The Night Of The Bulls. Anne Mather
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had learned that the corrida displayed the kind of savagery that made one wonder how far civilization had progressed since the days of gladiatorial battles in the arena in Rome, whereas the course libre was a gentler, if no less dangerous, sport where the bull survived to fight another day.
But in spite of that, it was the Spanish bulls which were the most highly prized, and Manoel’s father, as the head of his household, could rightly be called a manadier, a rather grand title in this area. Certainly these finely bred cattle looked the fiercest Dionne had ever seen, and everyone was warned, from the moment they set foot in the area, to treat them with the utmost respect and never to underestimate their unpredictability.
The herd surged by, scarcely giving her a second glance, but the gardiens regarded her curiously, obviously wondering who she was and why she was here on St. Salvador land.
One of the older men reined in his horse and approached the car, taking off his wide-brimmed hat that so closely resembled that of a cowboy’s in the western states of America. Dionne had recognized none of the men and was taken aback that one of them should address her.
‘Bonjour, mademoiselle,’ he said politely. ‘Qu’est-ce que vous voulez?’
Dionne smiled more confidently than she felt. ‘Er – ou est Monsieur Manoel?’ she inquired casually.
The man frowned. ‘Le patron, mademoiselle? Il n’est pas ici.’
Dionne bit her lip. ‘Non, pas le patron, monsieur, mais Monsieur Manoel?’
‘Monsieur Manoel est le patron,’ retorted the man with dignity.
Dionne stared at him disbelievingly. Manoel was le patron, his employer! Then where was Manoel’s father?
But of course she could not ask such a leading question so she made a helpless gesture and said: ‘Pardon! Je ne connais pas bien la famille.’
The man’s frown deepened. ‘Vous êtes anglaise, mademoiselle, oui?’
Dionne inclined her head. ‘Oui. Vous parlez anglais?’
The man’s lips parted in a wide grin. ‘Un peu, mademoiselle, un peu.’
Dionne ran her tongue over dry lips. ‘Very well, monsieur, do you know where Monsieur Manoel is?’
The man glanced about him, turning in the heavy saddle. His eyes were the lightest blue that Dionne had ever seen, diluted by the wind and weather, his gnarled hands and face the colour of mahogany.
‘He could be anywhere, mademoiselle,’ he said at last. ‘There is much to be done at this time of the year. You wish I should tell him you await him at the mas?’
‘Oh, no.’ Dionne shook her head too quickly and the old gardien regarded her suspiciously. It was obvious now that he considered her an intruder particularly as she did not wish her presence here to be made known to his employer. ‘I – I have to go back to Arles,’ Dionne added lamely, unconvincingly. ‘You – you may tell your patron he can find me there.’
‘Bien sûr, mademoiselle.’ The old man inclined his head with controlled politeness, and realizing he was waiting for her to make some move to leave, Dionne started the engine again and thrust the gear into reverse.
But she took her foot off the clutch too tardily and in consequence the small vehicle jerked backwards, its wheels sliding on the uneven surface and causing them to skid to the side of the road and into the ditch that flanked it.
‘Damn!’ Dionne pressed her lips together tightly, refusing to panic, and thrusting open her door she climbed out to inspect the damage.
It was nothing serious, only her offside wheel was stuck in the mud, but without assistance she didn’t quite see how she was going to extract herself. She looked across at the gardien and he patted his horse and it trotted slowly over.
‘You have a rope, mademoiselle?’
Dionne controlled her annoyance with difficulty. She was strongly tempted to retort that she did not normally find it necessary to equip herself with a rope when she went out for a morning drive, but pettiness would help no one. So she shook her head vigorously, staring fiercely at the offending wheel, almost as though she believed her force of will power would be sufficient to make it lever itself out of the ditch.
The gardien climbed out of the saddle slowly. There was a passiveness about him which was in itself infuriating. It came from long hours spent out on the open marshland, communing with the earth and the sky.
‘I have a rope, mademoiselle,’ he said calmly, unwinding a length from the pommel of his saddle.
Dionne’s relief was such that she was able to banish the inevitable comment that sprang to her lips. Instead she smiled rather tightly, and said: ‘Where does one attach it to the car?’
The gardien raised his brows lazily, and then bent to tie the rope to the front fender. This done, he straightened, surveying her flushed appearance. ‘The wheel, mademoiselle; you will direct it – so?’ He showed her what he wanted her to do.
‘Of course.’
Dionne opened the car door and as he attached the rope to the horse and climbed back into the saddle, she began to push. It was hard work, and she was sweating by the time the car began to edge its way back on to the packed surface of the road. The task was almost completed when she heard the sound of horse’s hooves. Glancing round nervously, she saw a lone rider approaching them. At first she thought it was a boy, but as the rider drew nearer she saw the mane of golden-brown hair tossed over one shoulder and she realized it was a girl. She straightened apprehensively as the girl reined in her mount beside them, but she was unprepared for the excited exclamation: ‘Dionne! Dionne, it is you! What in the world are you doing here?’
Dionne stared at the girl in astonishment, her momentary withdrawal banished by the absolute pleasure in the newcomer’s voice. ‘Louise,’ she said slowly. ‘Good heavens, I hardly recognized you. You were a child when – when I left.’
The girl laughed infectiously. ‘I was fourteen, Dionne. I’m seventeen now. What are you doing here? Are you coming to the mas to see Grand’mère?’
Dionne felt dazed. This was a contingency she had not planned for. Louise’s enthusiasm was so genuine, and she scarcely knew how to reply to her. Turning to the gardien who was climbing back into his saddle after untying the rope, she thanked him warmly, giving herself a moment to think of what excuse she could give Louise. But as the old man rode away, something Louise had said pierced the confused reaches of her mind.
‘You – you said Grand’mère?’ she questioned, in astonishment. ‘You mean – you mean Gemma?’
‘Of course.’ Louise’s smile disappeared. ‘You surely did not intend to leave without seeing her?’
Dionne shook her head helplessly. ‘I – I saw the caravan,’ she murmured. ‘I thought—’ She shrugged. ‘Never mind, I – look, Louise, this isn’t a social visit.’ She made a helpless gesture. ‘Surely you are not too young to realize that I would not be a welcome visitor at the mas.’
Louise’s eyes clouded. ‘Grand’mère gets very few visitors,’ she said sadly. ‘But why are you here, Dionne? I thought Manoel went to see you last night.’
Dionne frowned. ‘You know about that?’
Louise shrugged. ‘But of course,’ she said, with typical continental inconsequence. ‘I recognized your voice on the telephone. It was I who told Manoel you must be here.’
Dionne pressed her hands to her sides. ‘And does – does everyone know this?’
Louise grimaced and kicked at the scrub grass beneath their feet. ‘Oh, non, not everyone. Just Manoel and me.’
Dionne