Free Birdsong by Sebastian Faulks

startled expression on the face of the man who had slandered Madame Azaire as Stephen’s closed fist found his mouth was only a small compensation for this failure.
    ———
    The blow must have been harder than he had thought at the time, because his hand became quite swollen in the course of the afternoon. He returned early to the Azaires’ house and went up to bathe it. He held it under cold water and wound a handkerchief tightly round the knuckles.
    He felt as though his existence in the boulevard du Cange, and perhaps his life in its longer perspective also, were coming to a crisis he could not control. Perhaps it would be better to do as his employer asked. He could conclude his work within a week, then return to London in the knowledge that he had done nothing to shame his company or Mr. Vaughan, the guardian who had worked so hard to help him. First, he thought, he had better write to him.
    Miserably, he took a piece of paper from the desk and began.
    Dear Mr. Vaughan,
    This is not the first time I have been late in writing to you, but I will try to make up for it by telling you in detail what has happened.
    He stopped. He wanted to find dignified words for the rage of desire and confusion he felt.
    I think I have fallen in love and I believe the woman in question, though she has not said so, returns my feelings. How can I be sure when she has said nothing? Is this youthful vanity? I wish in some ways that it were. But I am so convinced that I barely need question myself. This conviction brings me no joy.
    By this time he had already gone too far; he could not, of course, send this letter. He wrote one more paragraph for his own sake, to see what he had to say.
    I am driven by a greater force than I can resist. I believe that force has its own reason and its own morality even if they may never be clear to me while I am alive.
    He tore the paper into small pieces and dropped them in the basket.
    He took the handkerchief off his hand and managed to conceal it behind his back when he talked to Monsieur and Madame Azaire in the sitting room before dinner. Azaire was too concerned with events at the factory to be looking at his houseguest’s hand, and when Madame Azaire allowed herself a glance at Stephen it was to his face that her eyes turned.
    “I understand there was some comment about your presence at the factory,” said Azaire.
    “Yes. I wasn’t sure if I should have been at the meeting. Perhaps I should keep away for a day or two.”
    Lisette came in through the door to the garden.
    “Good idea,” said Azaire. “Allow the men time to cool off. I don’t think there’s going to be a problem, but perhaps you’d better lie low until things are sorted out. I can get one of my staff to bring you some paperwork. There are plenty of ways you can make yourself useful.”
    “Look!” said Lisette. “What happened to your hand?”
    “I caught it in one of the spinning machines when I was being shown how to work it this morning.”
    “It’s all swollen and red.”
    Madame Azaire let out a little cry as Lisette held up Stephen’s damaged hand for her inspection. He thought he saw a flicker of concern in her face before she managed to resume her usual detachment.
    “Dinner is served,” said Marguérite at the door.
    “Thank you,” said Madame Azaire. “After dinner, Marguérite, will you please find a dressing for Monsieur Wraysford’s hand?” She led the way into the dining room.
    ———
    The next day, when Azaire left to go to work, Stephen stayed in the house like a sick child who has been excused school. A messenger arrived from the factory with some papers which Stephen put to one side in the sitting room. He took up a book and settled himself in a corner by the doors to the garden. He could hear the sounds of the house in its morning routine, and he felt like an eavesdropper on this female life. Marguérite came in with a feather duster, which she plied with exemplary lightness over the china