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The Black Swan

There was something charming about him. This was particularly noticeable in the somewhat formal company. He was without pomposity and completely unpretentious. “How jolly,” he said, “that I happened to be staying with the Comte when this invitation came. To tell the truth, I was dreading it. My French is appalling. I don’t get half what is said. I can’t tell you what a relief it is to be able to talk in English!”

“We find that too,” Belinda assured him.

“So you see,” I added, “the relief is mutual.”

“My father, of course,” went on Belinda, “speaks perfect English. Well, he has been so much in England.”

“Yes. So the Comte told me.”

“Do you often come to France?” I asked.

Belinda frowned at me. She wanted to talk to him and there were too many interruptions coming from me.

He said, “No... not often. Before he died, my father came frequently. Sometimes I came with him. He had a feeling for France... and he had one or two good friends here. The Comte, for instance, was one of them. He was a special one. On the rare occasions when he came to England he stayed with us. So when I come to France I always visit them and stay a few days.”

“So you are only here for few days,” said Belinda, a little crestfallen.

He nodded. “That is why it is so lucky that I came here.”

Belinda sparkled. “Isn’t that a nice thing to say, Lucie?”

I agreed that it was.

“And where is your home?” asked Belinda.

“It’s in Hampshire.”

“Oh, not so very far from London.”

“That’s true.”

“Do you ever come to London?” Belinda asked.

“Not often. Occasionally.”

There was a brief silence while the fish was served.

“There is quite a lot to do on the estate,” he went on. “Since my father died ...”

“Was that recently?” I asked.

“About a year ago.”

“Are you a sort of ... squire?” said Belinda.

“Sort of,” he answered.

“How exciting!”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I haven’t had a lot of experience.”

“Well, I suppose you have people to help. Have you a family?”

“No. I was the only one. My father died suddenly. It was a terrible shock. Everyone thought he had years ahead of him.”

“So you are all alone ... no wife to help you ... no children?”

“All alone,” he said.

I could see that Belinda’s interest was increasing. Sir Robert Denver-owner of a title and estate in Hampshire, good-looking enough. Quite an eligible bachelor. She gave me a venomous look, realizing that I was reading her thoughts. I watched her setting out to charm him, and I guessed she was making a success of it.

I wished her luck. There was something very pleasant about him. He was not exactly worldly and this was particularly apparent in the company of such men as the Comte and Jean Pascal... and, I daresay, Monsieur du Pont. Of course, he was a good deal younger than they were, but I could not believe that Jean Pascal had ever been innocent as this young man appeared to be. From then to the end of the meal Belinda took charge of the conversation, chattering away, telling him, in the most interesting manner, of her life in the goldfields and how different it was in London; he listened avidly and before it was time for us to leave the table, I could see that she had woven her special spell about him. He looked a little bewildered... but enchanted.

When I was in bed that night I kept thinking about the evening and the guests, particularly Sir Robert.

I heard the door rattling and my heart began to beat with alarming rapidity, I sprang out of bed.

“Who is that?” I cried.

“Belinda, of course.”

“Just a moment.” I unlocked the door and she came in, clad in dressing gown and slippers.

“Why do you lock your door?” she demanded.

“I ... don’t know. A habit, I suppose.”

She was too concerned with herself to give more than a passing thought to my little fancies.

I got back into bed and she sat on the edge of it, watching me.

“What do you think of him?”

“Of whom?”

“Don’t be silly! You know very well.”