“We shall have to try and get rid of that fellow.”
Durand’s hair bristled.
“And Goblet’s men will start a riot. I think we are strong enough to give them a surprise. I wish I could buy that factory.”
XXXIX
Brent had been at work in the château, putting one of the “wings” in repair against the winter, when that yellow English touring-car pulled up outside the Café de la Victoire. It was a big car, and it contained, besides the chauffeur, a manufacturer from the Midlands, his family, and its appendages.
They were all gathered on the footpath, a big red man in a grey flannel suit, three women rather elaborately dressed, a “flapper” with red hair, and a small boy with eyes like blue marbles. The women had white, puffy faces. They stared at everything, Manon, the house, the resurrected ruins, Paul Brent, the scattering of children, as though they were staring at things in a shop-window. There was a quite extraordinary lack of animation or intelligence about them. They looked overfed, replete, satiated.
The man was trying to explain that they wanted five bedrooms and late dinner. And was there a lock-up garage for the car?
“Mais, non, monsieur, c’est impossible.”
She looked relieved when Paul joined them.
“My fiancé speaks a little English.”