Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [398]
“Paltre has a suspicion of Isabelle, I know,” he said, to stifle one ugly thought with another.
The doctor laughed harshly. “Elise wouldn’t need to be betrayed by Paltre. As you can see, she’s got no place to hide.”
“How do you suppose Xavier will take it?” Maillart said.
“No idea,” said the doctor. “It’s as well he’s gone to La Tortue.”
“I don’t suppose he’ll stay there six months.”
“No,” said the doctor, rubbing the few sprigs of hair that remained on his freckled head. “She came to me in hope I would . . . arrange the problem. But it lies outside my competence.”
Maillart passed a dry tongue over his lips. “That’s why she’s gone to the midwife, then.”
“Yes, exactly.”
“Is it safe?”
“No,” said the doctor. “You wanted to know what was on my mind? Well, there you have it.”
He stood up, brushing sand from his trousers. Guizot caught sight of him and beckoned. The doctor shook his head.
“No reason to refuse that offer,” Maillart said. “That lad Guizot’s as loyal to you as a spaniel, ever since you saved his arm, and Paltre has gone off—to the devil, we may hope.”
“I never asked for a spaniel.” The doctor cocked an eye at him. “And do you suppose I have an appetite?”
“No more than I do,” Maillart said and spread his hands. “But one must eat to live.”
“I suppose you’re right,” the doctor said. In fact the suddenness of his rising had left him a little light-headed—he had not eaten much that day, and Guizot did mean well. Still he felt hesitant to join the others. Again he folded his arms and faced the sea, watching the surf foam on the line of rocks that closed the cove, and counting his breaths carefully, though he was too distracted to know when he’d reached ten.
Daspir found the Cigny house all shuttered tight against the peak of the afternoon heat. He hammered on the door three times before he heard the reluctant scrape of the iron hook. The maid who peeped out through the crack was a stranger to him, and nowhere near as attractive as Zabeth. Madame Cigny was not receiving anyone at this hour, she told him, though he might come back in the evening if he wished. She closed the door on Daspir’s boot toe, which he had thought to insinuate across the sill. As he struggled to pour himself into the narrowing gap, he heard the brassy jingle of a bell from within, and Isabelle’s voice calling rather irritably for the maid to admit whoever had come.
The door yielded in, and Daspir lurched in, stumbling in the shadows of the hall. As his eyes adjusted to the dim, he saw her looking down on him from the top of the stairs. When she recognized him, she clucked her tongue and looked away.
“Well, come up, then,” she said, but without much enthusiasm. She moved away from the upper stair rail. Daspir climbed, twisting his hat in his hands. Isabelle motioned him to her striped love seat, but sat herself in a straight chair across the room.
“I see I have disturbed you,” Daspir said, unable to suppress the petulance in his tone.
“Oh,” said Isabelle, her voice heavy with lassitude. “It is only that I did not expect you at this hour.”
“It’s plain enough that I am not the person you expected.” Though his voice was tight and low, his jealousy was surging. It was Maillart who had turned her affection from him, Maillart who always seemed to interpose himself between Daspir and Isabelle these latter days. How had it happened so rapidly? Daspir had been moved to hurry here when he saw that Maillart would tarry on the beach—had been struck by what a rare opportunity that circumstance presented.
“It’s true,” she said.
Daspir’s heart slammed. The doors over the balcony were also shut tight, and he could not read her expression in the shadows where she’d placed her chair. It was true, then; she had chosen Maillart over him.
“I thought Madame Tocquet might have come,” Isabelle said. “But it is no matter. I meant to rest, but I could not.