a pair of well-worn armchairs, one on either side of the fireplace where a log fire smouldered, and it was towards these chairs that Dorcas strayed. Joe watched her take in the
collection of items cluttering the top of a table by the side of one of the chairs: a pipe, still half full of burned tobacco, a tobacco pouch, a dusty brandy glass with the faintest trace of brown
liquid in the bottom. From under a footstool a pair of black patent slippers decorated with bumble bees peeked out. A copy of War and Peace had been abandoned over one arm of the chair. The
other chair was occupied. A fat white cat gave Dorcas silent warning of his displeasure at being disturbed and she crept away.
Joe breathed in the atmosphere of the room, torn between two reactions. Should he be seduced by the homely allure, the suggestion of every kind of masculine comfort on offer? He didn’t
doubt that upstairs there existed a similar shrine ready to provide solace for a weary returning soldier. His mind ranged briefly over feather beds, fresh linen, afternoon sun filtering through
shutters, and flushed at the thought. Catching Mireille’s slight smile he wondered if she had caught him out. Of course she had. And the woman’s intelligence and awareness rendered
invalid his alternative reaction. This was no Dickensian scene of mad longings never to be fulfilled. Mireille Desforges was no Miss Havisham. She understood herself, laughed at and forgave herself
for this indulgence.
‘This is the room he will return to?’ whispered Dorcas, respectful as a pilgrim at a shrine.
‘It’s the room he has never truly left,’ said Mireille quietly, her eyes shining with suppressed tears. ‘He was happy here. If only I can bring him back, he will settle
into his chair and pick up his book where he left off. He will feel secure with his cat on his knee. His cat will know him and welcome him.’
She picked up the cat and hugged him but he struggled and made it quite clear that this demonstration was inappropriate. With a shrug, she replaced him on his cushion. ‘Louis was a kitten
when Dominique brought him to me as a gift. The trouble with cats – do you have a cat, mademoiselle? – then I’ll tell you – you cannot compel or even expect their affection.
And Louis has always understood himself to be Dominique’s cat. Indeed, I do believe he understands Dominique to be his human. You’d swear that he holds me responsible in some way
for his disappearance! He’s getting old now but he’ll remember. He’ll leap on to his master’s knee, purr in triumph and favour me with his narrow-eyed proprietorial sneer.
And – believe me – I shall be delighted to see it!’
‘You are both waiting,’ said Dorcas.
‘Exactly Louis despises me and I don’t like cats. It’s clear that we ought to have parted company years ago but . . . he’s a link with Dominique. Can you understand this
foolishness?’
‘And this is your dragoon?’ said Dorcas, pointing to photographs on a sideboard.
Mireille picked one up and held it lovingly in her hands for a moment before passing it to Dorcas.
Joe was intrigued to see the interaction between the two and perfectly content to stand quietly by and watch the scene play out.
Dorcas stared and gulped. ‘Golly! What a hero! And – yes – I can see the likeness. Do you see it, Uncle Joe?’ She passed it to Joe.
‘Yes, I do. It’s very clear,’ said Joe.
The stern face was handsome, the pose a rigid and conventional professional portrait of a cavalry officer in full regalia.
‘Taken sometime after 1916, I think? He’s wearing the new-issue uniform in bleu d’horizon . May I?’
She nodded her consent and he slipped the photograph from its frame. The name of a Paris studio was printed on the back and a date: 1916. He looked again carefully at the soldier. ‘Your
officer had been wounded by this stage of the war, mademoiselle?’
‘You have sharp eyes, Commander,’ she said. ‘Yes indeed.
collection of items cluttering the top of a table by the side of one of the chairs: a pipe, still half full of burned tobacco, a tobacco pouch, a dusty brandy glass with the faintest trace of brown
liquid in the bottom. From under a footstool a pair of black patent slippers decorated with bumble bees peeked out. A copy of War and Peace had been abandoned over one arm of the chair. The
other chair was occupied. A fat white cat gave Dorcas silent warning of his displeasure at being disturbed and she crept away.
Joe breathed in the atmosphere of the room, torn between two reactions. Should he be seduced by the homely allure, the suggestion of every kind of masculine comfort on offer? He didn’t
doubt that upstairs there existed a similar shrine ready to provide solace for a weary returning soldier. His mind ranged briefly over feather beds, fresh linen, afternoon sun filtering through
shutters, and flushed at the thought. Catching Mireille’s slight smile he wondered if she had caught him out. Of course she had. And the woman’s intelligence and awareness rendered
invalid his alternative reaction. This was no Dickensian scene of mad longings never to be fulfilled. Mireille Desforges was no Miss Havisham. She understood herself, laughed at and forgave herself
for this indulgence.
‘This is the room he will return to?’ whispered Dorcas, respectful as a pilgrim at a shrine.
‘It’s the room he has never truly left,’ said Mireille quietly, her eyes shining with suppressed tears. ‘He was happy here. If only I can bring him back, he will settle
into his chair and pick up his book where he left off. He will feel secure with his cat on his knee. His cat will know him and welcome him.’
She picked up the cat and hugged him but he struggled and made it quite clear that this demonstration was inappropriate. With a shrug, she replaced him on his cushion. ‘Louis was a kitten
when Dominique brought him to me as a gift. The trouble with cats – do you have a cat, mademoiselle? – then I’ll tell you – you cannot compel or even expect their affection.
And Louis has always understood himself to be Dominique’s cat. Indeed, I do believe he understands Dominique to be his human. You’d swear that he holds me responsible in some way
for his disappearance! He’s getting old now but he’ll remember. He’ll leap on to his master’s knee, purr in triumph and favour me with his narrow-eyed proprietorial sneer.
And – believe me – I shall be delighted to see it!’
‘You are both waiting,’ said Dorcas.
‘Exactly Louis despises me and I don’t like cats. It’s clear that we ought to have parted company years ago but . . . he’s a link with Dominique. Can you understand this
foolishness?’
‘And this is your dragoon?’ said Dorcas, pointing to photographs on a sideboard.
Mireille picked one up and held it lovingly in her hands for a moment before passing it to Dorcas.
Joe was intrigued to see the interaction between the two and perfectly content to stand quietly by and watch the scene play out.
Dorcas stared and gulped. ‘Golly! What a hero! And – yes – I can see the likeness. Do you see it, Uncle Joe?’ She passed it to Joe.
‘Yes, I do. It’s very clear,’ said Joe.
The stern face was handsome, the pose a rigid and conventional professional portrait of a cavalry officer in full regalia.
‘Taken sometime after 1916, I think? He’s wearing the new-issue uniform in bleu d’horizon . May I?’
She nodded her consent and he slipped the photograph from its frame. The name of a Paris studio was printed on the back and a date: 1916. He looked again carefully at the soldier. ‘Your
officer had been wounded by this stage of the war, mademoiselle?’
‘You have sharp eyes, Commander,’ she said. ‘Yes indeed.
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