J. Janes - Hunting Ground

Before the soot-blackened grey marble of the fireplace there was a pair of superb gilded bronzes, one of a running stag, the chase, the other of a griffin. Above the mantelpiece, there was an ornate antique clock he couldn’t quite place. Meissen … it might be. If so, a small fortune at any one of several dealers in Paris.

Even at a time of war, such things would have had value.

‘Madame, your apéritif. Janine has asked me to tell you that Jean-Guy has successfully been put to bed. She’s now up there with him.’

‘And Simone?’ I asked, anxiously drying my eyes.

Alexandrov drew in a breath, for the poignant look I’d given must have reminded him of Katerina or of Alyosha, someone out of Dostoevsky at any rate. ‘Madame de Verville’s in the kitchen. Your husband’s with her.’ You need have no fears on that score.

I took the vermouth and swallowed a sip to steady my nerves. As it went down, my eyes began to water again, and I realized that he had deliberately added cognac. What was it with him? He looked not at me but into me, stripping away everything but the truth.

‘What is it you do in electrical engineering?’ I asked.

He let the hardness of my voice pass. ‘The generation and transmission of electrical power. The electrification of the railways, which will surely come on a much more extensive scale once this war is over and won.’

But won by whom? I wondered. ‘The wireless?’ I asked. ‘Have you knowledge of that?’

His eyes gave nothing away. ‘Of course, but it’s more a hobby than anything else.’

Was it? ‘Could you fix one? Mine has too much interference, too much of the …’

‘Static?’

‘Yes.’

‘Please.’ He indicated that I should show him the way. As I got up, I handed him the glass and he tossed off the rest. ‘That’s only to make sure it won’t be spilt on your lovely carpets.’

How thoughtful of him. The price … The weekend would cost us a fortune we didn’t have. Still, there was the wireless.

‘Does the aerial run up to the roof?’ he asked. ‘The forest, the hills …’

Had he looked the place over even then? ‘No. I’ve strung ten metres around the outside of one of the windows in the library. Until recently, I was getting London very clearly. It’s a loose connection. A wire, I think, that runs between the tubes. When I tap the console, the static increases.’

‘Have you any solder-a bit of scrap silver perhaps? Something with which to fix it more securely?’

Dmitry mended the set using an edge of the brooch I was wearing and the heat from the poker of the kitchen stove. The brooch had been one of those from the jewel box, and Jules hadn’t even noticed my wearing it.

An uncomfortable silence settled over the dining room table, a pause, and then the muted sounds of hesitant cutlery, the accidental ringing of crystal on china as a wineglass was hurriedly set down.

I waited for Jules to answer. When he didn’t, when he gave Janine, who was sitting on his right, a little more wine, I said, ‘The taxes, my husband. Why haven’t they been paid?’

The wine bottle paused. Michèle Chevalier blanched and swallowed with difficulty. Dmitry Alexandrov, who was sitting opposite her beside Marcel, went on eating as if nothing untoward had happened. Henri-Philippe Beauclair, alarmed for sure, hesitantly fingered the tablecloth.

The Vuittons waited with bated breath. This was news, scandal, embarrassment, the hour of decision too, no doubt.

‘Well?’ I demanded harshly.

‘Well what ?’ Jules lowered the wine bottle and set it carefully on the table among the tall-stemmed, air-twist glasses and the golden Meissonier candlesticks.

‘You know very well.’

‘This is neither the time nor the place to discuss such matters.’

I put my knife and fork down. ‘When else is there time? We’re never alone for a moment. Pardon, please, Simone, André, Henri-Philippe, Michèle … I didn’t mean to imply that you are not welcome and gladly, but the taxes haven’t been paid and something must be done about them.’

‘They’ll be paid next week.’

‘How? You’ve nothing in the bank but a few thousand francs. They’ve written about a loan you took out some time ago. I know, my husband. I opened the letter.’

For a wife to have done such a thing in France at that time or any other was to commit a sin far worse than adultery, but Jules simply looked at me and, for the first time that weekend, a sadness came into his eyes, and I realized he understood the matter only too well.

The candlelight flickered and threw shadows on the walls where bluebirds and doves-all sorts of birds-sang silently from the exquisite prison of their flowering cherry trees. From the belle-époque chandeliers came the sparkle of diamonds among their many-faceted crystals.

‘I’ll have to sell something, I suppose,’ he said at last.

He looked so handsome. Even then I had to confess that given but the slightest opportunity I would have forgiven him.

‘Such as?’ I asked sharply.

‘ Merde, how should I know? A painting. Can’t you understand what a place like this costs? Can’t you understand that the price of everything we might sell is down?’

‘Either of the Lautrecs in your bedroom would fetch two hundred forty thousand francs at least,’ commented Marcel dryly.

Vuitton glanced at his wife. Henri-Philippe looked as if he had swallowed something he shouldn’t have but didn’t want the hostess to know.

‘The dancers?’ exclaimed Jules, the argument bound to flare into absolute outrage now. ‘How could I possibly sell those?’

‘Quite easily,’ said Marcel, ‘but they would leave shadows on the walls to remind you of the loss.’

He knew-oh, how he knew my husband, almost as well as I, if not better. The sweaty red silk kerchief was still knotted about his swarthy throat. The bristles were still there under the chin and on the cheeks.

Subdued, Marcel had hardly spoken a word at the table. He had been short of money and had tried to borrow without success. Now I understood his outburst perfectly, or so I thought at the time.

‘Of course,’ he shrugged, ‘there’s another matter. Perhaps you should ask your charming wife about it.’

The smile from Jules was swift and unkind, the looks from the Vuittons of broken glass. ‘What did you do with it, Lily?’ he asked.

‘With what?’ I managed.

‘The jewel box.’

Jean-Guy, that brooch … ‘I don’t know what you mean. What jewel box? Your mother’s? It’s locked up in the bedroom, in the bottom drawer of that armoire your father bought.’

There was only the two of us now, one at either end of that table, the faces of the others but a blur to me. ‘You know very well what I mean,’ he said. ‘Where is it?’

I shrugged, gestured with my hands, and tried to lie my way out of it, then foolishly said, ‘What box? What jewellery? Is this something you’ve hidden away and tried to keep from me?’

He smiled again, triumphantly now, but then let it fade, and I knew, as he glanced at the Vuittons, exactly how much he resented my intrusion into his affairs and theirs.

‘It was in the attic, Lily. Some bits and pieces my father gave to Angélique Morin.’

‘His mistress!’ I said, wondering what the hell the Vuittons had to do with it?

Jules ran an agitated hand through his hair and then let me have it, ‘Yes! The woman who meant more to him than my mother ever could.’

‘So?’

‘So I want it back. All of it, Lily. If there’s to be any selling to pay the taxes or whatever, I’ll be the one to make that decision.’

‘And myself? Don’t I have some say?’

‘It’s not your concern. What I do with my family’s home and finances is my affair and mine alone. To put it bluntly, it’s none of you business. Jean-Guy will inherit everything.’