moment in the dimness of the vestibule, aware of his labouring breath, before mounting the stairs to Mme Roussel’s floor. When he rang the bell he heard a faint exclamation, then raised voices. The door opened slowly, very slowly, on to a chain which permitted a limited view of Mme Doche’s frightened face. This face, which he remembered as round, blonde, replete, now looked to him puffy and anxious, the hair surrounding it ashy and dry. Stealing through a crack in the door was a strange pharmaceutical smell, mixed in with an odour of stale unchanged air. The door closed in his face, then opened again. He was bidden to come in and make no noise.
He walked instinctively into the salon, where Mme Doche, after another half-heard conversation, this time disclosing an admonitory voice, joined him. He became aware that he should have telephoned, that his visit was inappropriate. Mme Doche seemed to be waiting for him to state his business, but he had a great desire to confide in her, to tell her of his mother’s death: a desire, in short, to be comforted. This, he understood, was the whole purpose of his journey. But as soon as he was seated on one of the faded tapestry chairs the hushed and somehow furtive atmosphere was interrupted.
‘Fernande! Fernande!’
He recognized the harsh hoarse voice of Mme Roussel, now harsher, hoarser, urgent, a voice that contained anger,even fury. Mme Doche put her finger to her lips, and ran from the room. Lewis waited, heard Mme Doche’s voice take up its burden of reassurance, heard the chink of a glass, heard a spoon being dropped. Finally a door closed and Mme Doche reappeared. She put a finger to her lips again and shook her head. Lewis understood that she wanted him to go. He remembered Professor Armitage easing himself out of his coat, anxious to stay, even in that house of the recently dead. And now he was in the same position. He took Mme Doche’s hand, pressed it, and went to the door, conscious now of her willing him to be gone. He hesitated for a moment, with all that he had to say unsaid, but then the harsh voice made itself heard once more.
‘Fernande! Fernande!’
He stood for a moment on the landing, then hurried down the stairs and out into the street. He all but ran back to the hotel, packed his bag, and made for the station. He left Paris the same evening, catching the same train, or its twin, back to London.
The house was waiting for him, as empty and as silent as when he had left. The house was waiting for him, and he recognized it as the place where he would remain. He picked up his mother’s library books, went out, stood at the bus stop by the Common, and began another unmomentous day.
4
Another library, he thought. He felt doomed, irritated, yet at the same time submissive. Here was destiny staring him in the face. Not exactly here but somewhere very like, up imposing steps, through swing doors, into the arched and silent room, where a timid sun sent coloured refractions through the lozenge shapes of art deco fanlights, where children sat at one of the two long tables composing essays for their English homework, and where old men, cloth capped and mufflered, read the
Express
and the
Telegraph
and sometimes dozed until it was time to go home. This was a kindly place, something of a day care centre for the lonely, the naturally silent, the elderly and the reclusive. The lighting and the heating were generous, even if the rules were strict: there was to be no talking, not one word, emphasized Miss Clarke, the librarian, and although she was well disposed she would not countenance outright sleep, however frail the sleeper. Tapping across the parquet floor on her military-sounding high heels, she would shake the offender by the shoulder. ‘This is a library, Mr Baker, not a dormitory! And you were beginning to snore.’ This admonition had to be repeated rather frequently. Mr Baker, white stubble nestling in the folds of a very ancient, once handsome silk scarf,
He walked instinctively into the salon, where Mme Doche, after another half-heard conversation, this time disclosing an admonitory voice, joined him. He became aware that he should have telephoned, that his visit was inappropriate. Mme Doche seemed to be waiting for him to state his business, but he had a great desire to confide in her, to tell her of his mother’s death: a desire, in short, to be comforted. This, he understood, was the whole purpose of his journey. But as soon as he was seated on one of the faded tapestry chairs the hushed and somehow furtive atmosphere was interrupted.
‘Fernande! Fernande!’
He recognized the harsh hoarse voice of Mme Roussel, now harsher, hoarser, urgent, a voice that contained anger,even fury. Mme Doche put her finger to her lips, and ran from the room. Lewis waited, heard Mme Doche’s voice take up its burden of reassurance, heard the chink of a glass, heard a spoon being dropped. Finally a door closed and Mme Doche reappeared. She put a finger to her lips again and shook her head. Lewis understood that she wanted him to go. He remembered Professor Armitage easing himself out of his coat, anxious to stay, even in that house of the recently dead. And now he was in the same position. He took Mme Doche’s hand, pressed it, and went to the door, conscious now of her willing him to be gone. He hesitated for a moment, with all that he had to say unsaid, but then the harsh voice made itself heard once more.
‘Fernande! Fernande!’
He stood for a moment on the landing, then hurried down the stairs and out into the street. He all but ran back to the hotel, packed his bag, and made for the station. He left Paris the same evening, catching the same train, or its twin, back to London.
The house was waiting for him, as empty and as silent as when he had left. The house was waiting for him, and he recognized it as the place where he would remain. He picked up his mother’s library books, went out, stood at the bus stop by the Common, and began another unmomentous day.
4
Another library, he thought. He felt doomed, irritated, yet at the same time submissive. Here was destiny staring him in the face. Not exactly here but somewhere very like, up imposing steps, through swing doors, into the arched and silent room, where a timid sun sent coloured refractions through the lozenge shapes of art deco fanlights, where children sat at one of the two long tables composing essays for their English homework, and where old men, cloth capped and mufflered, read the
Express
and the
Telegraph
and sometimes dozed until it was time to go home. This was a kindly place, something of a day care centre for the lonely, the naturally silent, the elderly and the reclusive. The lighting and the heating were generous, even if the rules were strict: there was to be no talking, not one word, emphasized Miss Clarke, the librarian, and although she was well disposed she would not countenance outright sleep, however frail the sleeper. Tapping across the parquet floor on her military-sounding high heels, she would shake the offender by the shoulder. ‘This is a library, Mr Baker, not a dormitory! And you were beginning to snore.’ This admonition had to be repeated rather frequently. Mr Baker, white stubble nestling in the folds of a very ancient, once handsome silk scarf,
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