came. ‘Damn,’ I said again, cursing my own stupidity. And then, quite by chance, I saw the stairs. It was a narrow flight of stone stairs, nearly invisible in the dark, curving downwards from the level of the terrace. Remembering that the hotel’s garage was underneath me, I plucked up my courage and started down, my hand clutching at the railing, expecting at any moment to miss my footing on the uneven stone. It was a relief to feel the ground again, safe and solid beneath my feet and, after a moment’s search, to find the door that I had hoped would be there.
It didn’t open into the garage, as I’d expected, but straight onto the street itself. The fountain gurgled placidly in front of me, bathed in the golden glow of street lamps, and the hotel’s front doors, brightly lit beneath the awning,beckoned me from several yards away. I shivered again and headed for those doors.
But before I reached them, I saw the child.
I stopped, and hovered, hesitating. It’s not your business , I warned myself. Don’t get involved . But I couldn’t help myself.
She was so young, I thought, no more than six or seven years of age, and so pitifully alone. A miserable figure all in black, sitting still as a statue on the bench at the far side of the fountain square, her large eyes fixed upon the doors of the hotel. She looked up as I approached, and my heart turned over tightly. She’d been crying.
Hunching down on my knees, I spoke to her as gently as I could, in French, and asked what was the matter.
‘I can’t go home,’ she said.
‘Why can’t you? Don’t you know the way?’
She shook her head, setting her short cap of dark brown curls bouncing around her pale face. ‘Papa will be so angry.’
Tears swelled again in the big eyes and I rushed to reassure her. ‘I’m sure he won’t be angry, really he won’t. You can’t help being lost.’
‘I’m not lost, Madame,’ she said, with another toss of her head. ‘I know how to get to my house. But my papa, he will be angry.’
‘Tell me why.’
‘Because I left them. They looked the other way, and so I left them. Papa, he said I was to stay with her until suppertime, but they did not want me there, you see …’
‘I see,’ I said, although of course I didn’t. ‘And who are “they”?’
‘My aunt and her friend. Her man friend.’
‘Ah,’ I said, comprehension dawning.
‘I was sorry, afterwards, for leaving them, but when I went back they had already gone, and so I came here to wait for them. My aunt’s friend stays at this hotel, and so I thought … I thought …’ Her lower lip quivered. ‘But they have not come. And I cannot go home.’
‘Nonsense.’ I rose to my feet, stretching out one hand. ‘Of course you. can. I’ll take you home.’
The big eyes were imploring. ‘But my papa …’
‘Just you leave your papa to me.’
She sniffed and thought a moment, and then the small cold fingers curled around my own, trustingly.
‘Now, where is your house?’
‘It is up there,’ she said, and showed me. ‘Behind the château.’
She was pointing at the steep stairway leading upwards from the square. Wonderful, I thought with an inward groan. Why couldn’t I have been called to play the Good Samaritan to a child who made her home on street level? With sinking heart I started up the steps, the little girl in tow.
Simon and Paul had been quite right, I decided – the stairs were definitely more difficult to manage than the more gradual ascent from the rue Voltaire. By the time we neared the top my lungs were burning, and my heart was pounding wildly against my ribcage. I felt an old woman beside the child, who climbed with irritating ease. At the summit of the steps I paused, trying desperately to buy a moment’s rest. ‘Where now?’ I gasped.
‘This way,’ she said, and pointed. I let her lead me up the long slope to the château, then round the sheer and silent floodlit walls and down again. I would have gone on
It didn’t open into the garage, as I’d expected, but straight onto the street itself. The fountain gurgled placidly in front of me, bathed in the golden glow of street lamps, and the hotel’s front doors, brightly lit beneath the awning,beckoned me from several yards away. I shivered again and headed for those doors.
But before I reached them, I saw the child.
I stopped, and hovered, hesitating. It’s not your business , I warned myself. Don’t get involved . But I couldn’t help myself.
She was so young, I thought, no more than six or seven years of age, and so pitifully alone. A miserable figure all in black, sitting still as a statue on the bench at the far side of the fountain square, her large eyes fixed upon the doors of the hotel. She looked up as I approached, and my heart turned over tightly. She’d been crying.
Hunching down on my knees, I spoke to her as gently as I could, in French, and asked what was the matter.
‘I can’t go home,’ she said.
‘Why can’t you? Don’t you know the way?’
She shook her head, setting her short cap of dark brown curls bouncing around her pale face. ‘Papa will be so angry.’
Tears swelled again in the big eyes and I rushed to reassure her. ‘I’m sure he won’t be angry, really he won’t. You can’t help being lost.’
‘I’m not lost, Madame,’ she said, with another toss of her head. ‘I know how to get to my house. But my papa, he will be angry.’
‘Tell me why.’
‘Because I left them. They looked the other way, and so I left them. Papa, he said I was to stay with her until suppertime, but they did not want me there, you see …’
‘I see,’ I said, although of course I didn’t. ‘And who are “they”?’
‘My aunt and her friend. Her man friend.’
‘Ah,’ I said, comprehension dawning.
‘I was sorry, afterwards, for leaving them, but when I went back they had already gone, and so I came here to wait for them. My aunt’s friend stays at this hotel, and so I thought … I thought …’ Her lower lip quivered. ‘But they have not come. And I cannot go home.’
‘Nonsense.’ I rose to my feet, stretching out one hand. ‘Of course you. can. I’ll take you home.’
The big eyes were imploring. ‘But my papa …’
‘Just you leave your papa to me.’
She sniffed and thought a moment, and then the small cold fingers curled around my own, trustingly.
‘Now, where is your house?’
‘It is up there,’ she said, and showed me. ‘Behind the château.’
She was pointing at the steep stairway leading upwards from the square. Wonderful, I thought with an inward groan. Why couldn’t I have been called to play the Good Samaritan to a child who made her home on street level? With sinking heart I started up the steps, the little girl in tow.
Simon and Paul had been quite right, I decided – the stairs were definitely more difficult to manage than the more gradual ascent from the rue Voltaire. By the time we neared the top my lungs were burning, and my heart was pounding wildly against my ribcage. I felt an old woman beside the child, who climbed with irritating ease. At the summit of the steps I paused, trying desperately to buy a moment’s rest. ‘Where now?’ I gasped.
‘This way,’ she said, and pointed. I let her lead me up the long slope to the château, then round the sheer and silent floodlit walls and down again. I would have gone on
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