evening. Of course it is possible he will argue that the work was done in the hour of teaching, for which you are already paid, in which case …’

  ‘My dear Madame Cruchot,’ Stephen broke in hurriedly, ‘you completely misunderstand me. I offer you the picture as a gift.’

  Her eyes glistened, not, for once, from cupidity, but with a softer, a more confused emotion. She suppressed a sigh, gazed at him with tender meaning. ‘I accept, M’sieur Stephen. I assure you that you will not regret it.’

  The novelty of sitting so close to him was actually making her head swim, a sensation quite different from that afforded by the proximity of Cruchot. But the little girls were beginning to clamour for attention, she became afraid of committing herself further. With a sidelong glance, fleeting, but intense, in which she tried, though vainly, to lay bare her fast-beating heart, she rose, bade him au revoir, and made her way back to the shop.

  Chapter Four

  After weeks of clouded apathy, Stephen found that he could paint again. It was like awakening to a new life wherein he discovered himself possessed of greater power, more discerning vision than before. The little town, with its drab inhabitants, hitherto a desert of sterility, became suddenly transfigured, a teeming source of inspiration. He painted the hôtel de ville; the parade-ground of the barracks; a view of the rooftops of the town, seen from his window, strangely effective; a lovely composition in grey and black of the convent sisters returning in the rain beneath umbrellas from their Mass. The canvases he had bought from Napoleon Campo were one by one transformed, stacked in the corner of his attic bedroom.

  There were letters too, from Peyrat and Glyn, to cheer him. Jerome proposed to remain in Puy de Dôme for the winter and Glyn would return to London for a brief stay in the autumn. Both pressed him to join them. But of course he could not. He was painting here, and happy. In this state of resurrection, the daily lesson to the Cruchot children lapsed to its normal perspective of necessity. Often, indeed, Stephen found it a considerable trial to lay aside his brushes and hurry off to the grocery just when the light was at its best. And although, in the idiom of the establishment, he continued to give value, his mind was not wholly upon his teaching, nor after the instruction was he actuated by any other thought than that of getting away.

  Because of this abstraction he remained more or less oblivious to the changes, ever growing, in Madame Cruchot’s attitude towards him. The vast improvement in the cuisine was, naturally, apparent, but he put it down to his employer’s gratitude for the present of the picture. To this also did he attribute those other marks of attention which were bestowed upon him. It had now become Madame’s custom to preside at his luncheon and to press her hospitality upon him. Indeed, her devotion went further.

  ‘M’sieur Stephen,’ she reflected one day, in an accent of solicitude. ‘I am concerned about your comfort. You cannot be well looked after at Madame Clouet’s.’

  ‘Oh, I am,’ he answered. ‘She’s a very decent soul.’

  ‘But it is such a poor room.’

  ‘Do you know it?’ – in surprise.

  ‘Well,’ she blushed, ‘I have passed it outside many times … on my way to church, of course. If only someone of taste were to add a few things … and arrange them for you, how much more agreeable it would be for you.’

  ‘No, really,’ he smiled. ‘ It suits me as it is … bare and airy.’

  ‘But that is not good for you,’ she persisted. ‘ I cannot but notice that your cough still troubles you.’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing … I only get it in the morning.’

  ‘My dear M’sieur Stephen.’ She gazed at him with tender reproach. ‘Do not obstruct me at every turn. If I cannot come to improve your room at least let me restore your health.’

  Next day, to his embarrassment, a bottle of sirop pectoral from the establishment of Monsieur Oulard stood upon the table beside his plate and Madame, measuring a tablespoonful, administered the dose with her own hands. Victorine and Marie-Louise were much amused that their teacher should be made to swallow physic. And, in the end, Stephen laughed too.

  When the children had run into the garden to play, Madame Cruchot, after a lingering glance, emitted a sigh.

  ‘Of course … one thing is quite apparent to me.… You have found in the town some wretched girl who attracts you.’

  ‘What!’ he exclaimed. ‘In Netiers!’

  ‘Why not? Don’t you go every day to the Café des Ouvriers and that Julie Grosette … they are not altogether above board there, I can tell you …’ She did indeed know all the gossip, slanders, and petty intrigues of the little town. But his look of astonishment was so acute it drew her up short. She forced a laugh. ‘Do not gaze at me like that, my friend. I am thinking only of your welfare. And after all, though I am a good woman, I am also a woman of the world. So you have no one?’

  ‘No,’ he said shortly.

  The look of suspense, of jealousy, faded from her eye and was replaced by an air of coquetry.

  ‘Tell me, do you like my dress?’

  She postured slightly from the hips, displaying her new gown, of a somewhat startling green, with a yellow braid, worn low, which gave an effect of youthfulness. And her hair, freshly bleached, had been waved to a more metallic sheen. She had a fondness for dress, was a regular customer of the Galeries de Rennes, and lately had exhibited for his benefit the most elaborate of her toilettes, which, alas, he never seemed to notice. It was this indifference which increased her longing, this complete unawareness of her as a woman, perhaps his unawareness of any woman, comparable to the innocence of a young curé who had once served the parish and whom from a distance she had admired, dreamed of at nights while at her side the grocer, his flesh appeased by her unresponsive buttocks, snored unmusically. But that had been nothing, the merest breath of a butterfly’s wing beside this desire which now coursed in her veins, made her burn to press Stephen in her arms and cover him with her kisses.

  She was blind to the comedy of her situation: that she, a woman almost forty, wrapped heart and soul in the throes of petty business, tightfisted; and a tyrant who spent her life, shrillvoiced and brazen, sanding the sugar, watering the cider, extorting the last sou from grudging peasant palms – that she, of all women, should be softened, liquefied by this devastating passion for a stripling who could perhaps have been her son. She lost interest in her children, her friends, the pursuit of wealth. Her husband became obnoxious to her. His bourgeois mannerisms, way of eating, of breaking wind gently after his bock, aroused in her a storm of loathing.

  ‘Je te défends de passer le gaz en bas!’ she would cry, enraged. And with all this, her own refinement grew. She bathed often, used a stronger perfume, sucked scented cachous, changed h
er linen more frequently. If she could not have him, she felt she would cease to exist.

  Suddenly there came an answer to her unspoken prayers, an idea of startling brilliance. Why had she never thought of it before? As Stephen entered that day she intercepted him in the passage.

  ‘My friend,’ she exclaimed gaily, ‘I have good news for you … in short, a commission. Monsieur Cruchot insists that you must paint me.’

  Taken aback, Stephen stared at her in silence.

  ‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘ Cruchot is filled with enthusiasm. He spoke of nothing else last night. Full length … in oils.’

  ‘But, Madame.’ Stephen frowned and hesitated, seeking an excuse. ‘I … I do not undertake portraits.… I am working on another subject …’

  She smiled at him reassuringly.

  ‘Do not worry, mon petit. I shall see that you are paid. On Thursday, then, we shall begin. It is understood.’

  Before he could protest, she patted his arm and, with an arch glance over her shoulder, hurried away.

  Thursday was the tradesmen’s half-holiday. Then it was always quiet since the shop closed down at noon. Yet the moment Stephen arrived he sensed, in the shuttered establishment, a preternatural stillness. Madame Cruchot received him at the door.

  ‘No lesson today,’ she announced effusively. ‘ The little ones have gone to the country with Marie.’

  As she led him into the house she explained that the servant paid a visit to her parents at St Vallé once a month and sometimes, as a great favour, was allowed to take the children.

  ‘And of course,’ she added, in an off-hand manner, ‘my husband is at Rennes, for the market. We shall not be disturbed.’

  Again the unusual silence troubled him: no rumblings from the cellar, where Joseph, the assistant, normally spent two hours overtime taking stock. The house, but for themselves, was empty. But it was the table, in the dining-room, set for two, with stiff napery and the best cutlery, adorned with a vase of red roses, which brought him up short.

  ‘You don’t mind if we have lunch together. It will be so much more convenient.’

  Talking volubly, in that same casual style, she produced from the pantry a roast poulet de Bresse, with mushrooms and salad, a Strasbourg pâté, peaches in syrup, and a bottle of champagne. Only when she had heaped his plate did she permit herself to look at him, unable to prevent a fond smile from breaking the plump contours of her cheeks.

  ‘We are quite cosy here, for our first artistic meeting. Is it not agreeable, to lunch tête-à-tête? You see, you must eat before your labours.’ She glanced at him coyly. ‘Let me give you some champagne. It is the best we sell. Five francs the bottle.’

  He felt confused, baffled, and uneasy. But in his impoverished state he had developed towards food a kind of opportunism. He ate what was placed before him, aware that he was in no position to refuse it, becoming, however, more and more conscious of those languished glances which lighted upon him. Her bust too, which rose with an effort each time she drew breath, causing her bosoms to bounce and her chin to sink into her neck, seemed to draw nearer to him with every respiration. Contrary to her usual custom, she was not eating, having helped herself with an air of refinement only to a wing of the chicken, but now she poured herself a second glass of wine. Her little round eyes were bright, like marbles. She had an overpowering impulse to reach across and press his hand. Would he never guess what exquisite favours she was prepared to offer him? The less he understood the more he seduced her.

  ‘My friend,’ she exclaimed, ‘have you any notion of what my life has been, here in Netiers, for the past fifteen years?’

  ‘Unfortunately I have not known you so long.’ He forced a polite smile.

  ‘No,’ she reflected, in a suppressed voice. ‘ Nevertheless it is you who have shown me the emptiness of my existence.’

  ‘That would be a poor return to make you, Madame … if it were true.’

  ‘It is true.’ As he did not answer she nodded her head in emphasis. ‘Yes, it is you, my friend, who have opened my eyes to new horizons which I did not even dream of before. Oh, do not misunderstand me. Monsieur Cruchot, although without excessive tenderness or delicacy, is a worthy man. And of course I am a virtuous woman. But there are moments when loneliness seizes the heart, when one has need of a confidant. Ah, my friend, when the heart calls,’ she sighed, ‘should we deny it? Is it wrong to seek fulfilment … provided one is discreet?’

  As he sat silent and constrained, a wild explanation of her behaviour did in fact cross his mind. But he dismissed it as absurd. However, he felt obliged to get the sitting under way without delay and to make it as brief as possible. He pushed his plate away.

  ‘And now, Madame, if you are agreeable, we may begin. I think it best to make a preliminary sketch. Where shall you sit for me? In the salon?’

  She gazed at him, took a convulsive breath.

  ‘No,’ she replied in an indistinct voice. ‘It is a better light upstairs.’ She rose from the table and moved towards the door. ‘I shall get ready now. Finish your wine. Then come up.’

  He had never been upstairs before. After waiting for five minutes he went towards the staircase. It was dimly lighted and the boards, thinly carpeted, creaked under his feet. The odour of the cheeses that were kept to ripen in the passage cupboard filled the air. On the landing the door facing him was ajar. He imagined it gave access to the sitting-room, but before he could knock, she called to him:

  ‘Enter, mon ami.’

  He went in.

  Madame Cruchot was standing by the double bed, inviting his approbation. She had taken off her dress and wore a peignoir which, in a raffish pose, with one hand on her hip, she kept half open, revealing shiny striped knickers with a heavy lace flounce which fell below her thick knees, and a pink camisole, damped by a spot of scent she had just put on, still creased by her stays.

  A cold sweat broke over Stephen. His retina was seared by every detail of the showy, yet slovenly bedroom, the ornate rug and draped curtains, the stained commode, the china utensil under the bed, even Cruchot’s nightgown tucked away hastily beneath a pillow. He turned white. Misreading his dilated eye, she hung her head, pretended to shiver, then, with terrible coquetry, came towards him. It was too much. He backed away with an expression of disgust, infuriated at himself for having fallen into such a situation, which, while it partook of the elements of farce, was nevertheless abjectly humiliating. Without a word, he swung round and rushed out of the room.

  That evening, as he sat in his attic, he heard a loud knocking at the front door, followed by heavy ascending footsteps, then without warning Monsieur Cruchot burst in. The grocer, still wearing his best suit, was in a state of manufactured rage.

  ‘How dare you make advances to my wife … miserable wretch … the instant my back is turned. I have a mind to go directly to the police. I always knew you as a little English snake. But to sting the hand which fed you … a pure-hearted woman … a mother. What an outrage … an atrocity. You are dismissed of course. Never show your sneaking face in my establishment again. But beyond that there should be damages … compensation … at the very least a picture.’

  Stephen knew that Cruchot disliked him, yet plainly this display was at the instigation of Madame – the husband was the emissary of the spiteful wife. And with a swelling bitterness, as Cruchot continued to threaten him, Stephen stripped a page from the block on the table before him, handed it to the grocer. It was a sketch he had just made from memory of Madame as she stood, obese and smirking, in her underclothes in the bedroom.

  Monsieur Cruchot, silenced by the abruptness of the gesture, stared at the deadly drawing. His face turned livid. He was about to tear it up when, with native shrewdness, he considered it again, rolled it up carefully and put it inside his hat. Then, with a furtive glance, he turned and went out.

  Chapter Five

  Next morning Stephen packed his rucksack, roped his canvases together and, shouldering the load, departed from Netie
rs on foot. His objectives was Fogères, situated on the route nationale, thirty kilometres distant, and towards five o’clock in the afternoon, after a sweltering cross-country tramp, he reached the town, built on both sides of a hill and bisected by the main road to Paris. Here he found a cheap restaurant which seemed a likely stopping place for commercial drivers. The waiter, whose aid he enlisted, was confident that an opportunity would arise and indeed, just before nine, a camion of the Compagnie Atlantique with a trailer attached drew up and two men in overalls descended, entered the bar. A few minutes later the waiter beckoned, there were introductions, volatile explanations, a general shaking of hands – it was arranged. Stephen’s things were stowed beneath the seat and they set off.

  Night fell warm and still. They drove through sleeping villages, deserted towns where only a few lights flickered, through Vire, Argentan, Dreux. The hot air whistled past them, cobblestones roared and rumbled beneath, the moon sank damply behind misted avenues of poplars. Finally, as dawn broke, pale and streaky, they crossed the Seine at Neuilly, entered Paris through the Porte Maillot, drew up at Les Halles. There, Stephen thanked his two friends and left them.

  The city, not fully awakened, had a grey and haggard air, yet as Stephen strode across the Pont Neuf he breathed the dank air deeply. He was back in Paris. After Netiers he felt stronger, above all suffused by a hard determination to demonstrate his talent to the world.

  When the mont-de-piété in the Rue Madrigal opened its doors he was waiting outside. Entering, he pawned his watch and chain – a present from the Rector on his twenty-first birthday – for which he received one hundred and eighty francs. Next, after a considerable search and much bargaining, he found a lodging in a side street near the Place St Severin, a section frequented by artists as a last resort. It was a poor quarter and a poorer room, barely furnished and dreadfully dirty, but from its situation on the top floor it had a good light and was cheap – only ten francs a week. Immediately he set to work and, borrowing a brush and bucket, scrubbed out the place. He even washed the walls, so that they looked creditable, though some of the bug-stains remained.