The Night Of The Bulls. Anne Mather
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the booth, she went upstairs to her room and stared at her reflection in the mirror of the dressing-table. Her eyes were troubled now, their green depths haunted by the anxiety she was suffering. What was she going to do?
She was in the process of changing for dinner when there was a tap at her door. ‘Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!’
The voice was feminine and Dionne crossed the room to the door, wrapping her housecoat closer about her. A maid waited outside.
‘There is a telephone call for you, mademoiselle,’ she explained with a smile. ‘Unfortunately, you will have to take it downstairs –in the hall.’
Dionne gripped the door handle tightly. ‘Are – are you sure it’s for me?’ she asked faintly.
‘Mais certainement, mademoiselle. It is a man, mademoiselle!’
‘A man!’ Dionne shook her head bewilderedly. ‘Oh, oh, very well, I – I’ll come down. Give me a minute to put some clothes on.’
As she thrust her legs into close-fitting cream pants and a chunky jade green sweater that accentuated her extreme slenderness she sought about in her mind for an explanation. Surely if that had been Louise she could not have recognized her voice so quickly! And even if she had, how could she have known where she was staying?
Her legs trembled as she ran downstairs to the phone, but when she picked up the receiver the voice that said: ‘Mademoiselle King?’ was most definitely not Manoel’s. It was much lighter, much younger, and infinitely less disturbing.
‘Who – who is that?’ she asked, jerkily.
‘Henri Martin, mademoiselle. We met yesterday, on the plane.’
Dionne sagged against the wall of the booth. ‘Oh – oh, Monsieur Martin,’ she breathed huskily. ‘I – I didn’t know your name.’
‘I know. But I was lucky enough to learn yours. Tell me, have you settled into your hotel? Is everything satisfactory?’
Dionne heaved a sigh. ‘Oh, yes, yes, everything’s fine,’ she replied dejectedly. ‘Why are you ringing?’
He sounded disconcerted. ‘Why am I ringing, mademoiselle?’ He chuckled. ‘But of course you know. I want to ask you if you will dine with me this evening.’
Dionne straightened. ‘I’m sorry, that’s impossible.’
‘Why? Why is it impossible?’
Dionne shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘I — I’m tired. I don’t feel much like dining at all, monsieur.’
He uttered an exclamation. ‘Ah, but I am desolated, mademoiselle. Surely you must eat!’
Dionne bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Tomorrow, then.’
‘I don’t know what I shall be doing tomorrow.’ That at least was true.
‘You are wrecking my ego,’ he commented lightly. ‘Please, lunch, then.’
‘Some other time,’ said Dionne firmly, and rang off.
Leaving the booth, she walked slowly back up the stairs to her room and once there she did not bother to change, but flung herself on the bed, a well of bitterness rising up inside her. She felt completely alone, and not even the knowledge of Clarry and Jonathan waiting for her so confidently in England could dispel the desolation she was feeling.
Deciding she could not bear the idea of facing a meal in the restaurant, she collected her handbag and went downstairs again and out into the square. The shadows of the street lamps cast pools of light on the shadowed streets, but it was very warm and she found the melting softness of the darkness like a balm to her troubled heart and mind. Tomorrow was another day!
She had a cup of coffee and a pastry in a small bistro on the banks of the Rhone and then walked in the direction of the Arena. She had been to the Arena several times with Manoel, watching the spectacle which could bring nausea to the most hardened stomachs. The famous bulls of the Camargue were worthy opponents for their human counterparts and while Dionne had turned away from the bloody killing, so cruel somehow in the heat of the afternoon, she had been fascinated by the men who diced so casually with death. Some of the most famous bullfighters from Spain crossed the border to take part in the corrida in the arena at Arles, and pit their skills against the sturdy black bulls that could inflict such cruel wounds with the flick of deadly horns, while amateurs from all around continually appeared to challenge the professionals, each more willing than the last it seemed to tempt the ultimate fate.
Dionne had watched Manoel in the corral at the mas with the bulls, and had stood in frozen immobility as he made passes that in the arena would have aroused the excited shouts of ‘Olé!’ Those were times when she had hated him for subjecting her to such an agony of anxiety and she had run away, only to have him follow her, tumbling her to the ground and kissing away her indignation in a way that made her forget everything but her need of him …
A pain twisted in her stomach. How swiftly those months had gone by, how sweetly had each day been the culmination of her wildest dreams, and how tortuous had been the parting when it inevitably came.
She returned from her walk about nine o’clock, the solitary stroll having had a calming effect on her heightened senses. She felt pleasantly tired, and she refused to consider any more the probabilities and possibilities of the morrow. It was hopeless trying to speculate on anything so nebulous.
She entered the reception hall of the hotel slowly, her bag slung carelessly over one shoulder, her hand raised to tuck an errant strand of black silk behind her ear.
She thought the hall was deserted at first, but as she crossed the wide expanse of green carpeting a man rose from a chair positioned at the foot of the stairs and stepped to block her path.
Dionne halted, her gaze sweeping up over mudsplattered knee-length boots and grey suede trousers, noticing inconsequently the man’s height and leanness and the intense darkness of his face in the shadows. For a moment he remained motionless and a twinge of apprehension feathered along her spine, and then he stepped into the light and she fell back a pace, a hand pressed to paling lips.
‘Hello, Dionne,’ he said, his voice, with its unmistakable accent, lacerating her with incisive harshness. ‘Might one ask why you are here and why you wish to speak with me?’
DIONNE stared at him disbelievingly, unable to accept for a moment that this was not some crazy hallucination brought on by her intense longing to see Manoel St. Salvador again, a longing which until this moment had existed only in her subconscious.
But this was not the Manoel she remembered. Her recollections of him were acute, and this cold-eyed stranger bore little resemblance to the warm-blooded man she had known and loved. The features were the same, and yet not the same. They were arranged in the same order, grey eyes below dark brows, arrogantly carved cheekbones, a full and sensual mouth, dark side-bums growing down to his firm jawline. But he was leaner than she remembered, and the grey eyes were more deeply set in their sockets and tinged with bitterness. Deep lines etched nose and mouth, and he had a slightly bored and jaded air. His body was leaner, too, although the muscles of his chest rippled beneath the soft suede of his short jacket, and the strong thighs strained against his taut-fitting trousers.
Now she shook her head helplessly, aware that this moment had come upon her unannounced and unprepared and she could not cope with it. What possible hope of compassion could she expect from the cruel-looking man who was regarding her with something like hatred in his eyes? How could she begin to believe that she might ask anything of him? How could she have imagined so foolishly that the passing of the years should not have laid as much experience at his door as at hers?
‘Well, mademoiselle?’