CHAPTER 11

"In which someone has to say the famous 'All's well that ends well' ..."

The captain opened wide his bedroom windows and inhaled with delight the fresh air of this early spring morning while tying the cords of his dressing gown. Ah, how good it was at home! No other place on Earth was worth the bucolic tranquility of Marlinspike Hall: the soft golden light bathing the blue slates and the white facade, the perfume of Calculus' roses in the French garden, the chirping of the birds in the trees swaying in the breeze, the smell of freshly cut grass in the meadow where the trailers were parked...

Somewhere in the house, Nestor was humming while polishing the brass. The Siamese cat was curled up on an Empire armchair in the first-floor hallway, next to a standing armor, enjoying a nap while Snowy was burying a bone under a bush of hydrangeas in the park.

Everything was wonderfully peaceful and the captain went off to wash up with a whistle, congratulating himself once more on being retired, having followed Tintin around the world in search of the Unicorn's treasure and being born under the fish-shaped star of the Haddoque family.

While he was singing in his bath, the Thompsons' mint-colored Dolly swerved to avoid the fountain and stopped in front of the porch with a squeal of brakes, making the gravel hiss and sputter. Snowy rushed up to shower the tires with a fragrant spray, while Nestor showed up at the door with his feather duster to welcome the policemen and ask warily their reason for visiting.

The twin agents pulled off their bowler hats in a show of courtesy and whispered that it was top secret, before bursting in giggles under their mustaches at the butler's dismay. Then Calculus came from behind the mansion, in his shirt sleeves and yellow jacket, wearing his straw hat and armed with his pruning shears and, after a few fruitless minutes spent trying to explain to the good professor the reason for this hilarity - obviously he had misplaced his horn again - the policemen fished out a crumpled bouquet of lily of the valley from the back seat of the Dolly and invited themselves for breakfast.

The delicious aroma of strong coffee and perfectly grilled toasts greeted the captain as he came in the dining room, neatly dressed in his brown velvet squire jacket and green silk tie, but his hair still slightly damp. He had a hand in the pocket of his gray pants and the other carefully feeling a small cut at the edge of his beard - he had jumped while shaving when he had heard voices outside, thinking it was the Castafiore: for a so-called nightingale , this cumbersome swallow tended to come back every spring with its court for "a few days of calm and rest" which proved to be the busiest time of the year at Marlinspike Hall.

- "Good morning, Captain!" chorused the Thompsons who were enthusiastically buttering their toasts, their big white napkins tied around their necks.

- "Oh, hallo, Archibald," Calculus chirped happily as he dipped lumps of sugar into his soft-boiled egg and dropped small pieces of bread into his hot chocolate.

- "Good morning to you, my friends, 'morning, Cuthbert," Haddock replied, sitting down at the table with a broad smile that turned into an incendiary look when Nestor presented him with a glass of water and some pills.

He sighed but took his medicine anyway.

- "What good wind brings you today, Thompson and Thomson?"

-"We heard you were giving a party," said Thompson. "The Chief thought it best to deter any attempted attack by sending agents to the precinct. Of course, we stepped forward to protect our friends."

- "To be more precise", twittered Thomson, his mouth full, "we heard you were giving an attack and of course, we protected ourselves to deter any attempt of party."

- "I ain't giving any party", the captain corrected with a shrug, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "I simply suggested the May Day ball could be held within the grounds of the park. It seemed to me it was the least we could do, after everything the people of Marlinspike did for us when we came back from Syldavia."

There was a moment of silence.

Nestor was struggling inwardly between his gratitude for the meals prepared, the laundry done by the ladies of the village during his bout of flu… and his devastation at the number of vases broken by the good women's rambunctious progeny.

The Thompsons nodded, thinking back of the efforts of the Chief to get Interpol to send help to Borduria after the crash and then asking for an investigation on the pilot of the plane and the airline company.

Calculus had not followed the conversation and was sipping his chocolate with some surprise when he swallowed from time to time a piece of soppy bread. But if he had understood what they were talking about, he would certainly have added water to the captain's mill: during all the time he had had to stay in bed, he had never stopped asking for his plans, his devices , his chemical components and, with the patience of angels towards him but always quibbling between themselves, the village school teacher and the priest had gone out of their way to allow him to keep on with his experiments.

Haddock was not deceived, however: even if some had really acted on an outburst of compassion, most of the villagers who had come to offer to tend the lawns or to take care of the pets had probably done so to get an opportunity at poking their noses into every room of the mansion, to peek at the famous people who lived there and to get enough material to gossip then for hours about it.

The captain had therefore drawn a clear line between inoffensive curiosity and intrusions bordering on indecency: for example, he had forbidden anyone to go up to the first floor from the moment Tintin had returned from the hospital. The young reporter was in dire need of rest and it was likely the constant barging into his room to ask him if he needed anything would be detrimental to his recovery.

And for Heaven's sake, could someone explain to Haddock why all matrons in the province had deemed it necessary to send their daughters to play nurses at Marlinspike Hall?

Wasn't it enough that one blushing young goose was begging to be allowed access to the lad's bedside? Should they have been let in by the dozen?! Let the Grand Jack bite whoever he wished, but thundering typhoons, they were not going to bear with such a gale!

Martine Vande ... what was it again? Vandezone? Vandewand? In short, Martine Vande-something was very nice, but her mouse sniffles, her flared purple jeans, her dragonfly glasses and her incessant chatter were wearing severely on the nerves of the captain and it would only have taken a word from Tintin for her to be kicked out of Marlinspike Hall with the rest of that horde of doe-eyed silly girls.

But Tintin wasn't saying that word.

At first, no doubt, who was bustling around in the mansion, who was bringing him a tray or opening his curtains had certainly been indifferent to him. The pneumothorax which could have cost him his life if they had been stuck longer in Borduria was on the road to recovery according to Doctor Leech, but the boy did not have much taste into doing anything after learning that he would now be banned from activities such as aerobatics on an airplane, parachute jumps and scuba diving.

For once, he had not tried to leave the hospital before the end of his stay and had obediently complied with the doctors' recommendations. Haddock wanted to be glad about it, but it pained him too much to see his young friend brooding. He had tried by all means to boost Tintin's morale or to distract him, but without success. In the meantime, Martine had showed up timidly on the mansion's doorstep, one rainy evening, saying that she had learned of their "terrible ordeal" from the newspapers and asking if "Monsieur Tintin" was really dead as it could be read in Paris-Flash (a minute of national mourning was going to be organized soon and some head titles proclaimed that the marriage of the old sea dog and the Milanese nightingale was to be put off till doomsday).

Haddock had only made one leap and, roaring, he had dragged the girl to the living room to make her see "with her own eyes" that the tabloid press was blabbering absolute nonsense: he had no intention whatsoever of marrying the Castafiore and Tintin was very much alive, thank you very much!

In the warm room where the fire was crackling softly, the young reporter had lifted his still pale face from the book he had been pretending to read for an hour – and froze. Martine had joined her hands and let out a small cry of surprise, her eyes moistening. Calculus had sneezed (he had just come back soaked from his laboratory). Nestor, who was bringing a stack of towels to the professor, had winced with disapproval at the muddy footprints left on his tiled floor by the young lady.

The captain had no idea what had happened next: was it Tintin who had asked the young girl if she would like a cup of tea? Had Martine sat on the couch on her own accord, pushing back the brown mane of frizzy hair that her purple headband was not disciplining enough? Had Calculus suggested she should stay for supper? Who had invited her to come back first? It couldn't be Nestor, he was going balder just looking at the trumpet pants worn by this young person.

Still, she was there again the next day. And the day after that day. And three days later too. By the end of the month, Haddock had grown used to see her around.

She didn't stay long, and she apologized a lot and talked even more than that. She made Tintin laugh and lamented when he grimaced because of it, holding his ribs which were slowly recovering. She never tired of listening to him and there was something extremely amusing in watching the boy, always so modest, embarrassingly recounting adventures of which he was the undisputed hero.

When it rained, you could find the anonymous secretary of an obscure art gallery and the best reporter of the Petit Vingtième immersed in some big volumes of the library, talking heraldry, or in the attic where he was doing the navigation and she was doing the handling (she claimed to had become a real Hercules from carrying around paintings and sculptures). When spring came back, the orange grove became their favorite spot and the terrace was filled with dusty books and old chests (apparently, some of the secrets of the Chevalier de Haddoque had yet to be discovered).

The captain made it a habit to sit at the small wrought-iron table with a glass of whiskey (empty, the doctor was still fierce) and a newspaper (from the last month), pretending he was enjoying the spring breeze to keep an eye on them.

Sometimes Calculus would sit down with him and chatter fondly about thaw flowers and hearted warriors, of wise little girls and of a certain Phoebe Fairgrave Omlie* whom he had met during the war, when he was in America, and to whom "someone" had nothing to envy in terms of determination and courage.

The captain had no idea what the professor was talking about, but what he could see very well, however, was that over the weeks, Tintin was getting back his strength, regaining his self-confidence, interested again in what was happening in the world, making plans, sweeping aside the concerns of those close to him with a "bah, everything will be fine".

The new typewriter, which had remained in its box for weeks, had finally been unpacked and the study was gradually filled with maps pinned to the walls, memos scribbled in energetic writing, photos and newspaper clippings.

And more and more often, when Haddock worried about not seeing their young friend at breakfast, Nestor would say with a stiff sigh like today:

- "Oh, Monsieur Tintin was called very late yesterday evening by these gentlemen from the Petit Vingtième. He said he was just going to "stop by", but that we needn't worry if he didn't come home, that he would spend the night at one of his colleagues'."

The captain harrumphed as he lifted his cup to his lips.

- "As if he was going to sleep! These journalists have no notion of the time when they're on a case..."

He took a sip of the hot coffee the wrong way round and began to cough. The Thompsons patted him on the back, nearly choking him. Calculus, meanwhile, was chuckling softly as he consulted a telegram he stealthily hid before anyone took any notice of him.

- "At what time are the marquees coming in, Nestor?" Haddock asked when he caught his breath. "They have to be up on the lawn before this fleet of bayaderes invades us to hang the flower garlands. They want to fix them with moss, ivy and whatever else. Make sure to give them to them water and to keep them from lining the armors as well. The park is at their disposal, but the inside of the manor will be fine without any additional frills."

The butler looked at his pocket watch.

- "The tents shouldn't be long, Monsieur," he said in his usual pinched tone. "I will be able to contain the decoration committee, don't you worry, Monsieur."

- "I do hope so, old fellow. But be diplomatic: Mrs. Cutts is at its head and you know the influence her husband has on the municipal council. I wouldn't want..."

The roar of an engine through the wide-open patio door cut off the captain. He was about to rant and rave when he noticed Snowy's tail was beating happily against his chair.

The old dog's kidneys often got clamped since this winter in Syldavia and more and more often he didn't go with the reporter when Tintin went out: he preferred to bask in the warmth of the fire at Marlinspike Hall, curled at the captain's feet or to trot behind Nestor to inspect the property. His small, shiny black eyes were clouded with age and his flair did little more than find his bones stashed in the park, but his instinct was infallible when it came to his master.

- "Ah, there comes Tintin", said Haddock, patting the curly head of the pooch, while a happy smile bloomed on his weathered face.

- "Hullo Captain, good morning, my friends," the young man's bright voice said almost at the same time, as he came through the patio door.

His cheeks were rosy after his motorcycle race, his ginger quiff brushed aside by the helmet. His bomber jacket was thrown casually over his shoulder, he had rolled up the sleeves of the blue sweatshirt he was wearing over his white shirt, his brown jeans made his legs look longer and he appeared taller. His walk had regained the flexibility it had before the crash, his smile was still infectious, but there was a new maturity in his gaze.

- "Good morning, Tintin", exclaimed the Thompsons, jostling to get up and greet him, tripping over Snowy who was jumping about his master.

The boy leaned down to let Calculus kiss him on both cheeks - the professor, over the years, had grown more and more sentimental - shared a firm handshake with the captain and sat down with his dog on his lap on the chair Nestor had pulled for him.

Snowy tried to lick his face and Tintin laughed, trying to escape this outpouring of affection. The butler placed a cup and saucer in front of him, poured him some coffee, took the butter with authority from the policemen, and went off to get a new bunch of fresh toasts.

- "Thank you, Nestor, but that won't be necessary. I had breakfast in town with Georges", Tintin tried to call him back, without success.

Haddock chuckled.

- "You'll be in for seconds", he laughed warmly. "This will do for all the times you forget to grab a bite to eat when you're on a report."

The Thompsons were in their third round, as far as they were concerned, which didn't stop them from sighing that duty was calling them to many sacrifices when Calculus excused himself, muttering something about his lab, and they took this as a signal to go take care of "securing the property".

Tintin was deep in his thoughts - absentmindedly keeping away the nose of his dog who was trying to snatch a sugar on the tablecloth - and Haddock watched him for a moment before speaking again.

- "Martine... you fancy her, don't you?"

The young man, who had his chin in his hand, jumped and almost spilled his cup as he stood up. He was red from ear to ear as he wiped up the coffee that had splashed on the tablecloth with his napkin.

- "She's a good friend," he stammered.

Haddock stared at him for a few seconds impenetrably, then he let out a sigh.

- "You've already lived more than anyone, landlubber, but boys your age are settled, married, maybe even have one or two kids already. It's a different kind of adventure, but you're entitled to it like everyone else, y'know. You could choose to stop galloping around the planet and no one would have anything to say about it. There are loads of journalists who work for the local rag and come home on time for supper."

Tintin smiled softly.

-"But I'm a reporter, Captain," he said simply.

Haddock's heart sank.

- "And where are you going this time?" he asked in a hoarse voice.

The young man drew towards him one of the papers of the day which were waiting, rolled up on the table next to the bouquet of lily of the valley. He opened it and pointed at a column.

- "Le Petit Vingtième needs a correspondent in Vietnam," he explained. "I speak English and I covered the troubles in China and Sondonesia before, so I'm best found."

How cold it was, suddenly, in the familiar little dining room…

- "Another civil war ..." whispered the captain.

- "I won't be alone", said Tintin in a tone that wanted to be light. "There are a lot of French and Belgian colleagues over there."

He patted the newspaper.

- "I met the journalist who wrote this article: an intrepid lady, barely a dozen years older than me **. If you had heard her! No, Captain, I can't ignore the situation over there."

- "I liked it better when you were infatuated with your Martine," Haddock growled. "She, at least, wouldn't lure you to a country full of mosquitoes and blasts…"

- "She's not 'my' Martine!" protested the young man, blushing again.

- "Humph," the captain groaned, but he couldn't help smiling, noting that only half of his claim had been refuted. "I suppose she still has plenty of time to become yours."

- "Captain!"

- "In any case, lad, you must speak to her. This young lady probably doesn't have the slightest idea that you're going to set sail for the other side of the world in… how soon, exactly?"

Tintin cleared his throat, looking suddenly embarrassed.

- "Tomorrow," he muttered, fiddling with the seam of the tablecloth.

- "TOMORROW?!" Haddock roared, standing up abruptly, slamming his fists on the table, causing the breakfast dishes to jump.

- "There was a plane tonight, but I didn't want to get in the middle of the preparations for the party," the young man explained hastily. "I'll pack my bags after the May ball and catch the last night train. There's one around four in the morning. I'm sure the Thompsons won't mind dropping me off at the station... "

He stopped, for the captain seemed to be on the verge of apoplexy. Nestor's shadow was hovering in the sun slipping through the open door of the living room, and the birds had become very silent in the garden. In the distance, only the lively voices of the Thompsons were echoing near the laboratory. Snowy whined softly under his master's chair.

- "You're scaring him," the boy said reproachfully. "And getting angry is not good for your heart."

Haddock drew a long breath, but his clenched fists did not loosen.

- "What's not good for my heart are bad surprises," he hissed through his teeth. "I know you've always been very independent, and that you owe us nothing, but – thousand thundering typhoons, lad! Tomorrow! What is your editor thinking? Sending you to a jungle where God knows what hardships you're going to have to endure! You're not even completely healed, son."

- "I'm fine", said Tintin in a slightly annoyed tone. "I recovered from more serious injuries faster than that."

- "Tomorrow!" stuttered Haddock, as if he had heard nothing.

But this time, all his anger had melted, to give way to great weariness, to a sort of despair.

- "I won't be able to go with you," he whispered, sitting down, his shoulders slumping against the back of his chair.

How old he suddenly looked… Defeated, overwhelmed, like when Calculus had been kidnapped ...

Tintin quickly walked around the table.

- "I never would have demanded it from you," he protested. "You followed me and helped me dozens of times, when you had no reason to. But this time it's not an adventure we're being drawn into in spite of ourselves. It's just a story, Captain, one I have to go get because it's my job. You have no reason to pack and come too."

- "I know," Haddock breathed under his black beard. "But still, you'll be there and I will be… here."

Helpless, alone, useless.

Like before.

Snowy crawled from under the chair and whimpered, wagging his small curly tail. Tintin stroked his dog to calm him down, then picked him up and put him on the captain's lap. He crouched down next to the chair and squeezed the arm of the old sea dog.

- "If I know you're waiting for me - you, Snowy, the professor, all our friends - I will always find my way home", he said gently.

- "Hum", said Haddock.

Then he cleared his throat to dispel the emotion of the moment.

- "Come on", he grumbled, standing up with the help of the armrests of the chair. "We have work to do. And don't think that because you're leaving tomorrow, you will be spared from putting up with Joylon Wagg's brilliant witticisms."

Tintin laughed and he let the captain put his arm familiarly around his shoulders while they went to the park where people were unloading the white canvases of the marquees and the arches of the pergolas on which would the matrons and their daughters would put flowered garlands.

TBC

*Phoebe Fairgrave Omlie: First female aircraft mechanic, aviation consultant, and pilot trainer during WWII.

** Brigitte Friang: French journalist, war correspondent in Indochina and Vietnam in the 1960s, parachutist, resistance fighter, author of 'Look at you who die'.