lips. 'Not another nightmare—just when we
hoped she had begun to forget.'
'Solange,' Samma said quietly, 'would you go up to the house and
ask Elvire to bring us some coffee, s'il te plait?'
Solange hesitated, then took herself off, dragging her feet.
'She is not an easy child to manage. You seem to have made a good
beginning,' Liliane commented, leaning back in her chair.
'Maybe,' Samma said non-committally. She hesitated. 'If there's
some cause for Solange's nightmares, it might be better if we didn't
refer to it in front of her. She seems to listen to far too much round
here as it is.'
'But of course you are right.' Liliane looked distressed. 'Mon Dieu,
but I am criminally thoughtless!'
'On the other hand,' Samma went on. 'If there's something I should
know . . .' She paused enquiringly.
'You mean Roche has not told you—warned you? Mais, c'est
impossible, qa? Liliane looked aghast. 'And yet, can one blame him
for wishing to bury the past?
The gossip and rumours were, after all, formidable.'
'Gossip?' Samma frowned.
Liliane looked at her sympathetically. 'About Marie-Christine—her
death.'
'What about it?'
Liliane shrugged. 'There was an accident. Her car ran off the road,
and into a ravine. She was killed instantly.'
'That's awful,' Samma said slowly. 'But why should anyone gossip
about it?'
Liliane spread out her hands. 'Because it was said that the verdict
was a cover-up—that Marie-Christine had in fact killed
herself—crashed the car deliberately. It was known, you see, that
the marriage was not a success—that they lived separately. She
made emotional scenes—wild claims that the house hated her. That
she would die if she had to live here alone.' She paused. 'That was
when Elvire came. She was, you may know, a trained nurse,
experienced in such cases.'
'No,' Samma said numbly, 'I—I didn't know.' She bit her lip. 'I still
don't really understand. Was it just the house . . .?'
Liliane shook her head. 'I do not like to speak of it. I tried, you see,
to be Marie-Christine's friend. In many ways I pitied her—loving
Roche so much—receiving only coldness and rejection in return.'
She sighed. 'It was a tragic situation. No wonder, la pauvre, that
she turned to alcohol for consolation.'
'I—see.' Samma touched the tip of her tongue to suddenly dry lips.
'Had she been drinking when—when . . .'
'It seems so. This is when the talk began because she was not,
naturellement, allowed the use of a car, or even to leave Belmanoir
alone. Yet somehow she obtained the keys and set off. Also, no one
could understand where she got her supplies of vodka. She was
strictly forbidden alcohol of any kind, and Mademoiselle Casson
watched her constantly. A servant, I believe, was dismissed,
although nothing was proved. Yet still she continued to drink—in
the end, fatally.' Liliane paused. 'The effect on the child can, of
course, be imagined.'
'Of course,' Samma echoed dazedly, then straightened, as she heard
the sound of voices approaching. The coffee, it seemed, was
arriving.
'Elvire,' Solange pounced at the table, 'Madame has drawn this
picture of me. It is good, hein?'
'Excellent.' Elvire arranged the coffee things with minute care,
having greeted Liliane Duvalle with politeness rather than warmth.
'Madame has many talents, that is clear.' She gave Samma a bland
look. 'Will Roche be returning for lunch?'
'I'm not quite sure.' Samma's hands gripped together in her lap, out
of sight under the table. She thought savagely—Why didn't you ask
him yourself, when he climbed out of your bed this morning?
'And that is not all.' Solange snatched up her doll. 'See, Tante
Liliane?'
'But how charming.' Liliane Duvalle studied the doll with interest.
'And how clever of your belle-mere to find you a doll that looks
like herself. You see the hair—and the colour of the eyes?'
With a sinking heart, Samma saw the animation fade from Solange's
expression, as if a new and
hoped she had begun to forget.'
'Solange,' Samma said quietly, 'would you go up to the house and
ask Elvire to bring us some coffee, s'il te plait?'
Solange hesitated, then took herself off, dragging her feet.
'She is not an easy child to manage. You seem to have made a good
beginning,' Liliane commented, leaning back in her chair.
'Maybe,' Samma said non-committally. She hesitated. 'If there's
some cause for Solange's nightmares, it might be better if we didn't
refer to it in front of her. She seems to listen to far too much round
here as it is.'
'But of course you are right.' Liliane looked distressed. 'Mon Dieu,
but I am criminally thoughtless!'
'On the other hand,' Samma went on. 'If there's something I should
know . . .' She paused enquiringly.
'You mean Roche has not told you—warned you? Mais, c'est
impossible, qa? Liliane looked aghast. 'And yet, can one blame him
for wishing to bury the past?
The gossip and rumours were, after all, formidable.'
'Gossip?' Samma frowned.
Liliane looked at her sympathetically. 'About Marie-Christine—her
death.'
'What about it?'
Liliane shrugged. 'There was an accident. Her car ran off the road,
and into a ravine. She was killed instantly.'
'That's awful,' Samma said slowly. 'But why should anyone gossip
about it?'
Liliane spread out her hands. 'Because it was said that the verdict
was a cover-up—that Marie-Christine had in fact killed
herself—crashed the car deliberately. It was known, you see, that
the marriage was not a success—that they lived separately. She
made emotional scenes—wild claims that the house hated her. That
she would die if she had to live here alone.' She paused. 'That was
when Elvire came. She was, you may know, a trained nurse,
experienced in such cases.'
'No,' Samma said numbly, 'I—I didn't know.' She bit her lip. 'I still
don't really understand. Was it just the house . . .?'
Liliane shook her head. 'I do not like to speak of it. I tried, you see,
to be Marie-Christine's friend. In many ways I pitied her—loving
Roche so much—receiving only coldness and rejection in return.'
She sighed. 'It was a tragic situation. No wonder, la pauvre, that
she turned to alcohol for consolation.'
'I—see.' Samma touched the tip of her tongue to suddenly dry lips.
'Had she been drinking when—when . . .'
'It seems so. This is when the talk began because she was not,
naturellement, allowed the use of a car, or even to leave Belmanoir
alone. Yet somehow she obtained the keys and set off. Also, no one
could understand where she got her supplies of vodka. She was
strictly forbidden alcohol of any kind, and Mademoiselle Casson
watched her constantly. A servant, I believe, was dismissed,
although nothing was proved. Yet still she continued to drink—in
the end, fatally.' Liliane paused. 'The effect on the child can, of
course, be imagined.'
'Of course,' Samma echoed dazedly, then straightened, as she heard
the sound of voices approaching. The coffee, it seemed, was
arriving.
'Elvire,' Solange pounced at the table, 'Madame has drawn this
picture of me. It is good, hein?'
'Excellent.' Elvire arranged the coffee things with minute care,
having greeted Liliane Duvalle with politeness rather than warmth.
'Madame has many talents, that is clear.' She gave Samma a bland
look. 'Will Roche be returning for lunch?'
'I'm not quite sure.' Samma's hands gripped together in her lap, out
of sight under the table. She thought savagely—Why didn't you ask
him yourself, when he climbed out of your bed this morning?
'And that is not all.' Solange snatched up her doll. 'See, Tante
Liliane?'
'But how charming.' Liliane Duvalle studied the doll with interest.
'And how clever of your belle-mere to find you a doll that looks
like herself. You see the hair—and the colour of the eyes?'
With a sinking heart, Samma saw the animation fade from Solange's
expression, as if a new and
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