The Prisoner in the Mask Page 41

  On reaching the door of the sitting-room he saw that its lock had been repaired, but it was only latched; so he walked in. He had jumped to the conclusion that Angela had asked Clothilde to go out and lend her the pavilion for the evening; but he took in at a glance that, although none of the additional furniture had been removed, none of Clothilde’s small personal possessions was lying about, as they had been when he had last been there, and that tonight no enticing supper was spread upon the table.

  As he closed the door behind him, that of the bedroom opened and Angela came in. Her face looked strained and tired, and she smiled a little wanly as she said, ‘I’ve an awful headache; so I have been lying down in the dark until you came.’

  Then walking quickly towards him she took both his outstretched hands in hers and burst out, ‘Armand, I sent for you to tell you that I have told Gabriel that he must assist me to get an annulment.’

  ‘My darling!’ he exclaimed, taking her gently in his arms. ‘This is wonderful news. Last time I saw you I feared it might be months before you could bring yourself to abandon him. Now, at last, we’ll have a definite future to look forward to. I cannot begin to tell you how much that means to me.’

  ‘I know,’ she murmured. ‘And to me. You have been sweetly patient for so long. But soon, now, I’ll be able to start making that up to you.’

  For a few moments she lay against him, while he softly kissed her cheek and forehead; then she drew away, and said, ‘Come; let’s sit down. I must tell you the reason for my decision; although it’s so horrible that I can hardly bear to think of it.’

  Greatly puzzled, he led her to the sofa, and when they had settled there with her head against his shoulder, she went on: ‘It is Clothilde. Of course, she is just the sensual-looking type of girl that would appeal to him. I could tell that from the way I caught him eyeing her now and again when he thought no one was watching. But I never dreamed—’

  De Quesnoy stiffened slightly. ‘Surely you can’t mean—?’

  ‘Yes. Last Thursday, when Henri was spending the night at Le Mans, Gabriel came here and … well, I think he as good as forced her. At least, that is what she says.’

  ‘Mon Dieu! His son’s wife! It is unbelievable!’

  The Count’s exclamations of horror were spontaneous. Yet even as he made them, the brief scene that had taken place after he had broken in that night flashed back to him, and little things he had noticed almost subconsciously now took on a new meaning.

  It had been one o’clock in the morning, so long past the hour at which a man would normally have remained with his daughter-in-law if, as Syveton had said, he had only come over to keep her company because she was not feeling very well. She had been wearing a negligee, which was hardly a conventional garment in which to entertain one’s father-in-law to supper. Her swollen eyelids had suggested that she had been crying. And Syveton, instead of demanding an explanation from his visitor for breaking in, had rushed into one to explain his own presence there.

  ‘Whether he really forced her, as she says, or she let him seduce her and is now suffering from remorse, is really immaterial,’ Angela was going on. ‘It is their relationship which makes what took place so unforgivable.’

  ‘How did you learn of this?’ de Quesnoy asked.

  ‘From her mother. Apparently Clothilde went to confession on Sunday and her director told her that she must confess her sin to her husband. She didn’t … at least, not at first. Instead, on Monday afternoon she poured out the whole awful business to her mother. On Tuesday morning Madame de Vauclose came to see me. She asked me to send for Clothilde, then made the girl repeat her story. It was most terribly embarrassing. Clothilde wept and her mother raved. She said that if her husband had been in Paris he would have come round to horsewhip Gabriel, and that they would bring an action against him. Then she declared that Clothilde should never spend another night under a Syveton roof and carried her off.’

  Angela’s voice quivered slightly at the memory of this totally unexpected and most harrowing interview, but she controlled it and continued, ‘In the afternoon she sent her maid and a footman to pack and remove all Clothilde’s things. When Henri came home and found that both his wife and her belongings had vanished, he could hardly believe his eyes. He came rushing over to the house and I had the horrible job of breaking it to the poor boy that I feared his marriage had broken up; but when he pressed me to tell him why, I said I felt that I must leave Clothilde to do that; so he went dashing off to the de Vauclose apartment.’

  ‘Where was Syveton all this time?’

  ‘He had gone out before Madame de Vauclose paid her call on me and was still out when Henri came home in the evening. In fact, he didn’t get back till after Henri returned from seeing Clothilde.’

  ‘Poor fellow, this is a terrible thing for him. Perhaps, in a way, worse even than for her. Did he take it very badly?’

  ‘Yes. I had hoped till then that it might not be true; that she was one of those unfortunate people whose minds are both unbalanced and lascivious, and that the way Gabriel used to look at her had caused her to make these accusations in a fit of hysteria. But it wasn’t like that. She mentioned to Henri that Gabriel has a big mole on his chest, and there is no way she could know that unless she had seen it. Henri was absolutely distraught, and swore that he would kill his father. I had a terrible time with him, and when Gabriel did get home I insisted on remaining with them while they had it out, from fear that if I left them on their own one of them might do the other a serious injury.’

  De Quesnoy drew her closer and said with a frown, ‘What a rôle for a woman to have to play! I’d like to horsewhip Syveton myself, for being the cause of your suffering such an ordeal.’

  Angela sighed. ‘It was shattering while it lasted. They went for one another like pickpockets. After what seemed an interminable time, Henri declared that he meant to leave the house and would never enter it again. I came up here with him and helped him pack a bag, and he asked me to have the rest of his things sent to Le Mans. I did that today. I only wish I could have done something more, I feel so terribly sorry for him.’

  ‘What did you do when he had gone?’

  ‘I went back to the house and confronted Gabriel. I told him that I meant to apply for an annulment. He begged me not to, urging that if I did and it got out, his creditors would take it as a sign that it was all up with him. I told him that Henri had confirmed that the de Vaucloses meant to bring an action against him, and that a wife could have no better reason for leaving her husband than this shameful act of his, which will be the talk of Paris within the next few days; so there would not then be the least cause for his creditors to suppose that I was abandoning him because he could no longer afford to keep me in luxury.

  ‘There was another terrible scene, but I stuck to what I had said—that the moment this scandal about Clothilde breaks I mean to act. And, of course, to have his aid in getting an annulment is no longer essential. Even if he opposed my plea his crime provides sufficient grounds for me to secure a favourable verdict. It is a hateful thought that anything so horrible as this should have to happen in order for me to have a clear conscience about freeing myself from him; but now it has, nothing will induce me to remain his wife one moment longer than I have to. First thing next morning I wrote to you, asking you to come here tonight, or as soon as you could.’

  Almost exhausted with emotion, Angela lapsed into silence. For a while de Quesnoy petted her, then he began to speak quietly of his own affairs. Whether the Government would fall as a result of the scandal of the fiches still remained on the knees of the gods, but he declared himself content with having been responsible for the great blow which must at least weaken it and shorten its life considerably.

  She praised him now without stint for the persistence he had shown, and spoke of the general feeling of people with whom she had talked during the past few days that the coming Monday would witness the downfall of Combes and André.

  He told her t
hat once the crisis was over, one way or the other, he had intended to see her, then leave Paris; and about the fitted crate, by travelling in which he would escape the watch that might still be maintained for him at railway stations and ports. But that now she had made up her mind to leave Syveton, he would either join her, if she meant to go abroad, or remain in France, just as she wished.

  ‘I shall go to my family in England,’ Angela said, ‘but not for a little while yet. I have no intention of scurrying out by night as though I were doing something to be ashamed of. I mean to pack at my leisure and, without referring to the reason for my departure, make farewell calls on all my friends before I go. That will enable me to keep at least some shreds of dignity.’

  De Quesnoy nodded. ‘You are right, my love. That is just the way in which I would have wished my future wife to act.’

  ‘But you, dearest,’ she said quickly, ‘you must not delay on my account. I beg you not to linger for a single day after the fate of the Government is decided. I shall be following you very soon, and think what a joy it will be for me to know that you are waiting in England to welcome me.’

  ‘The prospect makes me disinclined to take the least risk that might prevent that,’ he smiled, ‘so I will do as you wish. All the same, I would be happier if we were going to some country other than England.’

  ‘How could I go anywhere else? Directly I tell my parents that I am leaving Gabriel they will naturally expect me to come to them in London. What possible excuse could I give for not doing so? Besides, England is my true country, and I love it. We’ve had no chance yet to discuss where we’ll live when we can get married, but I do hope, darling, that you are willing that we should make our home there.’

  ‘With you,’ he declared, ‘I should be happy to make my home anywhere; and as your family and friends live in England that is the obvious choice. In any case I can never return openly to France. But, apart from the fact that I shall regret not being able to visit Paris, I am not really sorry. Ten years ago my father told me that France was finished. He said that the Revolution, the Napoleonic wars and other troubles since had either sent into permanent exile or destroyed all the best elements in the French people. That they were now a different race from what they were under our great Kings, in the days of our glory. That the leaven of courage and honesty and chivalry had gone out of them, and that the avarice, the meanness and the trickery of the unenlightened peasant now dominated all their dealings, both with other nations and among themselves. I did not believe him. And, of course, there are still many fine, brave, upright people here in every walk of life. But in the main he was right.

  ‘Were it not so, France would have better men as her national representatives. Combes and his colleagues are utterly despicable; but how much better would their opponents be if they came to power? A few may be honest, but how many more would turn out, like Syveton, blackguards and men who have been playing the party game for their own advancement? No, I have always admired the English. They are often stupid, but at least they have the courage of their convictions and are tolerant and just. Since I can no longer be a Frenchman, I am willing to change my nationality and become one of them. Would that please you?’

  ‘Oh, Armand, you know it would. You could give me no finer wedding present.’

  ‘Then it shall be done. But the thing that perturbs me is the immediate future. When we discussed an annulment it was agreed that while waiting until we could get married we should live together in secret, anyhow for a good part of the time. Now, apparently, you intend to return to your parents, and I can hardly suppose that their English code of morality would condone your entering into a liaison—even with a lover who was waiting only for legal sanction to become your husband.’

  ‘It certainly would not,’ Angela agreed hurriedly. ‘What is more, I do not mean to tell them anything about us until the annulment comes through, because it would distress them to know that while married I loved a man other than my husband.’

  ‘What you tell me bears out my worst fears concerning your going to England. In any other country we could have stayed in small hotels and varied that from time to time with the fun of sharing a little apartment for a few weeks. But in London, where you have so many friends, the risk of our being found out would be too great; and, since your parents must be kept in the dark about your having a lover, you will find it damnably difficult to think of watertight excuses for slipping away from them to be with me, even for a few days now and then.’

  Angela gave an unhappy shrug. ‘All that is true, darling; and I am just as loath for us to be forced into starting a hole-in-the-corner affaire after all as you are. But you must see that, to begin with at all events, I’ve no option but to return to my parents. I have no intention of remaining with them permanently, though. A few years ago one of my aunts left me some money; so I am able to support myself, and given time I know I can persuade my parents that it would be much more satisfactory for me to have a small place of my own. When I am installed it will be comparatively easy for me to play truant once in a while and join you somewhere in secret.’

  ‘ “Comparatively easy”, and “once in a while”,’ he repeated with a wry grimace. ‘That doesn’t sound very promising; and it is far from what I had hoped for. Remember, your annulment will take anything from two to three years to go through. It is a poor look-out if for all that time we are to have only a few nights together occasionally.’

  ‘Armand, please be reasonable. When we first talked of this you agreed that for us to be able to marry instead of living for the rest of our lives as social outcasts would be worth the long wait. It was I who pointed out that we need not deny ourselves a foretaste of happiness while we waited, but I did say that we would have to be very, very careful. That applies to any country in which we live, just as much as to England. If it were found out that we were actually living together it would become the subject of a scandal which might later close quite a lot of doors to us in society; still worse, it might mean that I would not be given my annulment.’

  ‘I know! I know!’ he exclaimed, standing up. ‘But I do feel that there must be a way in which we could do better for ourselves than this.’

  For a minute or two he paced agitatedly up and down, then, suddenly coming to a halt in front of her, he asked abruptly:

  ‘Tell me, beloved. Just how much does religion mean to you?’

  Raising her big brown eyes to meet his gaze, she replied frankly:

  ‘Not a great deal. I believe in Our Lord, of course, and the Divine Mercy; but I was brought up in the Church of England, and only became a Catholic just before I married Gabriel, because he wished it. When I go to church I say my private prayers, but I don’t really bother much about the service, and I’m afraid I tell my confessor only the sort of things he would expect to hear, because I have never believed that one needs a middle-man to secure God’s forgiveness.’

  He nodded. ‘Our views are near enough alike, as I gave up observing the ceremonies of the Church while I was stationed in Madagascar. Why then, shouldn’t we leave the Church out of this? Instead of your applying for an annulment let’s go to America. Each of the United States has its own laws, you know, and in some of the Western ones divorce is both quick and easy. You could file a petition as soon as you got there. Gabriel’s relations with Clothilde would secure you a decree without the least difficulty and six months from now, or less, we could be married by a civil ceremony.’

  For a few moments she considered the matter, then she asked, ‘If such divorces are really valid, why do not the majority of couples who wish to regain their freedom, and can afford a trip to the United States, take advantage of them?’

  ‘God forbid that I should mislead you,’ he replied. ‘They are no more than a sort of half-way house. The rulings of these courts are not generally accepted outside the States in which they sit. I gather that even in New York the more straight-laced leaders of society refuse to receive Nevada divorcees who have married again. But such
a decree does at least give a semblance of legality to a new union. It would enable a couple like ourselves to live openly as husband and wife. In fact it would give me the right to call out anyone who implied that you had no claim to call yourself the Comtesse de Quesnoy.’

  Again she remained thoughtful for a few moments. Then she murmured, ‘No, Armand, no. That would not do. If such people are not received into the best New York society, you can be certain they would not be into that of London. We would be neither fish, nor fowl, nor good red herring; and the very idea of your having to fight a series of duels to protect me from insult quite appals me.’

  ‘You need not worry yourself on that score. I would refrain from challenging people if you wished it, unless they became openly offensive; and it is most unlikely that they would do that.’

  ‘Even so, there would always be some degree of uncertainty about by whom we would be accepted; whereas an annulment would make our position unassailable. As we are both still under thirty, I’m sure it would pay us to wait until the official sanction of the Church places us beyond criticism for the rest of our lives.’

  ‘Perhaps you are right,’ he muttered a shade doubtfully.

  Reaching out for his hand she drew him down beside her again, kissed him on the ear, and said, ‘Dearest Armand, please don’t look so miserable. I feel certain things will turn out better than you suppose. After I’ve spent a few weeks with my parents I’ll say that as I am not used to the London winter I must have a change. Then we’ll slip abroad and meet at some quiet spot on the Continent for a stolen honeymoon. Later, when I am living on my own, providing I don’t do it too frequently, we can snatch other holidays abroad together, and so make our time of waiting pass quite quickly. I swear to you that from now on I am entirely yours, and at the right moment will deny you nothing.’