Читать книгу The Mystery of Fell Castle - Arthur Gask - Страница 6

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ONE afternoon she was sitting on a seat in the Bois de Boulogne when two ladies came and seated themselves beside her. They were English and she was interested in their conversation.

Presently a pretty and beautifully-dressed little boy came passing by, followed at some distance by a nursemaid pushing a perambulator and engaged in animated conversation with a young man walking with her. The little boy stopped for a few seconds to smile at the ladies as he went by.

"That's Charlemagne Voisin's child," said one of them. "Of course you've heard of Voisin the great dress-designer of the Rue de la Paix? He dresses all the richest women in Europe and America. They say he sometimes gets fifty guineas for a costume."

"For all that," remarked the other grimly, "he doesn't look too well after his little son. I didn't know who he was, but I've often noticed him when I've come here and he ought to be wearing glasses. Didn't you see how he screwed up his eyes when he was looking at us just now?"

Her friend laughed. "That's the worst of being a medical woman, Emily. Even on a holiday you can't get away from your trade. No, I didn't notice it."

"Well, I did," went on the first woman, "and they ought to be seen to. Another thing, the child's got a very careless nurse. He nearly fell into the lake yesterday when the girl was too busy flirting with one of her beaux to be watching him. Fortunately, Mary and I were near and pulled him back just in time. As it was he muddied all his beautiful clothes. I spoke sharply to the maid about taking more care of him, and she was quite insolent. She's not a pleasant girl."

Later, going back to her hotel, Christine thought over what she had heard. Of course, she knew Charlemagne Voisin by repute; indeed, what mannequin did not? He was the foremost dress-designer in the world, and obtained fabulous prices for his creations.

With what she considered a brilliant idea formed in her mind, early the next morning she called at the Rue de la Paix and asked to see the great man. The beautifully gowned and coiffeured young woman to whom she made her request asked haughtily, "Have you an appointment? No, then you cannot see him. Monsieur never sees anyone without an appointment." She reached for a big massive book upon the desk. "What name? I'll give you an appointment for one day the week after next. Monsieur is fully engaged until then."

"But I want to see him at once," said Christine firmly and in no way abashed. "Am not a client and my business is private and important."

"But Monsieur is busy in the studio," said the girl, a little impressed, however, by Christine's bold manner, "and I cannot disturb him. He is engaged upon a most important work."

"Then I'll wait," said Christine calmly, and after a few moments of frowning hesitation, the attendant gave her an imposing-looking gilt-edged card upon which to write her name, and ushered her into a big salon to wait. With some apprehension Christine noted its costly appointments, the rich carpet into which the feet appeared to sink, the expensive-looking art tables and chairs, the rare quality of the big curtains, and the beautiful engravings on the walls. Everything spoke of an exquisite taste and of money most lavishly expended to gratify it. Surely, she told herself, it was an insolence that, at her age and with her slight experience, she should expect to become part of an establishment where, obviously, money flowed so freely.

She was kept waiting upwards of an hour, by which time a number of other women had been shown in. From their conversation with one another, they were all clients of le mâitre. They were all beautifully gowned and everything about them spoke of wealth and lives of pleasure and ease.

At last she was ushered into the studio and found herself in the presence of a small and almost frail-looking man with a high forehead, high ox-like eyes and big bushy brows. He was clean-shaven except for a moustache which was waxed to long spikey ends. She judged him to be about forty-five years of age. He bowed her with grave courtesy to a chair.

"Now what is this important private business, Mademoiselle?" he asked briskly. He spread out his hands and made a smiling grimace. "I need not implore you to be quick in telling me about it, for you can see I am a busy man. I have an evil day before me," and with a quick movement he seated himself before his desk and prepared to listen to what she had to say.

Christine choked back her nervousness and began boldly. "I was wondering, Monsieur," she said, "if you could give me some work. I am—"

He jumped like a jack-in-the-box from his chair. "What, you have come to ask me for work!" he exclaimed angrily. "You who have insisted upon seeing me on important business!"

"It is important to me, Monsieur," she replied without flinching. "I want—"

He spoke with reproving sarcasm. "But it is not my privilege, Mademoiselle, to have any interest in your affairs and what is important to you is not in the very slightest degree important to me." He glanced hurriedly down upon the card he was still holding in his hand. "Your name is French, but I perceive you are an Englishwoman." His voice rose in indignation. "England and her children are always le perfide Albion. You have found your way in here under false pretences and you will leave my presence at once."

He moved towards the door to open it and show her out.

Christine stood her ground and made no movement to follow him. "But I came here for another reason, too," she said sharply. "I wanted to tell you about your little boy, Louis."

With his hand actually upon the door-handle, Monsieur Voisin turned in a lightning movement and consternation was now upon his face.

"My little boy," he exclaimed with widely dilated eyes. "You have not come to tell me anything has happened to him?

"No, no," said Christine quickly, "but I thought you ought to know that his eyes need seeing to, badly. He strains them when he looks at anything closely. He puckers up his face then. He ought to be wearing glasses or his sight may become permanently injured."

Monsieur Voisin's look of suspense passed quickly to one of indignation again. "You do not know the child!" he said sharply. "Where have you seen him?"

"Oh, often in the Bois," fibbed Christine. "One could not help noticing him. He is such a splendid little fellow. Oh, and another thing. That nursemaid you have does not look after him properly. The day before yesterday he might easily have fallen into the lake there—" her nervousness led her to fib more deeply "—if another woman and I had not pulled him away just in time. As it was he spoilt his beautiful little clothes."

"But I was told—" frowned Monsieur Voisin, looking very puzzled, "I was told that that the mud on them came from his falling down in the road."

"It wasn't true," said Christine sharply. "He got it on the bank of the lake when the maid was not looking after him. She was too occupied, talking to a man with her on one of the seats."

For a few moments Monsieur Voisin frowned angrily. Then his face broke into a friendly smile.

"I am sure I am much obliged to you, Mademoiselle," he said. "That information was most important. I shall get another maid at once."

He returned to his chair by the desk and motioned to Christine to sit down again, too. Then, with a whimsical grimace he went on, "Now don't you think you have a too great assurance in coming to ask me for employment? I am one of the most particular men in my calling and never trust anything except to the most experienced hands. So what chance have you of satisfying me?"

Christine rose up to her feet.

"This costume I am now wearing I designed myself," she replied boldly. She pivoted herself round so that he could take it in at every angle. "And I made it myself, too."

"Ah, and I see you have been a mannequin!" he exclaimed as he proceeded to regard the costume critically. He shook his head disapprovingly. "But it would not pass Charlemagne Voisin. It has faults. It does not do justice to those beautiful shoulders you have and it does not show up as it should the perfect contour of the bust." He smiled. "Still it is not bad and I have certainly seen worse."

He asked her a lot of questions as to her experience, all the time regarding her most intensely. His anger having passed, he was taking in, admiringly, her rich auburn hair, her violet-coloured eyes with their long lashes, her faultless complexion and the fine and clear-cut lines of her profile.

"You certainly have beauty, Mademoiselle," he said at length, "and your face and hands are those of an artist. There is great talent in you if it were properly cultivated. Who are your parents?"

"I have no parents, Monsieur," replied Christine. "They are both dead and I am alone in the world. My father was a musician at Covent Garden, and my mother was on the stage."

Monsieur Voisin nodded.

"And it is from there the artist in you comes. Music and the drama, both other forms of the beauty I put in my gowns."

He was silent for a few moments and then, rising abruptly to his feet, strode over to a big wardrobe and took out a dress. Handling it quickly but with the greatest care, he draped it deftly over a model. He was at some pains to get it exactly as he liked but, satisfied at last, turned frowningly to Christine.

"What's wrong with it?" he asked curtly. "You tell me where the fault is. There is something lacking there."

Christine regarded it intently, walking round it several times. It was of a most beautiful material, black ring velvet and almost austere in its simplicity. It was quite a minute before she spoke.

"There is nothing wrong in it, Monsieur," she said gently, "it is the most lovely thing I have ever seen."

"You think so?" he asked carelessly.

She nodded. "Yes, Monsieur, it is fit for a queen!"

He let himself go.

"And it is a queen who will be wearing it," he exclaimed with great pride. "It will be seen on the steps of a throne. It is one of my greatest creations," he sighed heavily, "but it lacks a form beautiful enough to do it justice."

For a long minute he regarded it raptly and then, handling it as before with the utmost care, he replaced it in the wardrobe and turned back to Christine.

"Well, Mademoiselle," he said smilingly, "you have conquered. You have won over Papa Voisin and I will give you your chance in my workroom, though I do not deny it is your violet eyes which have, in part, influenced me." He raised his hand warningly. "But never you tell any of my assistants how you have deceived me. Keep your own counsel and let them think you have come to me with the very highest of recommendations. Come with me now and I will take you to my forewoman. What I will pay you will depend upon what you are worth." He shrugged his shoulders. "Money is nothing to me when I am well served."

So Christine obtained what many would have held impossible for a girl of her very moderate experience, a position in the establishment of the great Charlemagne Voisin, and in a few weeks was firm in the approval of her employer.

Then, in its way, commenced for her a very happy life. It never ceased to be a thrill to her to handle and work upon the lovely fabrics which had been drawn from so many parts of the world, and she had greater chances now of making use of her creative ability. Monsieur encouraged his employees to make suggestions and if he approved of them was never stinting with his praise. Christine had imagination and showed it in many ways. As time went on, Monsieur Voisin often called her into the studio to ask her opinion and, a great privilege, occasionally allowed her to be present when he was waiting upon his clients.

At first the other assistants were inclined to be jealous of her rapid rise into Monsieur's favour, but Christine, never showing any pride or exultation and always so good natured with everyone, their hostility soon died down, and they accepted her, as a matter of course, as Monsieur's special protégée.

She could have made great friends among the other assistants, had she wished to but, as before in London, kept herself very much to herself. Soon receiving a good salary, she was able to rent a small flat in a good locality and, inviting no one to visit her, what she did with herself out of working hours was a closed book to everyone.

With the other sex, had she wanted to, she could have had plenty of conquests, and they could not understand why she kept them so determinedly at a distance. Even upon their first meeting her, so many men sensed instinctively that her cold aloofness masked a warm and passionate nature and that there would be great joy and ecstasy for the one who eventually broke through her reserve.

The intentions of a number of them were quite honourable and Christine could have made more than one excellent marriage, before she had been a year in Paris. She told herself, however, that even if she fell madly in love again, she would never marry. She had been so badly deceived in Ronald Blair that she would never trust any man sufficiently again to marry him and place her whole future in his hands. A woman could never tell what a man was really like until she had actually lived with him.

Passing, however, as she was, through the most passionate years of a woman's life, and with the temperament, too, with which she had been endowed, Christine soon began to feel the positive need, both physically and mentally, for the affection of one of the opposite sex.

Certainly she was happy and comfortable in her work in the atelier of the great master, but that was not all. She wanted again the adventure of love. Still hating Ronald Blair as fiercely as she had ever done, she could not yet forget the joy and ecstasies she had enjoyed in his arms. Another thing, too, her association with him had not only opened to her a new world of delight but had also taught her that the unpleasant consequences of a so-called slip were not necessarily inevitable. She had escaped once and, therefore, surely, if need be, she could escape again.

She fought against the idea but it was constantly recurring to her and she found herself getting irritable and bad-tempered. Also, physically, she did not feel in such good health as she had been. She was losing her appetite and often suffered from headaches. Her work, too, was now more tiring to her.

Remembering the old doctor, Dr. Antoine, who had been so kind to her in her dreadful trouble, she had no hesitation in going to see him again. All she now needed, she thought, was a tonic.

The doctor seemed very pleased to see her and, trusting him implicitly, she told him where she was working and how well she had got on. He asked her a lot of questions about her health and examined her thoroughly. He could, however, find nothing wrong.

"You are a typical example, Mademoiselle," he said at length, "of a perfectly healthy young woman. Still," he leant back smilingly in his chair, "I am quite sure I know what is troubling you. Last time you came to me because of the result of too much affection. Now the trouble is you are not getting enough. That's the whole matter in a nutshell. You must find some nice man and marry him. You want companionship. Then you will be feeling quite all right again. I am confident that is all you need."

"But, Monsieur," stammered Christine, getting very red, "I will never marry. I could never trust any man again."

"Oh, that's foolish," laughed the doctor. "There are plenty of good men about and one sees plenty of happy marriages. You must realise, my dear young lady, that the good God made such women as you to attract men, and have children. If you don't marry you will never feel at your best. You will live a thwarted and despondent life."

Christine shook her head determinedly. "But I shall never marry," she said again. "I would never risk it."

"And that being so, I do not advise you to take a lover," smiled the doctor, "though that would be the next best thing." He nodded. "Of course, I say that simply as a medical man, but as a father with daughters of my own, I would never give such advice to any young woman, as the consequences might be deplorable." He raised his hand warningly. "Still if you do not marry, Mademoiselle, there are many pit-falls ahead of you, for old Mother Nature is relentless in her ways and it needs a much stronger character than most women possess to go on defying her. For sure, too, she will spite you in the end."

Christine thought a lot over what he had said and, though rebelling against her lonely, loveless life, yet determined she would never give way to any man again. Whatever happened, her life should be a celibate one. Still, she was greatly troubled. She realised she wanted love and companionship and without them knew she would be, as the old doctor had said, a thwarted woman.

As time went on she found the life she had chosen for herself the more and more hard. She often met men who were attracted by her when she also was interested in them. But she gave them no encouragement and refused to let them get beyond the acquaintanceship stage, being always mindful now of that first step her guardian had so strongly warned her against. Still, she was fretful and unsatisfied and her life, with all her success in her career, and seemed to be leading only to a dead end.

One night two women were discussing her at a concert to which she had come, as usual, by herself. "See that beautiful girl there," said one of them. "Well, she's Charlemagne Voisin's pet assistant. Isn't she lovely, though she's supposed to be a man-hater. You never see her about anywhere with an escort, unless it's Voisin and his wife. They say they are the only friends she allows herself."

Her companion took in Christine intently.

"Yes, she's lovely, right enough," she said, "and her dress is a credit to le maître." She laughed derisively. "But she's no man-hater, dear. Though she may be a girl of strong character, there's passion in every line of her face. Look how pleasure-loving her eyes and lips are. No, depend upon it, she's got a beau hidden away somewhere."

"Well, no one's ever seen or heard of the fortunate man," laughed back the other, "and he would be fortunate, whoever he was, with a mistress like her."

With the best intentions in the world, it was not, however, destined that Christine should hold out indefinitely, and when the end came it came suddenly and with such overwhelming strength that she made only a very half-hearted attempt at any resistance.

The man was a scion of the old French nobility, and a colonel in the French Foreign Legion. He was well over forty and home on six months' leave from Algiers. He was not exactly handsome, as his face was marred by a big scar on the forehead, but he was tall and distinguished looking. His expression was bold and self-reliant and he carried an air of authority and a suggestion of mastery over both men and women. She soon learnt there could be no question of marriage, as he was already a married man, separated from his wife.

She saw him first in Monsieur Voisin's salon, where he had come in attendance upon his sister, a haughty dame who had married an American of great wealth. Their eyes met and Nature flashed a message between them, old as the race is old. Christine turned her face away but, her sex hunger suddenly awakened again, her heart beat tremulously as she waited upon his sister.

Christine felt him watching her every moment and, when upon leaving with his sister, he gave her a smiling bow, an instinct told her she would soon be seeing him again.

She was quite right there, for that same evening, after coming out of Monsieur Voisin's, he overtook her as she was walking home. She knew he had been waiting to meet her, but he pretended to be most surprised at the encounter.

"Ah, it is you, is it, Mademoiselle!" he exclaimed with a dazzling smile. "Now this is very extraordinary, as it happens I was just thinking of you. I saw my sister was giving you a lot of trouble this morning and I felt very sorry for you."

"But there was no need, Monsieur," smiled back Christine, her heart thumping like a piston. "I thought Madame very charming."

"But she was exacting," he frowned. "She always is, and most difficult to please." He went on with great respect. "Now may I walk with you a little way? I am going in this direction."

Of course it ended with his going the whole way to her flat. They both walked slowly, and he told her a lot about himself and his life in Africa. Then, in parting, he asked if he could not see her again. "Your conversation is so delightful and I am very lonely," he said. "Will you come with me somewhere to dinner tonight?"

Christine shook her head smilingly. "No, Monsieur, I cannot do that." She cast down her eyes demurely. "I am a single girl and have my reputation to consider. Monsieur Voisin is most particular and I should be sure to be seen by some of our clients."

However, he pleaded so earnestly to be allowed to see her again that when Christine thought she had protested enough to establish her modesty, she raised her lovely violet eyes to his and said, as if with great reluctance:

"Well, Monsieur, if you really want to, you can meet me in the Bois the day after to-morrow. I always go there on Sundays and you will find me by the Round Pond sometime about eleven o'clock."

Of course, on the Sunday he was there, waiting, and later he took her to lunch at a small hotel in St. Cloud. In the afternoon they walked again in the Bois, she, however, taking good care to keep to the more frequented parts. She knew quite well that, ultimately, she would yield to him, indeed she deliberately intended to, but she would not yield straight away. She would not let him think she was going to be an easy conquest and, besides, the longer she put him off the more delightful and thrilling to both of them would be the final surrendering.

In the evening he drove her home to her flat and, having learnt from her that she was living alone, wanted to come in, as he said, for a few minutes. However, she refused him so firmly and determinedly that he judged it wisest not to press her too much. Then, having as she thought let him see she was no weakling, she appeared to relent a little and said sweetly, "Still, if you like to, Monsieur, you can come to tea with me on Wednesday at four o'clock."

He came. She had seen to it that the little maid she employed was out of the way, and answered his ring herself. The moment the door was closed to behind him—they fell into each other's arms. There was not even the pretence of any formal greeting.

In the ensuing week it seemed that they were recklessly in love, with both of them hating to be out of each other's sight and counting the very minutes until they would meet again. He came to her flat so often that Christine was hard put for excuses to get her maid out of the way.

But passion at such white heat could not be kept up for very long and, gradually, they both began to tire. Christine began, too, to perceive things in her lover that she did not like. For one thing he always smelt of wine and, for another, as time went on he seemed to receive her caresses as a matter of course and as if he were slightly bored.

She awoke with a start. She had had enough and was not going to let the romance die down into indifference or, perhaps, even positive dislike. So, as usual with her in these latter years, once she had formed any resolution she acted upon it at once.

"Leon," she said firmly, "this must end. You must not come here again. No, I mean it. I can't risk the scandal any more. My maid is getting suspicious at my sending her away so often and I won't have it. Besides, we are getting tired of each other."

"No, we are not," he scowled, most surprised at her words. "I'm just as fond of you as I ever was and think you just as beautiful."

"Another thing," went on Christine taking no notice of his denial, "our continuing to meet here can lead nowhere. You can't marry me and I would not have you if you could. You would not make a good husband. You are too selfish. No, we will part now while there are happy memories behind us."

Assuming more reluctance than he really felt, the gallant colonel took his dismissal in quite good part. Christine had guessed rightly, for not only had his ardour cooled quite a lot with possession and satiety, but, also, his ever fickle fancy had lighted upon another desirable conquest, this time a dancer in a cabaret.

So lover number two passed out of Christine's life, leaving her sick and weary of all men. She was not, however, in any way ashamed of her love-affair. On the contrary, she justified herself in her own eyes, considering that as long as she was a single woman and bound by no ties she was entitled to do what she liked with herself, provided she brought no harm to anyone. If she had been a man, she told herself, such lapses from the conventional moral code would have been thought nothing of, indeed they would have been held to be almost the inevitable thing and passed over with a smile. So why not in common justice the same thing with a woman? It was hypocritical not to recognise that a woman's craving for companionship could be just as strong as that of any of the other sex.

She argued, too, she had not been and would never be, in any sense promiscuous. She had been particular, and most fastidious that her choice had fallen upon the man whom she had considered to be a worthy one.

Still, she was sick of the whole business now and would not give way again until there could be a background behind everything. She had changed her mind, realising that it was children as much as a lover she wanted, and that there were, at any rate occasionally, really happy marriages.

She was helped to this awakening by her friendship with the Voisin family and seeing there a very happy home. She had become a frequent visitor to the house of le maître, and his children, he had three now, were a source of great delight to her. Above all she was very fond of little Louis, who had brought her all her good fortune. He was such a lovable little fellow and always made a great fuss of her whenever she arrived. The mother she liked, too. Madame Voisin was a quiet and gentle creature, undeniably pretty in an insipid sort of way, but with little individuality, and never much to say. However, she adored her husband, thinking there was no other man equal to him in all the world.

Monsieur Voisin was pleased that Christine never had, to his knowledge, any men friends, yet at the same time he shook his head rather sadly. "But you are denying some man a great happiness, Mademoiselle," he said once, "for you were made for love and little children." He threw out his hands despairingly. "Yet if you once married and had a little one, then good-bye to your dreaming over those lovely textures I search the world for. You would lose the life and soul you put in them. Never have I known a mother yet who had retained the inspiration of her maiden days. Good sempstress yes, yes! Patient and painstaking embroiderers who could follow the patterns I gave them but—the divine spark of new creation was no longer there. They could follow but they could not lead. Why, even when a girl has her lover it helps to smother the divine fire!"

Christine listened with becoming gravity and respect, but all the same was smiling to herself, as some of the best ideas Monsieur had adopted from her had come to her when she had been deep in her love-affair.

As the months passed, following upon her dismissal of her lover, the contentment he had brought her gradually died away and she found herself longing for more adventures of the same kind. No one who saw the calm and dignified assistant of le maître would have dreamed of the passions which were stirring in her. She had drunk deep of the wine of life and it was hard upon her not to be able to lift the cup to her lips again.

However, she stuck resolutely to her determination not to give way again. She would have children one day and they would come to her through a good marriage. She did not for one moment put out of her mind the risks of marrying a man who might turn out a disappointment to her, but she would choose very carefully and, above all, have nothing to do with what Ransome had called "a seasoned campaigner."

She could well afford to wait, for she was only twenty-four, and the best years of her life lay before her. Her chance would come if she were only patient enough!

And one day she was sure her chance had come, a chance opening up before her a vista of such wonderful possibilities that she could not credit her good fortune.