if he bestowed his attentions on others.
He had regained something of his good looks, only now he was slender, with large brilliant eyes, which made him appear a very romantic figure – something she knew he wasn’t. He even obtained a commission posing for an aspiring artist as the young David about to kill Goliath.
He and Helen laughed together over this, but she and Harry never saw any of the money he received for it so it couldn’t have stayed long in Robert’s pocket.
By the end of the winter, Harry had grown several inches and could chatter in both English and French. The widow with whom they lodged had taken a great fancy to him and looked after him willingly most of the time, for he was the same age as Madame’s grandson, whom she only saw once or twice a year. The two of them would do the marketing together, or play long complicated games.
But all the time, Helen felt deep within her that the whole interlude was just a breathing space, a pause before life rushed her on again. She continued to hoard what little she could save and to hide her money very carefully about her person. She would never trust her husband again, however pleasant he seemed. But at least she was feeling well and energetic. And so was Harry.
During the winter, Robert had found ways of gambling again, very small amounts at first, on card games or even dominoes in the local cafe. He enjoyed any game of chance and even a small win would put him in an expansive mood. A fellow needed a bit of fun, he kept telling Helen, else what use was life?
By the end of the winter, he was out more evenings than not, and they had had several nasty little quarrels when he lost the money he had earned by teaching English, instead of giving it to Helen for their living expenses. Madame tut-tutted at this and slipped Harry little titbits, but sometimes Helen was at her wits’ end to find food for herself and her son without dipping into her precious savings.
By May, Robert had made up his mind to move on to Nice, whatever his wife said. The quarrels over this raged for days, and Harry spent a lot of time shivering under the table in the Madame’s kitchen.
In the end, Helen refused to discuss it any more, telling Robert to go to Nice on his own, if it was so important to him, and leave her where she was. She could, she felt, settle down quite happily in Beziers.
But he wouldn’t even consider leaving her. ‘You’re my lucky piece. Without you, I never win for long.’
One day, driven nearly to screaming point, she shouted, ‘You don't honestly believe that! You can’t, surely!’
‘Oh, but I do! That's what makes me a successful gambler. I know that I must have you with me.
You are my luck!’
‘You're utterly ridiculous!’ And he was not a successful gambler, so how he could think she brought him luck, she didn’t know. But she didn’t say that. It would only have made matters worse.
‘And you, madam wife, are being as stubborn as a mule! But I will get you to Nice. It's the only place to be!’
A week later, Helen came home to find Madame in tears. ‘ Il a pris mon petit ange!’ she wailed as soon as Helen entered the house.
Helen stopped dead in the hallway, a sinking feeling making her legs seem suddenly too heavy to move. It was a moment before she could even speak. ‘What do you mean? Where's Harry?’
More tears, with the words barely distinguishable. ‘Il est parti !’
‘Gone! What do you mean “gone”?’
‘Monsieur said you knew all about it, that it had been arranged between you. But I knew it was not so, or you would have told me. I tried to stop him. Ah, mon petit ange, où es-tu maintenant?’
Helen swallowed hard and asked in a voice which trembled, try as she might to keep calm.
‘Please tell me quickly what happened!’
‘ Eh bien , your husband, he grow angry, shout at me. And then he take the child away. And the poor little fellow was screaming and kicking.’ Madame collapsed again, sobbing loudly
He had regained something of his good looks, only now he was slender, with large brilliant eyes, which made him appear a very romantic figure – something she knew he wasn’t. He even obtained a commission posing for an aspiring artist as the young David about to kill Goliath.
He and Helen laughed together over this, but she and Harry never saw any of the money he received for it so it couldn’t have stayed long in Robert’s pocket.
By the end of the winter, Harry had grown several inches and could chatter in both English and French. The widow with whom they lodged had taken a great fancy to him and looked after him willingly most of the time, for he was the same age as Madame’s grandson, whom she only saw once or twice a year. The two of them would do the marketing together, or play long complicated games.
But all the time, Helen felt deep within her that the whole interlude was just a breathing space, a pause before life rushed her on again. She continued to hoard what little she could save and to hide her money very carefully about her person. She would never trust her husband again, however pleasant he seemed. But at least she was feeling well and energetic. And so was Harry.
During the winter, Robert had found ways of gambling again, very small amounts at first, on card games or even dominoes in the local cafe. He enjoyed any game of chance and even a small win would put him in an expansive mood. A fellow needed a bit of fun, he kept telling Helen, else what use was life?
By the end of the winter, he was out more evenings than not, and they had had several nasty little quarrels when he lost the money he had earned by teaching English, instead of giving it to Helen for their living expenses. Madame tut-tutted at this and slipped Harry little titbits, but sometimes Helen was at her wits’ end to find food for herself and her son without dipping into her precious savings.
By May, Robert had made up his mind to move on to Nice, whatever his wife said. The quarrels over this raged for days, and Harry spent a lot of time shivering under the table in the Madame’s kitchen.
In the end, Helen refused to discuss it any more, telling Robert to go to Nice on his own, if it was so important to him, and leave her where she was. She could, she felt, settle down quite happily in Beziers.
But he wouldn’t even consider leaving her. ‘You’re my lucky piece. Without you, I never win for long.’
One day, driven nearly to screaming point, she shouted, ‘You don't honestly believe that! You can’t, surely!’
‘Oh, but I do! That's what makes me a successful gambler. I know that I must have you with me.
You are my luck!’
‘You're utterly ridiculous!’ And he was not a successful gambler, so how he could think she brought him luck, she didn’t know. But she didn’t say that. It would only have made matters worse.
‘And you, madam wife, are being as stubborn as a mule! But I will get you to Nice. It's the only place to be!’
A week later, Helen came home to find Madame in tears. ‘ Il a pris mon petit ange!’ she wailed as soon as Helen entered the house.
Helen stopped dead in the hallway, a sinking feeling making her legs seem suddenly too heavy to move. It was a moment before she could even speak. ‘What do you mean? Where's Harry?’
More tears, with the words barely distinguishable. ‘Il est parti !’
‘Gone! What do you mean “gone”?’
‘Monsieur said you knew all about it, that it had been arranged between you. But I knew it was not so, or you would have told me. I tried to stop him. Ah, mon petit ange, où es-tu maintenant?’
Helen swallowed hard and asked in a voice which trembled, try as she might to keep calm.
‘Please tell me quickly what happened!’
‘ Eh bien , your husband, he grow angry, shout at me. And then he take the child away. And the poor little fellow was screaming and kicking.’ Madame collapsed again, sobbing loudly
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