asked.
The fear was still there, but it was hidden firmly and Charlot was amazed at the man’s effrontery. The white face turned like a naked globe towards him prepared to outglance him, and it was Charlot who looked away. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it’s Chavel. But he’s changed.’ An expression of glee crinkled the man’s face and then all was smooth again.
‘Well,’ the girl asked, ‘what’s your message?’
‘It was just that he loved you and this was the best thing he could do for you.’
It was bitterly cold in the big hall, and the man suddenly shivered. He said, ‘Goodnight, mademoiselle. Forgive my intrusion. I should have known that the earth is closed.’ He bowed with stagy grace, but the gesture was lost on her. She had turned her back on him and was already passing out of sight round a turn of the stairs.
‘The door, Monsieur Chavel,’ Charlot mocked him.
But the man had one shot left. ‘You are an impostor,’ he said, ‘you were not in the prison, you did not recognize me. Do you think I would have forgotten any face there? I think I ought to expose you to your mistress. You are obviously preying on her good nature.’
Charlot let him ramble on, plunging deeper. Then he said, ‘I was in the prison and I did recognize you, Monsieur Carosse.’
‘Good God,’ he said, taking the longest look he had yet. ‘Not Pidot? It can’t be Pidot with that voice.’
‘No, you mistook me for Pidot once before. My name is Charlot. This is the second time you’ve done me a service, Monsieur Carosse.’
‘You give me a poor return then, don’t you, pushing me out into the night like this? The wind’s east, and I’m damned if it hasn’t begun to rain.’ The more afraid he was, the more jaunty he became: jauntiness was like a medicine he took for the nerves. He turned up the collar of his overcoat. ‘To be given the bird in the provinces,’ he said, ‘a poor end to a distinguished career. Good night, my ungrateful Charlot. How did I ever mistake you for poor Pidot?’
‘You’ll freeze.’
‘Only too probable. So did Edgar Allan Poe.’
‘Listen,’ Charlot said, ‘I’m not as ungrateful as that. You can stay one night. Take off your shoes while I slam the door.’ He closed the door loudly. ‘Follow me.’ But he had only taken two steps when the girl called from the landing, ‘Charlot, has he gone?’
‘Yes, he’s gone.’ He waited a moment and then called up, ‘I’ll make sure the back door is closed,’ and then he led the man in his stockinged feet down the passage leading to the kitchen quarters, up the back stairs, to his own room.
‘You can sleep here,’ he said, ‘and I’ll let you out early tomorrow. Nobody must see you go, or I shall have to go with you.’ The man sat comfortably on the bed and stretched his legs. ‘Are you
the
Carosse?’ Charlot asked curiously.
‘I know no other Carosse but myself,’ the man said. ‘I have no brothers, no sisters, and no parents. I wouldn’t know if somewhere in the wastes of the provinces live a few obscure Carosses: there may be a second cousin in Limoges. Of course,’ he winced slightly, ‘there is still my first wife, the old bitch.’
‘And now they are after you?’
‘There is an absurd puritanical conception abroad in this country,’ Monsieur Carosse said, ‘that man can live by bread alone. A most un-Catholic idea. I suppose I could have lived on bread—black bread—during the occupation, but the spirit requires its luxuries.’ He smiled confidently. ‘One could only obtain luxuries from one source.’
‘But what induced you to come here?’
‘The police, my dear fellow, and these ardent young men with guns who call themselves the Resistance. I was aiming south, but unfortunately my features are too well-known, except,’ he said with a touch of bitterness, ‘in this house.’
‘But how did you know … what made you think …?’
‘Even in classical comedy, my friend, one becomes accustomed
The fear was still there, but it was hidden firmly and Charlot was amazed at the man’s effrontery. The white face turned like a naked globe towards him prepared to outglance him, and it was Charlot who looked away. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it’s Chavel. But he’s changed.’ An expression of glee crinkled the man’s face and then all was smooth again.
‘Well,’ the girl asked, ‘what’s your message?’
‘It was just that he loved you and this was the best thing he could do for you.’
It was bitterly cold in the big hall, and the man suddenly shivered. He said, ‘Goodnight, mademoiselle. Forgive my intrusion. I should have known that the earth is closed.’ He bowed with stagy grace, but the gesture was lost on her. She had turned her back on him and was already passing out of sight round a turn of the stairs.
‘The door, Monsieur Chavel,’ Charlot mocked him.
But the man had one shot left. ‘You are an impostor,’ he said, ‘you were not in the prison, you did not recognize me. Do you think I would have forgotten any face there? I think I ought to expose you to your mistress. You are obviously preying on her good nature.’
Charlot let him ramble on, plunging deeper. Then he said, ‘I was in the prison and I did recognize you, Monsieur Carosse.’
‘Good God,’ he said, taking the longest look he had yet. ‘Not Pidot? It can’t be Pidot with that voice.’
‘No, you mistook me for Pidot once before. My name is Charlot. This is the second time you’ve done me a service, Monsieur Carosse.’
‘You give me a poor return then, don’t you, pushing me out into the night like this? The wind’s east, and I’m damned if it hasn’t begun to rain.’ The more afraid he was, the more jaunty he became: jauntiness was like a medicine he took for the nerves. He turned up the collar of his overcoat. ‘To be given the bird in the provinces,’ he said, ‘a poor end to a distinguished career. Good night, my ungrateful Charlot. How did I ever mistake you for poor Pidot?’
‘You’ll freeze.’
‘Only too probable. So did Edgar Allan Poe.’
‘Listen,’ Charlot said, ‘I’m not as ungrateful as that. You can stay one night. Take off your shoes while I slam the door.’ He closed the door loudly. ‘Follow me.’ But he had only taken two steps when the girl called from the landing, ‘Charlot, has he gone?’
‘Yes, he’s gone.’ He waited a moment and then called up, ‘I’ll make sure the back door is closed,’ and then he led the man in his stockinged feet down the passage leading to the kitchen quarters, up the back stairs, to his own room.
‘You can sleep here,’ he said, ‘and I’ll let you out early tomorrow. Nobody must see you go, or I shall have to go with you.’ The man sat comfortably on the bed and stretched his legs. ‘Are you
the
Carosse?’ Charlot asked curiously.
‘I know no other Carosse but myself,’ the man said. ‘I have no brothers, no sisters, and no parents. I wouldn’t know if somewhere in the wastes of the provinces live a few obscure Carosses: there may be a second cousin in Limoges. Of course,’ he winced slightly, ‘there is still my first wife, the old bitch.’
‘And now they are after you?’
‘There is an absurd puritanical conception abroad in this country,’ Monsieur Carosse said, ‘that man can live by bread alone. A most un-Catholic idea. I suppose I could have lived on bread—black bread—during the occupation, but the spirit requires its luxuries.’ He smiled confidently. ‘One could only obtain luxuries from one source.’
‘But what induced you to come here?’
‘The police, my dear fellow, and these ardent young men with guns who call themselves the Resistance. I was aiming south, but unfortunately my features are too well-known, except,’ he said with a touch of bitterness, ‘in this house.’
‘But how did you know … what made you think …?’
‘Even in classical comedy, my friend, one becomes accustomed
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