Stranger at the Gates by Evelyn Anthony Page B

room, taking stock of the fine eighteenth-century furniture, and the pictures. Ancestral faces, some simpering, some arrogant, looked down at him, and Savage remained unimpressed. He was more interested in a photograph which showed a very pretty dark haired woman posing beside a fountain with two children. He picked it up. She certainly photographed well. He was still holding it when the door opened behind him and he heard a light step cross the floor.
    â€˜Monsieur Savage?’
    Louise held out her hand and he kissed it, making a little bow. The room faced south and the sunlight fell directly on her; he had placed himself to be in shadow. It was the right woman, no doubt at all about the large brown eyes and the cast of face which was so palpably American. Even after so many years, she spoke French with a Boston accent. He smiled at her.
    â€˜You must forgive me for descending on you,’ he said, ‘without any warning: I would have telephoned, but unfortunately I arrived very late in Paris, and there was some difficulty getting through here this morning.’
    â€˜The lines are terrible,’ Louise said. ‘Please sit down; let me offer you something. Would you like to sit in here or in the garden? It’s quite warm outside.’
    â€˜The garden would be very nice,’ Savage agreed. Less chance of anyone listening in the open air. She seemed relaxed and friendly. He felt she was excited to see a stranger. Life must be dull, he decided. He followed her out into the sunshine.
    The butler brought wine; it was pale and dry, with a slight pétillance . ‘It’s our own,’ she explained. ‘It makes a nice apéritif. You will stay to lunch, of course.’
    â€˜You’re very kind,’ Savage said. ‘You will have had Monsieur Felon’s letter, so you know why I’m here.’
    â€˜No,’ Louise said. ‘I’ve heard nothing. Of course, I know your firm. Monsieur Savage, because of my family trust, but I never received any letter.’
    â€˜Oh.’ He made a gesture of annoyance. ‘How ridiculous—it must be the censorship. It will probably arrive after I’ve left. I shall have to explain it myself.’
    â€˜It’s about the trust?’
    â€˜Not exactly.’ Savage offered her a cigarette. The sun was warm and he watched her close her eyes for a moment, lifting her face to it. She had a fine profile. She opened her eyes and turned to him.
    â€˜What do you mean, not exactly?’ Her father had died before the war; with America’s entry into the conflict, her affairs had been placed in the hands of the Swiss lawyers whom Savage represented. She knew M. Felon personally.
    â€˜I haven’t come about money.’
    â€˜No? Then what is it—is something wrong?’
    â€˜No.’ He shook his head. ‘Can I ask you a question, Madame de Bernard? A very personal question.’
    â€˜I suppose so. I won’t guarantee to answer it.’ Her mother, was inclined to interfere. For a moment Louise wondered whether some rumour of her estrangement from Jean had reached Boston, and the repercussions had found themselves at St. Blaize via Switzerland. She gave Savage a hostile look. ‘What is your question?’
    â€˜What are your feelings towards the Allies?’
    Louise didn’t answer him. She got up. ‘I’m afraid I never discuss the war.’
    He didn’t move; he blew a smoke ring at her.
    â€˜You haven’t answered the question,’ he said. There was nobody near them; trees, lawns, the fountain in the photograph, but no lurking gardener, no passing maid. He spoke in English. ‘Sit down and take it easy. I’ve got news from home.’
    She stared at him. She did as he suggested.
    â€˜You’re American!’ she whispered. ‘What is this? Who are you …?’
    â€˜I saw your mother before Christmas,’ he said. ‘She’s fine; remarkable woman.