Hotel du Lac - Anita Brookner [52]
‘Are you all right?’ asked Edith again. ‘Has anything happened?’
Jennifer shot her a glance. ‘I’m all right,’ she said, without further explanation.
‘Can I do anything?’ asked Edith, puzzled, for Jennifer quite clearly was all right.
‘Well, I could do with some more coffee. This lot’s gone cold.’ She gestured to her breakfast tray, awakening in Edith fresh pangs of hunger.
‘Just coffee?’ she asked. ‘You don’t want a doctor or anything?’
‘Good God, no. Just look after Mummy, would you? She’s a bit upset.’
She seemed gloomy, and curiously unhelpful. Sulky, Edith thought. And why so inactive? If her mother is unwell she should be with her. What on earth is all this to do with me?
She backed out of Jennifer’s bedroom into the salon, where she found M. Huber remonstrating with Alain, while Mrs Pusey closed her eyes again, and M. Huber’s son-in-law attempted, unsuccessfully, to restore calm. Monica was leaning against the door, her eyebrows raised, her mouth wry. All looked up as Edith appeared, ready to receive a message.
‘Jennifer would like some hot coffee,’ she said.
M. Huber’s son-in-law went out into the corridor and snapped his fingers to someone waiting outside. M. Huber, deprived of this steadying influence, took Alain by the arm and shook him. ‘Imbécile,’ he pronounced, between shakes. ‘Imbécile.’
Alain, his composure foundering, breached his own code of honour and blurted, ‘Mais je n’ai rien fait! Je n’ai rien fait.’
‘Imbécile,’ repeated M. Huber, now breathless. ‘Madame,’ cried the boy, appealing to Edith. ‘Dites-leur. Je n’ai rien fait.’
‘Would somebody tell me …’ began Edith, but these cautious words were too much for Alain and he broke away, just as the tears, long held back, spurted from his eyes, and before they could catch him he was out and running down the corridor, shouting ‘Maryvonne! Maryvonne!’ A door opened, and Maryvonne’s frightened blonde head emerged. Blunderingly Alain ran towards her; her arm went round him, her head came close to his, and both disappeared down the stairs.
In Mrs Pusey’s salon there was a silence, as if nobody knew what to do next. This silence was broken by the arrival of more coffee, at which time Monica, M. Huber and his son-in-law chose to leave, assuring Mrs Pusey that she had only to call if she needed anything. Edith made as if to join them, for clearly there was no illness, no infraction, nothing that could not wait until later. As she moved towards the door, Mrs Pusey made a weak gesture with her hand.
‘Don’t go, Edith,’ she murmured. ‘I’m still in shock.’
But as Edith watched her sit up and pour her coffee, she seemed, perhaps by virtue of this sociable action, to recover both her energy and her presence of mind. ‘Take some in to Jennifer, would you, dear?’ she asked, as if this were the most normal request in the world. ‘I’ve sent her back to bed. All this upset. I thought we’d spend the morning resting. Then perhaps we’ll get up for lunch. Or have it sent up here. I doubt if I shall be hungry.’ She gave a tremulous sigh.
‘Mrs Pusey, can you tell me what happened?’ asked Edith, taking the fragrant and still so elusive cup of coffee destined for Jennifer. ‘What is the matter with Jennifer? She seems perfectly all right to me. And why was M. Huber shaking poor Alain?’
‘Poor Alain?’ Mrs Pusey bridled. ‘I like that. Poor Alain indeed.’
‘But what did he do?’ pursued Edith.
‘Nothing,’ said Mrs Pusey grimly, applying a handkerchief to the corners of her mouth. ‘But who knows what he might have done?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Edith. ‘But I still don’t know what has happened.’
‘I slept badly,’ said Mrs Pusey. ‘I didn’t get off until dawn. And then I was awoken by a noise. A door. Someone in Jennifer’s room, I thought. My heart was in my mouth. If anything happened to her …’
‘But nothing has happened to her,’ said Edith gently.
‘So I struggled up,’ Mrs Pusey went on, taking no notice. ‘I rang the bell. And I forced myself to go through, although I was