Anne Mather - The Night Of The Bulls

Dionne pressed the palms of her hands against each other. ‘I don’t expect anything of the sort,’ she said carefully. ‘I realize life goes on, nothing stays the same. The reason I am avoiding unnecessary complications is so that this situation should not impinge upon your privacy—’

Manoel swore violently, moving towards her menacingly. ‘Do you imagine you can come here without impinging upon my privacy, as you put it?’ he demanded furiously. ‘Good God, woman, we are human beings, not automatons! Anything you do would be bound to effect what has gone before and what is to come after!’

Dionne trembled in the grip of his angry emotions. ‘You don’t understand,’ she said chokingly. ‘I had to come to you! There was no one else I could turn to!’

‘And you need money?’ He was controlling himself with difficulty, his shoulders hunched, his eyes glittering with suppressed violence.

‘Yes.’ Dionne managed to articulate with difficulty.

‘How much money?’

Dionne swallowed hard. ‘Two — two hundred pounds,’ she faltered.

His brows drew together. ‘Two hundred pounds? What is that? About twenty-five hundred francs?’

‘Something like that,’ Dionne nodded.

Manoel chewed his lower lip for a full minute, and then he said: ‘Two hundred pounds, eh?’ His eyes travelled insolently down the length of her slim body, coming to rest almost tangibly on her parted lips. ‘What is it you need this money for, Dionne? You are pregnant, perhaps?’

‘No!’ Dionne stared at him in horror. ‘No! How could you suggest such a thing?’ Her voice broke, much to her chagrin, and she had to take several deep breaths to calm herself.

‘Why?’ he asked now, his grey eyes raking her body mercilessly. ‘Why should I not assume such a thing? Is it such an uncommon occurrence in your country? Are men there any different from anywhere else? I think not. You are a beautiful woman, Dionne, you always were. How many nights have I lain awake remembering exactly how beautiful you were when you lay in my arms?’ His lips twisted cruelly. ‘Surely some other man must have known the delights we shared—’

Dionne’s hand shot out before he could move and stung sharply across his cheek, and then with a little moaning cry she thrust past him, opening the door as though the devil himself were at her heels and fled up the stairs to her room.

Inside, she closed the door and turned the key, leaning back against it shakingly. But there was no sound of pursuit, no angry banging at her door, only the panting sound of her own breathing that took many long minutes to return to normal.

And when it became obvious that no one was going to follow her, she flung herself face downward on the bed, dry-eyed and utterly bereft.

It was with great reluctance that Dionne rose the next morning. She had slept badly and dark lines rimmed her eyes so that she went down to breakfast in dark glasses to avoid the inevitable comment from the friendly manager.

Over breakfast, which consisted only of several cups of strong black coffee, she tried to take stock of her situation. If only Clarry were here, she thought longingly, although Clarry would not approve of the way she was going about things. Clarry was all for telling the truth and shaming the devil, but in this instance Dionne could not agree with her. How could she confess to Manoel St. Salvador the real reasons behind her need for money? What reaction might he make to her confession? What small amount of compassion need she expect from him after his abasement of her last night?

But what will you do if he doesn’t come back? a small inner voice chided her. How will you manage? Will you sacrifice Jonathan’s chances of good health for the sake of pride?

Dionne rose jerkily from her seat. Such thoughts did not bear thinking about. She had to go on. She had to humiliate herself before Manoel St. Salvador, and if the ultimate was required of her she must give it – for Jonathan’s sake.

But what then? Her thoughts ran on. What then? What if, confronted with the truth, he wanted the child? What possible redress would she have? She, who had only her teacher’s pay to support her, and Manoel with his vast estate in the Camargue, the vineyards in the upper Rhone valley, wealth of a kind she had not even dreamed about. Who would win such a battle? She had no need to doubt the answer.

Her palms moistened. Had she been a fool to come here? To ask Manoel for money? Wasn’t she taking an appalling risk anyway? Would he be content to supply her with the money and not investigate its uses?

A sickly feeling rose in her throat. But who else could she turn to? Apart from Aunt Clarry she had no one. Friends were good, of course, but none of them could afford to lend her, let alone give her, that amount of money. And how else was Jonathan to recover from that horrible racking cough that kept him awake nights and Dionne awake, too, listening to him, praying for a way to take him out of that damp climate into a warmer, dryer place where he could regain his strength?

Tears pricked her eyes. Two hundred pounds meant so little to the St. Salvadors; two thousand pounds was a mere drop in the ocean, as she had learned to her cost. They had been keen enough to give her money three years ago, why couldn’t they give her so much less now? She made a helpless little gesture. She should never have tom up that cheque, but how was she to know she would ever need anything from them?

Heaving a shaking sigh, she emerged on to the steps of the hotel. It was another beautiful morning, the sun glinting on the spire of a church in the distance. A group of riders went by, their horses’ hooves clattering on the cobbles of the square. There were some children amongst the riders, controlling their mounts with the skill that came naturally to them. These horses were not white but grey, but they had the thick switch of tail that was common to the horses of the Camargue.

Dionne watched them until they were out of sight, and then kicked a foot disconsolately. What was she to do? Wait all day and see if Manoel returned this evening? Or go out and look for him? If she waited until this evening and he did not come, that would be another wasted day.

She sighed. But how could she know where to look for him? She knew the way to the Mas St. Salvador, of course. She had been there many times. But it was private land, and she would be a trespasser now. She had no doubt that Manoel’s mother would take the greatest delight in having her forcibly ejected if necessary.

But she could not hang about the hotel all day just waiting. Already her nerves were stretched to screaming pitch and the only balm for her senses was action, action of any kind.

With decision, she went back into the hotel. In her room she changed from the dress she was wearing into slim-fitting navy slacks and a long-sleeved shirt blouse in a rather attractive shade of magenta. Her hair was secured in the rather severe chignon she had adopted and she hoped she looked businesslike. There was no point in dressing decoratively. No one was likely to be impressed by her appearance at the Mas St. Salvador.

After filling up the Citröen’s petrol tank, she drove out of the town, following the dusty track that wound its way between the river and the marshes, never out of the sight and sound of water that sucked greedily along its length. Overhead, a flight of terns and mallards, startled by her passage, shrieked noisily, while in the distance the pink plumage of a group of flamingoes shimmered like a mirage above the water. They were wading in the shallow waters of an étang , those lakes that teemed with water life of every kind, food for the thousands of birds that made the estuary their home. Patches of colour among the tall reeds revealed themselves as clumps of marsh samphire, and sea lavender whose fragile little flowers seemed incapable of surviving in such an area.