CHAPTER FIVE
The morning of the eighth of September dawned that year very gloriously, and Brigit Mead saw it dawn. Théo had begged her the evening before to go with him to the castle to see the sunrise, and pleased by the originality of the idea, she had accepted.
So while the sweet summer night still held sway over the pleasant Norman land, the two climbed the steep street leading to the gates under the ivy-grown bastions.
"The concièrge always goes with visitors," the young man explained as they passed the little house and began mounting. "But father was at school with him, so I got a permit to go up alone."
"Is your father all right to-day, I wonder? Or will he be?" returned Brigit thoughtfully. "I never knew him to have a headache before."
"No more did I," answered Théo, running his words together as he did when he had been speaking much French. "He looked very seedy yesterday, but last night Tante Bathilde went in to see him while you and I were walking, and she said he was better."
They had reached the grassy ramparts and turned to the right. Night was now melting into day, only the great Tower of Talbot (who alas! never was in Falaise in his life) stood out against a faintly moonlit sky. And glancing over his right shoulder at the mantling west, Théo hurried Brigit past the Breach of Henri IV., with its crown of lilac trees, up the steep causeway to the Tower itself. "We must climb to see the sun, dearest," he said, "let us make haste. I am glad to be with you while you for the first time see it come up over the edge." He was very happy and looked rather splendid in his triumphant youth. Brigit smiled at him.
"I like your town," she answered, "and I like this view of it."
Through the little dungeon they ran and up the narrow crumbling stairs, laughing or crying out as they slipped or lost their breath, racing with the sun; a very remarkable thing for Brigit Mead to be doing, as she fully appreciated. And then, at the top, high in the splendid air, the town in its greenery looking like half a dozen eggs in a green nest, asleep below them.
And then, for the race was theirs, they watched the sun creep up until he set the east on fire.
Brigit, her hat off, her eyes bravely set to the east, stood motionless, and Théo, after saluting the risen king, drew back so that he got her profile against the sky and watched it.
She wore a short grey skirt and a grey silk shirt; there was about her not one touch of colour except for a beautiful pink the unwonted climbing had brought to her cheeks. Théo realised how great a mistake most women make in obliterating by bright tints the natural colours of their eyes and skins.
"You are so wonderful," he said suddenly.
She started, for there was in his tone something that vaguely disquieted her. It was like his father's voice, and like his father's when he was impatient and superficially stirred.
"A wonderful person, am I not?" she laughed, picking up her hat and putting it on, dashing a great cruel-looking hat-pin apparently straight through her brain. "I am also a hungry person, Théo. Are we to have food? I suppose no one will be awake for hours!"
It was indeed too early to hope for coffee, so they amused themselves by wandering up and down the stairs, throwing burning paper down the famous oubliette, and crossing perilously narrow ledges hand-in-hand.
"So William was born in this horrid little room? I don't believe it!"
"On le dit. And down there—see? by the tan-yards, Arlette was washing clothes when Robert the Devil saw her and fell in love with her."
"Remarkably fine eyesight he must have had to see enough to fall in love with!"
"Exactly. But that is the story. My mother's father was a tanner down there somewhere. He was fairly well-to-do for his position, and father was considered most audacious for aspiring to her hand!"
He laughed tenderly. "My dear old father! I am so proud of him, dear love, I can't express it at all."
"I know."
"And I am proud of petite mère, too. She was so brave and patient always, and he has led her a sad life at times. They were desperately poor, for her father left most of his money to his other daughter, who married Jacques Colibris. You must see my Uncle Jacques, he is quite delightful—and father was a gambler—and so on. I can myself remember one morning when he came in and told her he had lost two hundred pounds, and that was a fortune then."
"She told me about those times," answered Brigit, slowly. "She is very dear and good."
They were now going slowly down towards the town. It was five o'clock, and the concièrge's children were scampering about, uncombed, as they passed the cottage.
"We'll go to the Musée and knock up old Malaumain," declared Théo suddenly. "He won't mind, and she will give us a good déjeuner. I could eat a horse."
"And I a carriage! But why go to a museum for breakfast?"
"It is a café—old Malaumain is a collector."
"Of what?"
"Of everything. From bird's eggs to souvenirs of Guillaume, whom he adores. The house is supposed to have been at one time lived in by the Conqueror, and old Malaumain has made busts of him, and pictures, and all kinds of things. He will talk to you about l'Entente cordiale and the crossing of the two races, and the Friendly Hand, until you muzzle him. He is a dear old chap, and his wife is a very excellent cook. I used to run away when I was a little kid visiting grand-mère, and go and beg her for sandcakes with the Conqueror's head done on top in sugar!"
Madame Malaumain, contrary to expectation, appeared at an upper window at the first knock, came down in a neat white peignoir, and after a quick stare at Théo held out her hand.
"C'est le petit Joyselle," she said cordially, "avec sa future?"
"Yes—but if you don't give us breakfast, she will die, and then where shall I be?" he answered, laughing. "How is M. Malaumain?"
"He is well, thank you, M. Théo. He has made many more interesting discoveries about the Conqueror. He is very superior, M. Malaumain," she added, turning to Brigit. "He was in service with many great people, so he is never shy, as I am."
Chatting cheerfully, she set a small iron-table outside the door for them, and then looking thoughtfully at them and murmuring, "Coffee, boiled eggs, fresh bread and honey," disappeared, leaving them alone in the slowly awakening Palace St. Gervais.
"What time is the Mass?" asked Brigit, as a tall cart clattered up to the fountain and a brisk middle-aged woman climbed down from it and began setting up her stand for the day's market.
"At ten. I hope grand-père will behave well. I sometimes think he is more mischievous than—than silly, poor old man. The curé who married them called yesterday and congratulated him, whereupon grand-père looked up and remarked that he didn't mind being married again, but that most men got a new wife the second time! Poor old M. Cléry almost died."
"And what did grand-mère say?" asked Brigit.
"Nothing. Just looked at him. Petite mère said it was a dreadful scene, but grand-père was much pleased with himself, and chuckled all day."
"I rather suspect his—sincerity, too, since I saw him trying to make Papillon eat a domino. Oh, what's that?"
Up the street came a small procession; two brown-faced little boys, one of them ringing a bell, followed by a priest in a well-washed and darned white garment.
Théo rose and took off his hat. "It is the Viaticum," he said simply, crossing himself.
The town was waking now; everywhere shop shutters were being taken down and people in sabots clattered about, while a steady stream of high carts, each with a big-boned horse between its shafts, drew up near the fountain and deposited their owners in the market-place.
"A little later on in the year the apples make a splendid colour-effect," commented Théo, breaking off to add in surprise, "Why, here is father!"
It was indeed Joyselle hurrying towards them, a soft hat jammed down over his eyes, so that he did not see them till his son accosted him.
"Father!"
"Théo!"
"Is anything wrong?" asked the young man rising.
Joyselle shook his head with a frown. "Wrong? What should be wrong?" he returned harshly.
"But you look——"
"Hungry, probably. Bonjour, Brigitte. Yes, I am hungry. I have been walking for hours, and I am perished with hunger."
"Will you join us? Madame Malaumain is getting us some coffee——"
Théo obviously expected a refusal to this invitation, but Joyselle accepted it without hesitation, and drawing up a chair, sat down.
"Where have you two been?" he asked.
While Théo gave him a description of their walk, Brigit watched the violinist.
He had pushed back his hat and from under it his hair hung in curly disorder over his brow. He was very pale and his eyes were circled by violet rings. He looked very ill indeed, but Brigit knew that it was no physical pain that was tormenting him.
"Very pleasant," he murmured to his son with a visible effort, "delightful." Madame Malaumain arriving with a tablecloth announced the cheerful fact that the water was boiling, recognised him with delight, and told him in all innocence that he as well as she had grown no younger since their last meeting.
"M. Malaumain will be delighted to see you," she added; "it is not often that he meets one as cultivated as himself."
Joyselle bowed gravely. "Can you give me some coffee, too, Madame Malaumain?" he asked. "I am very—hungry."
But when the coffee and eggs arrived, he did not eat; instead, he sat moodily playing with his spoon and staring at the tablecloth.
Brigit's appetite had fled, and she was most uneasy as she watched him, for she did not dare risk an explosion by putting the smallest question to him.
Something was very wrong, and she was alarmed. Suddenly, as a clock struck half-past six, he rose. "Au revoir, my children," he said, "I must get back home. Théo will call for you at ten minutes to ten, Brigitte, my—my daughter!"
And he was gone, leaving Théo staring after him.
"What can be the matter?" the young man mused. "He looks very bad, doesn't he? It is too early for letters to have come. He can't——" He paused and a quick smile stirred his moustache and showed his white teeth.
"Can't what?" queried Brigit, vaguely annoyed by his smile.
"He can't have fallen in love——"
"Of course he can't!"
"No. But only because he hasn't seen anyone since the night before last. He is amazing about his love-affairs, dear, in and out before you can get your breath, and always madly sincere!"
"I know, 'He always cares for the time,'" she quoted softly, pushing away her cup. "Let's go, Théo, I want to get a sleep before we go to church."
He was surprised by the irritation in her voice, but rose obediently, and after disappearing for a moment to pay Madame Malaumain, led her back to the inn.
"I will come for you at ten to ten then—darling," he said, trying to coax her back into the humour of the earlier hours. But he failed, and she nodded gravely, not even trying to conceal her change of mood. "I shall be ready," she answered, "Good-bye."