The King of the Castle

Ten

The atmosphere of the chateau had grown heavy with tension. Genevieve was sullen and I wondered what was going on in her mind. As for Claude, she was angry and humiliated because the Comte had refused to comply with her wishes and I sensed her brooding resentment against me. She read a significance in his championing of me-and so did I. Philippe was uneasy. He came to me when I was in the gallery almost shyly as though he did not want to be discovered there. I imagined that he was afraid of his wife as well as the Comte.

“I hear that you have had a disagreement with … my wife. I’m sorry about it. It’s not that I wish you to go, Mademoiselle Lawson. But here in this house …” He lifted his shoulders.

“I feel I should finish what I have begun.”

“And you will do so … soon?”

“Well, there is more to do yet.”

“And when it is finished you can rely on me to help if I can … but if you should decide to go before, I could probably find you other similar work.”

“I will remember.”

He went away rather sadly and I thought: He is a man who is all for peace. He has no spirit. Perhaps that is why he is here.

Yet strangely enough there was a similarity between him and the Comte; his voice was like the Comte’s, his features too. Yet one was so positive, the other negative. Philippe must have lived in the shadow of his rich and powerful relations. Perhaps that had made him the man he was 2. timidly seeking peace. But he had been kind to me from the first and I believe now that he wanted me to go because of the conflict between myself and his wife.

Perhaps he was right. Perhaps I should leave as soon as I had finished the picture on which I was working. No good could come of my staying here. The emotions the Comte aroused in me could only become more involved; the scars which separation must necessarily inflict would only be deeper.

I will go, I promised myself. And then because in my heart I was determined not to leave, I began to look for the wall-painting which I suspected might be hidden under the lime wash that covered the walls. I could become absorbed again in this work and forget the conflicts which swirled about me; and at the same time give myself an excuse for staying at the chateau.

The room I was particularly interested in was a small one leading from the gallery. There was a window facing north which gave an excellent light and from it I could look across the gentle slopes of vineyards in the direction of Paris.

I remembered how excited my father had been on the occasion when he had seen a wall rather similar to this. He had told me then how in many English mansions wall-paintings had been hidden under coats of lime-wash. They had been covered, he said, perhaps because they had been damaged or because the pictures had become no longer pleasing.

The removal of coats of lime-wash and there could be several was a delicate operation. I had watched my father perform it and had even helped him; I had a natural flair for this type of work. It is difficult to say but perhaps it is an instinct my father had it and I seemed to have inherited it but from the moment I. had seen that wall I had been excited by it and I was ready to swear that the lime-wash was hiding something.

I set to work with a palette knife, but I could not loosen the outer coat and I could naturally use only the lightest touch; one careless move could ruin what might prove a very valuable painting.

I worked at this for an hour and a half. I knew that it was unwise to work longer since the utmost concentration was needed, and during that time I had discovered nothing to substantiate my suspicion.

But the next day I was fortunate. I was able to flake away a small piece of lime-wash- no more than about one sixteenth of an inch it was true, but I was certain on that second day that there was a picture on the wall.

This was indeed the wisest thing I could do, for it took my mind from the rising emotional tension of the chateau.

I was working on the wall when Genevieve came into the gallery.

“Miss!” she called.

“Miss, where are you?”

“Here,” I answered.

As she ran in I saw that she was distraught.

“It’s a message from Carrefour, miss. My grandfather is worse. He’s asking for me. Come with me.”

“Your father …”

“He is out… riding with her. Please, miss, do come. Otherwise I’ll have to go with the groom.”

I stood up and said I would change quickly and see her in the stables in ten minutes’ time.

“Don’t be longer,” she begged.

As we rode to Carrefour together she was silent; I knew that she dreaded these visits and yet was fascinated by them.

When we reached the house Madame Labisse was in the hall waiting for us.

“Ah, mademoiselle,” she said, “I am glad you have come.”

“He is very ill?” I asked.

“Another stroke. Maurice found him when he took his petit dejeuner. The doctor has been and it was then that I sent for mademoiselle. “

“Do you mean he’s … dying?” asked Genevieve in a hollow voice.

“We cannot say. Mademoiselle Genevieve. He still lives, but he is very ill.”

“May we go to him now?”

“Please come.”

“You stay,” said Genevieve to me.

We went into that room which I had seen before. The old man was lying on the pallet and Madame Labisse had made some attempt at comfort. She had put a coverlet over him and had placed a small table and chairs in the room. There was even a rug on the floor. But the bare walls decorated only by the crucifix and the priedieu in the corner preserved the appearance of a monk’s cell.

He was lying back on the pillows a pathetic sight, his eyes set in dark caverns and the flesh falling away from each side of his long nose. He looked like a bird of prey.

“It is Mademoiselle Genevieve, monsieur,” murmured Madame Labisse.

An expression flickered over his face so that I guessed he recognized her. His lips moved and his speech was slurred and muffled.

“Granddaughter…”

“Yes, Grandfather. I am here.”

He nodded, and his eyes were on me. I did not believe he could see with the left one; it seemed dead, but the right was alive.

“Come closer,” he said, and Genevieve moved nearer to i the bed. But he was looking at me. “

“He means you, miss,” whispered Genevieve. So we changed chairs and I took the one nearest him, which seemed to satisfy him.

“Francoise,” he said. Then I understood, he was under the impression that I was Genevieve’s mother.

“It’s all right. Please don’t worry,” I said.

Don’t. ” he muttered.

“Careful. Watch …”

“Yes, yes,” I said soothingly.

“Should never have married… that man. Knew it was … wrong .. “

“It’s all right,” I assured him soothingly.

But his face was contorted.

“You must… He must…”

“Oh, miss,” said Genevieve, “I can’t bear it. I’ll come back in a minute. He’s rambling. He doesn’t know I’m here. Must I stay?”

I shook my head and she went away leaving me in that strange room alone with the dying man. I sensed that he had noticed her disappearance and was relieved. He seemed to make a great effort.

Trancoise . Keep away from him. Do not let him . “

“Why?” I said.

“Why keep away from him.”

“Such sin … such sin,” he moaned.

“You must not distress yourself,” I said.

“Come back here … Leave the chateau. There is only doom and disaster there … for you.”

The effort required for such a long speech seemed to have exhausted him. He closed his eyes, and I felt afraid and frustrated for I knew he could have told me so much.

He opened his eyes suddenly.

“Honorine, you’re so beautiful. Our child … What will become of her? Oh, sin … sin.”

Exhaustion overcame him. I thought he was dying. I went to the door to call Maurice.

“The end cannot be far off,” said Maurice.

Labisse looked at me and nodded.

“Mademoiselle Genevieve should be here.”

“I will go and bring her,” I said, glad to escape from the room of death.

As I walked along the corridor I was conscious of the gloom. Death was close. I sensed it. But it was more than

that. It was like a house from which it had been considered sinful to laugh and be happy. How could poor Francoise have been happy in such a house? How glad she must have been to escape to the castle!

I had reached a staircase and stood at the foot looking up.

“Genevieve,” I called softly.

There was no answer. On the landing was a window the light from which was almost shut out because the heavy curtains were half-drawn across it. I imagined this was how they always were kept. I went to them and looked out at the overgrown garden. I tried to open the window, but could not do so. It must have been years since anyone had opened it.

I was hoping to see Genevieve in the garden and sign to her; but she was not there.

I called her name again; there was still no reply, so I started up the stairs.

The stillness of the house closed in on me. I wondered whether Genevieve was hiding in one of those rooms, keeping away from the sick-room because she hated the thought of death. It was like her to run away from what she found intolerable. Perhaps that was at the root of the trouble. I must make her see that if she was afraid of something it was better to look it straight in the face.

“Genevieve!” I called.

“Where are you?”

I opened a door. It was a dark bedroom, the curtains half-drawn as they were on the landing. I shut the door and opened another. This part of the house could not have been used for years.

There was another flight of stairs, and this I guessed would lead to the nurseries, for these were usually at the top of the house.

In spite of what was happening in the room far below I was thinking also of the childhood of Francoise, of which I had read in those

notebooks which Nounou doled out one by one. It occurred to me then that Genevieve had probably listened to stories of her mother’s childhood in this house, and if she wanted to hide, where would she be more likely to come than to the nurseries?

I was certain that I should find her up here.

“Genevieve,” I called out more loudly than as yet.

“Are you up here?”

No answer. Only a faint return of my own voice like a ghostly echo to mock me. If she were there she was not going to let me know.

I opened the door. Before me was a room which though lofty was not large. There was a pallet on the floor, a table, a chair, a priedieu at one end and a crucifix on the wall. It was furnished as that room in which the old man now lay. But there was a difference about this room. Across the only window, which was high in the wall, were bars.

The room was like a prison cell. I knew instinctively that it was a prison cell.

I felt an impulse to shut the door and hurry away; but curiosity was too strong. I entered the room. What was this house? I asked myself.

Was it conducted like a monastery, a convent? I knew that Genevieve’s grandfather regretted he had not become a monk. The ‘treasure’ in the chest explained that-a monk’s robe was his dearest possession. I had learned that from the first of Francoise’s notebooks. And the whip? Had he scourged himself. or his wife and daughter?

And who had lived here? In this room someone had awakened every morning to that barred window; those bleak walls, to this austerity.

Had he or she desired it? Or. I noticed the scratching on the distempered walls. I looked closer.

“Honorine,” I read, ‘the prisoner. “

So I was right. It was a prison. Here she had been detained against her will. She was like those people who had lived in the dungeons at the chateau.

I heard the sound of slow padding steps on the stairs. I stood very still waiting. Those were not Genevieve’s steps.

Someone was on the other side of the door. I heard distinctly the sound of breathing, and went swiftly to the door and pulled it open.

The woman looked at me with wide incredulous eyes.

“Mademoiselle!” she cried.

“I was looking for Genevieve, Madame Labisse,” I told her.

“I heard someone up here. I wondered … You are wanted downstairs.

The end is very near. “

“And Genevieve?”

“I believe she is hiding in the garden.”

“It is understandable,” I said.

“The young do not wish to look on death. I thought I might find her in the nurseries, which I guessed would be up here.”

“The nurseries are on the lower floor.”

“And this …?” I began.

“This was Mademoiselle Genevieve’s grandmother’s room.”

I looked up at the barred window.

“I looked after her until she died,” said Madame Labisse.

“She was very ill?”

Madame Labisse nodded coldly. I was too inquisitive, she seemed to be telling me. In the past she had not given secrets away for she was paid well to keep them; and she was not going to jeopardize her future by betraying them now.

She was right; Genevieve was hiding in the garden. It was only after her grandfather was dead that she returned to the house.

The family went over to Carrefour for the funeral, which was, I heard, carried out with the pomp usual on such occasions. I stayed behind.

Nounou did not go either; she had one of her headaches, she said, and when she had one of them she was fit for nothing but her own bed. I guessed the occasion would have aroused too many painful memories for her.

Genevieve went over in the carriage with her father, Philippe and Claude; and when they had left I went along to see Nounou.

I found her, as I expected, not in bed; and I asked if I could stay and talk with her awhile.

She replied that she would be glad of my company, so I made coffee and we sat together.

The subject of Carrefour and the past was one which both fascinated and frightened her, and she was half-evasive, half eager.

“I don’t think Genevieve wanted to go to the funeral,” I said.

She shook her head.

“I wish she need not have gone.”

“But it was expected of her. She is growing up-scarcely a child any more. How do you think she is? Less inclined to tantrums? More calm?”

“She was always calm enough …” lied Nounou.

I looked at her sadly and she looked sadly back. I wanted to tell her that we should get nowhere by pretence.

“When I was last at the house I saw her grandmother’s room. It was very strange. It was like a prison. And she felt it too.”

“How can you know?” she demanded.

“Because she said so.”

Her eyes were round with horror.

“She … told you … How …”

I shook my head.

“She did not return from the dead, if that’s what you’re thinking. She wrote on the wall that she was a prisoner. I saw it, ” Honorine, the prisoner. ” Was she a prisoner? You would know. You were there.”

“She was ill. She had to stay in her room.”

“What a strange room for an invalid … right at the top of the house. It must have made a lot of work for the servants . carrying to her up there. “

“You are very practical, miss. You think of such things.”

“I should think the servants thought of it, too. But why should she think of herself as a prisoner? Wasn’t she allowed to go out?”

“She was ill.”

“Invalids are not prisoners. Nounou, tell me about it. I feel it’s important… to Genevieve, perhaps.”

“How could it be? What are you driving at, miss?”

“To understand would enable me to help. I want to help Genevieve. I want to make her happy. She’s had an unusual upbringing. That place where her mother lived and then this castle … and everything that happened. You must see that all that could affect a child… an impressionable, highly-strung child. I want you to help me to help her.”

“I would do anything in the world to help her.”

“Please tell me all you know, Nounou.”

“But I know nothing … nothing …”

“But Francoise wrote in her notebooks, didn’t she? You haven’t shown them all to me.”

“She didn’t intend anyone to see them.”

“Nounou … there are others, aren’t there … more revealing .. ?”

She sighed, and taking the key from the chain at her waist she unlocked her cupboard.

She selected a notebook and gave it to me. I noticed from where she took it. There was another there the last in the line and I hoped that she would give me that too. But she didn’t.

“Take it away and read it,” she said.

“And bring it straight back to me. Promise you’ll show no one else and bring it straight back.”

I promised.

This was different. This was the woman in great fear. She

was afraid of her husband. As I read I could not rid myself of the feeling that I was spying into the mind and heart of a dead woman. But he was concerned in this. What would he think of me if he knew what I was doing?

Yet I must read on. With every day I spent in the chateau it was becoming more and more important for me to know the truth.

“I lay in bed last night praying that he would not come to me. Once I thought I heard his steps, but it was only Nounou. She knows how I feel. She hovers … praying with me, I know. I am afraid of him. He knows it. He cannot understand why. Other women as so fond of him.

Only I am afraid. “

“I saw Papa today. He looked at me as he often does, as though he would look deep into my mind, as though he is trying to discover every moment of my life … but mostly that.

“How is your husband?” he says to me. And I stammer and blush for I know what he is thinking. He said: “There are other women, I have heard.” And I did not answer. He seemed pleased that there were.

“The devil will take care of him for God will not,” he said. Yet he seems pleased that there are other women and I know why. Anything is preferable to my being sullied. “

“Nounou prowls about. She is very frightened. I am so frightened of the nights. I find it so hard to get to sleep. Then I awake startled and fancy someone has come into the room. It’s an unnatural marriage.

I wish I were a little girl again playing in the nursery. The best time was before Papa showed me the treasure in the trunk . before Maman died. I wish I didn’t have to grow up. But then of course I should never have had Genevieve. “

“Genevieve flew into a passion today. It was because Nounou said she must stay indoors. She has a slight cold and Nounou was worried. She locked Nounou in her room and the poor creature waited patiently there until I went to find her. She didn’t want to betray Genevieve. We were both frightened afterwards when we scolded Genevieve. She was so . wild and naughty. I said she reminded me of her grandmother and Nounou was so upset by her naughtiness. “

“Nounou said, ” Never say that again, Francoise dear. Never, never. ” I realized she meant what I had said of Genevieve’s being like her grandmother.”

“Last night I awoke in a fright. I thought Lothair had come into the room. I saw Papa during the day. He made me more frightened than usual perhaps. It was a dream. It was not Lothair. Why should he come? He knows I hate him coming. He no longer tries to make me see life from his way. I know that is because he does not care for me. He is glad to escape. I am sure of it. But I dreamed he was there and it was a horrible nightmare for I believed he would be cruel to me. But it was only a dream. Nounou came in. She had been lying awake listening, she said. I said, ” I can’t sleep, Nounou. I’m frightened,” so she gave me some laudanum. She uses it for her headaches. She says it takes the pain away and makes her sleep. So I took it and I slept, and in the morning it all seemed like a nightmare … nothing more. He would never force himself on me now. He doesn’t care enough. There are others.”

“I told Nounou I had a raging toothache, and she gave me laudanum. It is such a comfort to know that when I can’t sleep there it is in the bottle waiting for me.”

“A sudden thought came to me today. It can’t be true. But it could be.

I wonder if it is. I am frightened that it might be . and yet in a way I’m not. I shan’t tell anyone yet. certainly not Papa; he would be horrified. He loathes anything to do with it, although he is my father, which is strange, so it could not always have been so. I shan’t tell Lothair. not until it is necessary. I shan’t even tell Nounou. Not yet in any case. But she’ll find out sooner or later.

Well, I’ll wait and see. I may be imagining it. “

“Genevieve came in this morning a little late. She had overslept. I was quite frightened that something might have happened to her. When she came she just ran to me; she sobbed when we hugged each other and I couldn’t calm her down.

Dear Genevieve. I should love to tell her but not yet. oh, no, not yet. “

That was the end and I had not discovered what I wanted to know; but there was one thing I had discovered-that the important notebook was the last one, the one I had seen in Nounou’s cupboard. Why had she not given me that one?

I went back to her room. She was lying on the couch, her eyes closed.

“Nounou,” I said, ‘what was it. the secret? What did it mean? What was she afraid of? “

She said: “I’m in such pain. You’ve no idea how these headaches affect me.”

“I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

“Nothing… There is nothing to be done but to keep quiet.”

“There is the last book,” I said.

“The one she wrote in before she died. Perhaps the answer is in that book …”

“There is nothing,” she said.

“Will you draw the curtains. The light hurts me.”

I laid the notebook on the table near her couch, drew the curtains and went out.

But I had to see that last book. I was sure it would give me some clue as to what had really happened in the days before Francoise’s death.

During the next day I made such a discovery that I almost forgot my desire to see the notebook. I had been working patiently on the suspected wall-painting, very cautiously flaking pieces of lime-wash with a fine ivory paperknife, when I uncovered . paint! My heart began to hammer with excitement, my fingers to tremble. I had to restrain the impulse to work on fervently. This I dared not do. I was far too excited and I could not trust myself. If it were true that I was on the point of discovering a wall-painting and I believed this could well be my hands must be absolutely steady; I should have to curb this wild excitement.

I stood a few paces back, my eyes fixed on that magic fraction of what I believed to be paint. There was a film over it which might be difficult to remove, so it was not easy to assess the colour. But it was there. I was sure of it.

I did not want to say anything until I was sure what I was about to discover would be worthwhile.

During the next days I worked almost furtively, but as I revealed little by little I became more and more certain that I was about to expose a painting of some value.

I was determined that the first to hear of this should be the Comte; and in the middle of the morning I left my tools in the gallery and went along to the library in the hope of finding him. He was not there, and, as I had done on a previous occasion, I rang the bell and when the servant appeared I asked that Monsieur Ie Comte should be told that I wished to speak to him urgently in the library.

I was told that he had left for the stables a few moments before.

“Please go and tell him that I want to see him at once. It is most important.”

When I was alone I wondered if I had been too impulsive. After all, perhaps he would think such an item of news could wait until a more propitious moment. It might be that he would not share my excitement.

But he must, I told myself. After all, the picture had been found in his house.

I heard a voice in the hall; and the door of the library was flung open

and he stood there looking at me in some surprise. He was dressed for riding and had clearly come straight from the stables.

“What is it?” he asked; and in that moment I realized he was expecting to hear something had happened to Genevieve.

“A most important discovery! Can you come and look at it now? There is a picture under the lime-wash after all… and I think there is no doubt that it is a valuable one.”

“Oh,” he said; and then his lips betrayed some amusement.

“Of course I must come.”

“I have interrupted something …”

“My dear Mademoiselle Lawson, such an important discovery must come before all else, I’m sure.”

“Please come and see.”

I led the way to that small room which led from the gallery and there it was just a small part exposed, but there was no doubt that it was a hand lying on velvet and on the fingers and at the wrist were jewels.

“It is a little sombre at the moment but you can see it is in need of cleaning. It’s a portrait, and you can tell by the way the paint has been put on … and the fold of that velvet… that a master has been at work.”

“You mean, my dear Mademoiselle Lawson, that you can.”

“Isn’t it wonderful?” I said to him.

He looked into my face and smiling said: “Wonderful.”

I felt vindicated. I was certain there had been something there under the lime-wash and all those hours of work were not in vain.

“There is very little so far …” he went on.

“Oh, but it’s there. Now I have to make sure that I mustn’t get too excited, which could mean impatience. I am longing to expose the rest, but I must go to work very carefully. I have to be sure not to damage it in any way.”

He laid his hand on my shoulder.

“I am very grateful to you.”

“Perhaps now you are not sorry you decided to trust your pictures to a woman.”

“I quickly learned that you are a woman to whom I would trust a great deal.”

The pressure of his hand on my shoulder; the brilliance of those hooded eyes, the joy of discovery, were intoxicating. I thought recklessly: This is the happiest moment of my life.

“Lothair!” It was Claude standing there frowning at us.

“What on earth has happened? You were there … and then you suddenly disappeared.”

He dropped his hand and turned to her.

“I had a mess age,” he said.

“An urgent message. Mademoiselle Lawson has made a miraculous discovery.”

“What?” She came towards us and looked from him to me.

“A most miraculous discovery!” he repeated, looking at me.

“What is this all about?”

“Look!” said the Comte.

“She has exposed a painting … a valuable one, apparently.”

“That! It looks like a smudge of paint.”

“You say that, Claude, because you do not see it with the artist’s eye. Now Mademoiselle Lawson tells me that it is part of a portrait by an artist of great talent because of the way the paint is put on.”

“You have forgotten that we are riding this morning.”

“Such a discovery make my forgetfulness excusable, I don’t you agree, Mademoiselle Lawson?” ^ “It is very rarely that such discoveries are made,” I replied.

“We are late already,” said Claude, without looking at me.

“You must tell me more some other time. Mademoiselle Lawson,” said the Comte, as he followed her to the door; but as he reached it, he turned to smile at me. Claude saw the look which passed between us and I was aware of the intensity of her dislike.

That thought was almost more intoxicating than anything else that had happened.

I worked with an intensity during the next few days which I knew to be dangerous; but by the end of three days I had uncovered more of the figure and as each inch was exposed I grew more and more certain that I was right in thinking that the painting was valuable.

One morning, however, I had a shock, for when I was working on one part of the lime-wash I uncovered something I could not understand. A letter emerged. There was writing on the wall. Something which might confirm the date of the painting? My hand was trembling. Perhaps I should have stopped work until I felt more calm, but that would be asking too much. I had uncovered the letters BLI. I worked carefully round them and I had “oubliez.” I could not give up. Before the morning was over, by working with great care I had the words “Ne m’oubliez pas,”

“Forget me not.” I was certain too that they had been painted at a much later date than the portrait which was now half-exposed.

It was something to show the Comte. He came to the room and we examined it together. He shared my excitement, or made a good pretence of doing so.

The door opened behind me. I was smiling as I carefully pressed the edge of the knife to the border of the lime-wash. He is growing as excited by this discovery as I am and finding it difficult to keep away, I thought.

There was a deep silence in the room and as I turned the smile must have faded quickly from my face for it was not the Comte who stood there but Claude.

She gave me a half-smile which seemed to cover a certain embarrassment. I could not understand this new mood.

“I heard you had discovered some words,” she said.

“May I see?” She came close to the wall and peered at it murmuring “Ne m’oubhez pas” ” Then she turned to me, her eyes puzzled.

“How did you know it was there?”

“It’s an instinct perhaps.”

“Mademoiselle Lawson …” She hesitated as though she found it difficult to say what was on her mind.

“I’m afraid I’ve been rather hasty. The other day… You see, I was alarmed for Genevieve.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“And I thought… I thought that the best thing …”

“Would be for me to go?”

“It wasn’t only Genevieve.”

I was taken aback. Was she going to confide in me? Was she going to tell me that she was jealous of the Comte’s regard for me? Impossible!

“You may not believe me, but I was thinking of you, too. My husband has spoken to me of you. We both feel that…” She frowned and looked at me helplessly.

“We feel you might want to get away.”

“Why?”

“There could be reasons. I just wanted you to know that I’ve heard of a possibility … a really exciting one. Between us, my husband and I could probably arrange a brilliant opportunity for you. I know how interested you are in old buildings and I dare say you would welcome the chance to examine in detail some of our old churches and abbeys.

And of course the picture galleries. “

“I should, of course, but…”

“Well, we have heard of a little project. A party of ladies are planning a tour to inspect the treasures of France. They want a guide someone who has a deep knowledge of what they will see. Naturally they would not want a man to accompany them, and so they thought that if there were such a lady who could conduct them and explain to them … It’s a unique chance. It would be well paid and I can assure you it would lead to excellent opportunities. It would enhance your reputation and I know give you an entry into many of our oldest families. You would be in great demand, for the ladies who wish to make this tour are all art-fanciers and have collections of their own. It seems such an excellent opportunity.”

I was amazed. She was certainly eager to be rid of me. Yes, indeed, she must be jealous!

“It sounds a fascinating project,” I said.

“But this work …” I waved my hand towards the wall.

“You will finish it shortly. Consider this project. I really think you should.”

She was like a different person. There was a new gentleness about her.

I could almost believe that she was genuinely concerned for me. I thought of making a minute examination of the treasures of France; I thought of discussing these with people who were as interested in them as I was. She could not have offered a more dazzling bait.

“I can get more details for you,” she said eagerly.

“You will think about it, Mademoiselle Lawson?”

She hesitated again as though she would say more, and, deciding against it, left me.

I was puzzled. She was either a jealous woman who was ready to go to great lengths to be rid of me, or she was warning me against the Comte. She might be implying: Be careful. See how he uses women.

Myself. married to Philippe for his convenience; Gabrielle married to Jacques. What will happen to you if you stay here and let him govern your life for that little while it pleases him to do so?

But in my heart I believed she suspected the Comte had some regard for me, and wanted me out of the way. It was an exhilarating thought.

But. for how long? Then I thought of the proposition she had laid before me. It was one which an ambitious woman eager to advance in her profession would be foolish to reject. It was a chance which came once in a lifetime.

When I thought of that and the possibilities the future held for me here in the chateau, I was tormented with doubts and fears and the hopes of wild, and what my good sense told me were hopeless, impossibilities.

I called on Gabrielle. She was noticeably pregnant but she seemed very happy. We talked about the coming baby and she showed me the layette she was preparing.

I asked after Jacques and then she talked to me more frankly than she had done before.

“Having a baby changes you. The things that seemed important before no longer seem anything but trivial. The child is all-important. I can’t understand now why I was so frightened. If I had told Jacques we could have arranged something. But I was so scared… and now it all seems so foolish.”

“What does Jacques feel?”

“He scolds me for being so foolish. But I was afraid because we’d wanted to marry for so long and we knew we couldn’t because we had his mother to support. We just could not have managed to live … the three of us.”

How stupid I had been to suspect the Comte was the father of her child. How could she have been so radiantly happy if this had been the case?

“But for the Comte …” I said.

“Ah, but for the Comte!” She was smiling placidly.

“It seems strange to me that you could not tell Jacques but you could tell him.”

Again that smile.

“Oh, no. He would understand. I knew it. Besides he was the one who could help … and he did. Jacques and I will always be grateful to him.”

This meeting with Gabrielle did something to lift the indecision which

Claude’s offer had brought to me. I would not leave the chateau until it was absolutely necessary, no matter how dazzling the prospect laid before me.

Now I had two overwhelming interests: to uncover what lay beneath the lime-wash and to reveal the true character of the man who was beginning to mean so much far too much in my life.

The words “Forget me not’ had been intriguing, and I was hoping to uncover more, but I did not. What I did uncover was the face of a dog which appeared to be crouching at the feet of the woman of whom the painting was going to prove a portrait. It was while I was working in this section that I discovered paint which I thought might be part of a later work. I suffered moments of horror because I knew it was a practice to cover old paintings with a layer of lime-wash and repaint on the new layer; in which case I might have destroyed a picture which had been painted over the one on which I was working.

I could only go on with what I had begun and to my amazement, in an hour I had revealed that what seemed like a painting was something which had been added to the original picture-although at a later date.

It was extraordinary and it grew more so, for the dog was revealed to be in a case which was the shape of a coffin; and beneath this were the words “Forget me not.”

I laid down my knife and looked at it. The dog was a spaniel like the one in the miniature which the Comte had given me at Christmas. I was certain that this was a portrait of the same woman the subject of the first picture I had cleaned, of my miniature and now the wall-painting.

I wanted to show this to the Comte, so I went to the library. Claude was there alone. She looked up hopefully when she saw me and I realized immediately that she thought I had come to accept her offer.

“I was looking for the Comte,” I said.

Her face hardened and the old dislike was visible.

“Did you propose to send for him?”

“I thought he would be interested to look at the wall.”

“When I see him I will tell him you sent for him.” I pretended not to see the mockery.

“Thank you,” I said, and went back to my work. But the Comte did not come.

Genevieve had a birthday in June which was celebrated by a dinner-party at the chateau. I did not attend this although Genevieve had invited me. I made excuses knowing full well that Claude, who was after all the hostess, had no desire for my presence.

Genevieve herself did not mind whether I went or not; nor, it seemed, to my chagrin, did the Comte. It was a very lukewarm affair and Genevieve was almost. sullen about it.

I had bought her a pair of grey gloves which she had admired in one of the town’s shop windows and she did say she was pleased with these, but she was in one of her gloomy moods and I felt that it would have been better not to have celebrated a birthday in such circumstances.

The day after, we went riding together, and I asked how she had enjoyed the party.

“I didn’t,” she declared.

“It was hateful. What’s the good of having a party when you don’t invite the guests? I would have liked a real party … perhaps with a cake and a crown on it…”

“That’s not a birthday custom.”

“What does it matter? In any case there must be birthday customs. I expect Jean Pierre would know. I’ll ask him.”

“You know what your Aunt Claude feels about your friendship with the Bastides.”

Fury broke out all over her face.

“I tell you I shall choose my own friends. I’m grown up now. They’ll have to realize it. I’m fifteen.”

“It’s not really such a great age.”

“You’re just as bad as the rest of them.”

For a few moments I saw her stormy profile before she broke into a gallop and was away. I tried to follow her but she was determined I shouldn’t.

After a while I rode back to the chateau alone; I was very uneasy about Genevieve.

The hot days of July passed like a dream to me; August had come, and the grapes were just ripening in the sun. As I passed the vineyards one of the workers would usually comment on them.

“Good harvest this year, mademoiselle.”

In the patisserie where now and then I took coffee and a slice of the gateau de la mais on Madame Latiere talked to me of the size of the grapes. They would be sweetened by all the sunshine they had had this year.

The harvest was almost upon us, and it seemed that. the thoughts of all were on it. It was a kind of climax. I still had work to do on the wall-painting; and there were pictures still to be cleaned; but I could not stay indefinitely at the chateau. Was I being foolish to reject Claude’s offer?

But I refused to think of leaving the chateau; I had lived in it for about ten months but I had felt that I had never truly been alive before I had come; and a life away from it seemed impossible, vague, no life at all. Nothing, however interesting, could compensate me if I went away.

Often I recalled the conversations which had taken place between us and asked myself if I had read something into them which did not exist; I was not sure whether the Comte had been mocking me, in truth telling me to mind my own business, or whether he had been telling me obliquely of his regard for me.

I threw myself into the life of the chateau, and when I heard of the annual kermes se I wanted to play my part.

It was Genevieve who told me.

“You ought to have a stall, miss. What will you sell? You’ve never been to a kermes se before, have you?”

I told her that they occurred regularly in our villages and towns. I had made all sorts of things for our church bazaars and I imagined that a kermes se was not very different from these.

She wanted to hear about this and when I told her she was delighted, agreeing that I was very well acquainted with what went on at a kermes se

I had a notion for painting flowers on cups and saucers and ashtrays.

And when I had completed a few and shown them to Genevieve, she laughed with pleasure.

“But, miss, that’s wonderful. They’ve never had anything like it at our kermes se before.” I painted enthusiastically not only flowers but animals on mugs little elephants, rabbits and cats. Then I had the idea of painting names on the mugs. Genevieve would sit beside me telling me what names I should do. I did Yves and Margot, of course; and she named other children who would most certainly be at the kermes se

“That’s a certain sale,” she cried.

“They won’t be able to resist buying mugs with their own names on. May I be at your stall? Trade will be so brisk you’ll need an assistant.”

I was happy to see her so enthusiastic.

“Papa will be here for this kermes se she told me.

“I don’t remember his being here for one before.”

“Why was he not here?”

“Oh, he was always in Paris … or somewhere. He has been here more than ever before. I heard the servants talking about it. It is since his accident.” t “Oh?” I said, attempting to appear unconcerned.

Perhaps, I reminded myself caustically, it is because Claude is here.

I talked of the kermes se and I was delighted because Genevieve shared my excitement and recalled previous ones.

“This,” I said, ‘must be the most successful of all. “

“It will be, miss. We have never had mugs with children’s names on before. The money we make goes to the convent. I shall tell the Holy Mother that she has to be grateful to you, miss.”

“// ne faut pas vend’re la peau de fours avant de I’avoir tuer,” I reminded her. And added in English: “We mustn’t count our chickens before they’re hatched.”

She was smiling at me, thinking, I knew, that whatever the occasion I would always play the governess.

One afternoon when we were returning from our ride I had the idea of using the moat. I had never explored it before so we went down there together. The grass was green and lush; and I suggested that it would be original to have the stalls there.

Genevieve thought it an excellent idea.

“Everything should be different this time, miss. We’ve never used the old moat before, but of course it’s ideal. How warm it is down here!”

“It’s sheltered from all the breezes,” I said.

“Can you imagine the stalls against the grey walls?”

“I’m sure it’ll be fun. We will have it here. Do you feel shut in down here, miss?”

I saw what she meant. It was so silent and the tall grey walls of the chateau so close were overpowering.

We had walked all round the chateau and I was wondering whether my suggestion to have the stalls here on the uneven ground of the dried-up moat had not been rather hastily made, considering how much more comfortable one of the well-kept lawns would be, when I saw the cross. It was stuck in the earth close to the granite wall of the chateau, and I pointed it out to Genevieve.

She was on her hands and knees examining it and I joined her.

“There’s some writing on it,” she said.

We bent over to examine it.

I read out, “Fidele, 1747. It’s a grave,” I added.

“A dog’s grave.”

Genevieve raised her eyes to me.

“All those years ago! Fancy.”

“I believe he’s the dog on my miniature.”

“Oh, yes, the one Papa gave you for Christmas. Fidele! What a nice name.”

“His mistress must have loved him to bury him like that… with a cross and his name and the date.”

Genevieve nodded.

“Somehow,” she said, ‘it makes a difference. It makes the moat a sort of graveyard. “

I nodded.

“I don’t think we would want to have the kermes se down there where poor Fidele is buried.”

I agreed.

“And we should all be badly bitten, too. There are lots of unpleasant insects in this long grass.”

We entered a door of the chateau and as the cool of those thick walls closed in on us, she said: “I’m glad we found poor Fidele’s grave, though, miss.”

“Yes,” I said, ‘so am I. “

The day of the kermes se was hot and sunny. Marquees had been set up on one of the lawns, and early in the morning the stall-holders arrived to set out their wares. Genevieve worked with me to make ours gay; she had spread a white cloth over the counter and had decorated it most tastefully with leaves, and on this we set out our painted crockery.

It looked very charming, and I secretly agreed with Genevieve that ours was the most outstanding of all the stalls. Madame Latiere from the patisserie was supplying refreshments in a tent; needlework figured largely in the goods for sale; there were flowers from the chateau gardens; cakes, vegetables, ornaments and pieces of jewellery.

Claude would rival us, Genevieve told me, because she would sell some of her clothes, and she had wardrobes full of them; of course everyone would want to wear her clothes, which they knew came from Paris.

The local musicians, led by Armand Bastide and his violin, would play intermittently all afternoon and when it was dusk the dancing would begin.

I was certainly proud of my mugs and the first buyers were the Bastide children who shrieked delightedly when they found their own names as though they were there by a coincidence; and as I provided plain mugs to be painted with any names which were not already on display, I was kept busy.

The kermes se was opened by the Comte-and this in itself made it a special occasion for as I was told several times in the first half-hour, it was the first kermes se he had attended for years.

“Not since the death of the Comtesse.” This was significant, said some.

It meant that the Comte had decided that life should be more normal at the chateau.

Nounou came by and insisted that I paint a mug with her name on it. I worked under a blue sunshade which spread itself over our stall; I was conscious of the hot sun, the smell of flowers, the jumble of voices and constant laughter, and I was very happy under that blue sunshade.

The Comte came by and stood watching me at work.

Genevieve said: “Oh, Papa, isn’t she good at it? The quick way she does it. You must have one with your name on it.”

“Yes, certainly I must,” he agreed.

“Your name isn’t here, Papa. You didn’t do a Lothair, miss?”

“No, I didn’t think we should need one.”

“You were wrong there. Mademoiselle Lawson.”

“Yes,” agreed Genevieve gleefully as though she, as much as her father, enjoyed seeing that I could make a mistake.

“You were wrong there.”

“It’s a wrong which can quickly be remedied if the com mission is serious,” I retorted.

“It’s very serious.”

He leaned against the counter while I selected one of the plain mugs.

“Have you any preference for colour?”

“Please choose for me. I am sure your taste is excellent.”

I looked at him steadily.

“Purple, I think, purple and gold.”

“Royal colours?” he asked.

“Most appropriate,” I retaliated.

A little crowd had collected to watch me paint a mug for the Comte.

There was a little whispering among the watchers.

I felt as though the blue umbrella sheltered me from all that was unpleasant. Yes, I was certainly happy on that afternoon.

There was his name in royal purple the ‘i’ dotted with a touch of gold paint, and a full stop after the name also in gold.

There was an exclamation of admiration from those who looked on and somewhat deliriously I painted a gold fleur-delis below his name.

“There,” I said.

“Isn’t that fitting?”

“You must pay for it. Papa.”

“If Mademoiselle Lawson will name the price.”

“A little more, I think, don’t you, miss, because after all it is a special one.”

“A great deal more, I think.”

“I am in your hands.”

There was an exclamation of amazement as the Comte dropped his payment into the bowl Genevieve had placed on the counter. I was sure it meant that we should have the largest donation to the convent.

Genevieve was pink with pleasure. I believe she was almost as happy as I was.

As the Comte moved on I saw Jean Pierre at my side.

“I would like a mug,” he said, ‘and a fleur-delis also. “

“Please do one for him, miss,” pleaded Genevieve, smiling up at him.

So I did.

Then everyone was asking for the fleur-delis, and mugs already sold were brought back.

“It will cost more for the fleur-delis,” cried Genevieve in triumph.

And I painted and Genevieve grew pinker with pleasure, while Jean Pierre stood by smiling at us.

It had been a triumph. My mugs had earned more than any other stall.

Everyone was talking about it.

And with the dusk the musicians began to play and there was dancing on the lawn and in the hall for those who preferred it.

This was the way it always was, Genevieve told me, yet there had never been a kermes se like this one.

The Comte had disappeared. His duties did not extend beyond being present at the kermes se Claude and Philippe had left too; I found myself wistfully looking for the Comte, hoping that he would return and seek me out.

Jean Pierre was at my side.

“Well, what do you think of our rural pleasures?”

“That they are very much like the rural pleasures I have known all my life.”

“I’m glad of that. Will you dance with me?”

“I shall be pleased to.”

“Shall we go on to the lawn? It is so hot in here. It’s much more pleasant to dance under the stars.”

He took my hand and led me in the dreamy waltz which the musicians had started to play.

“Life here interests you?” he asked, and his lips were so close to my ear that he seemed to whisper.

“But you cannot stay here for ever. You have your own home.”

“I have no home. Only Cousin Jane is left.”

“I do not think I like Cousin Jane.”

“But why not?”

“Because you do not. I hear it in your voice.”

“Do I betray my feelings so easily?”

“I understand you a little. I hope to understand you more, for we are good friends, aren’t we?”

“I hope so.”

“We have been very happy … my family and I… that you should treat us as friends. Please tell me, what shall you do when the work at the chateau is finished?”

“I shall leave here, of course. But it is not yet finished.”

“And they are pleased with you … up at the chateau. That is obvious.

Monsieur Ie Comte looked this afternoon as though he approved of. of you. “

“Yes, I think he is pleased. I flatter myself that I have done good work on his pictures.”

He nodded.

“You must not leave us, Dallas,” he said.

“You must stay with us. We could not be happy if you went away … none of us.

Myself especially. “

“You are so kind….”

“I will always be kind to you … for the rest of our lives. I could never be happy again if you went away. I am asking you to stay here always … with me.”

“Jean Pierre!”

“I want you to marry me. I want you to assure me that you will never leave me … never leave us. This is where you belong. Don’t you know it, Dallas?”

I had stopped short and he slipped his arm through mine and drew me into the shelter of one of the trees.

“This could not be,” I said.

“Why not? Tell me why not?”

“I am fond of you … I shall never forget your kindness to me when I first came here …”

“But, you are telling me, you do not love me?”

“I’m telling you that although I am fond of you I don’t think I should make you a good wife.”

“But you do like me, Dallas?”

“Of course.”

“I knew it. And I will not ask you to say yes or no now. Because it may be that you are not ready.”

“Jean Pierre, you must understand that I…”

“I understand, my dearest.”

“I don’t think you do.”

“I shall not press the matter but you will not leave us. And you will stay as my wife… because you could not bear to leave us … and in time … in time, my Dallas … you will see.”

He took my hand and kissed it quickly.

“Do not protest,” he said.

“You belong with us. And there can be no one else for you but me.”

Genevieve’s voice broke in on my disturbed thoughts.

“Oh, there you are, miss. I was looking for you. Oh, Jean Pierre, you must dance with me. You promised you would.”

He smiled at me; I saw the lift. of the eyebrows as expressive as that of the shoulders.

As I watched him dance away with Genevieve, I was vaguely apprehensive. For the first time in my life I had received a proposal of marriage. I was bewildered. I could never marry Jean Pierre. How could I when. Was it because I had betrayed my feelings? Could it be that as he stood at my stall that afternoon the Comte had betrayed his?

The joy had gone out of the day. I was glad when the dancing was over, when the “Marseillaise’ had been played and the revellers went home and I to my room in the chateau to think of the past and grope blindly towards the future.

I found it difficult to work the next day and I was afraid that I should damage the wall-painting if I continued in this absentminded mood. So I accomplished little that morning, but my thoughts were busy. It seemed incredible that I who since my abortive affair with Charles had never had a lover should now be attractive to two men, one of whom had actually asked me to marry him. But it was the Comte’s intentions that occupied my thoughts. He had looked younger, almost gay, when he had stood by the stall yesterday. I was certain in that moment that he could be happy; and I believed that I was the one to make him so. What presumption! The most he could be thinking of was one of those light love affairs in which it seemed he indulged from time to time. No, I was sure it was not true.

After I had taken breakfast in my room Genevieve burst in on me. She looked at least four years older because she had pinned her long hair into a coil on the top of her head which made her taller and more graceful.

“Genevieve, what have you done?” I cried.

She burst into loud laughter.

“Do you like it?”

“You look … older.”

“That’s what I want. I’m tired of being treated like a child.”

“Who does treat you so?”

“Everybody. You, Nounou, Papa … Uncle Philippe and his hateful Claude … Just everybody. You haven’t said whether you like it.”

“I don’t think it… suitable.”

That made her laugh.

“Well, I think it is, miss, and that is how I shall wear it in future. I’m not a child any more. My grandmother married when she was only a year older.”

I looked at her in astonishment. Her eyes were gleaming with excitement. She looked wild; and I felt very uneasy, but I could see it would be useless to talk to her.

I went along to see Nounou, and asked after her headaches. She said they had troubled her less during the last few days.

“I’m a little anxious about Genevieve,” I told her. The startled look came into her eyes.

“She’s put her hair up. And she no longer looks like the child she is.”

“She is growing up. Her mother was so different… always so gentle.

She seemed a child after Genevieve’s birth. “

“She said that her grandmother was married when she was sixteen … almost as though she were planning to do the same.”

“It’s her way,” said Nounou.

But two days later Nounou came to me in some distress and told me that Genevieve who had gone out riding alone that afternoon had not come home. It was then about five o’clock.

I said: “But surely one of the grooms was with her. She never goes riding alone.”

“She did today.”

“You saw her?”

“Yes, from my window. I could see she was in one of her moods so I watched. She was galloping across the meadow and there was no one with her.”

“But she knows she’s not allowed …”

I looked at Nounou helplessly.

“She has been in this mood since the kermes se sighed Nounou.

“And I was so happy to see how interested she was. Then … she seemed to change.”

“Oh, I expect she’ll be back soon. I believe she just wants to prove to us that she’s grown up.”

I left her then and in our separate rooms we waited for Genevieve’s return. I guessed that Nounou, like myself, was wondering what steps we should have to take if the girl had not returned within the next hour.

We were spared that, for half an hour or so after I had left Nounou, from my window I saw Genevieve coming into the castle.

I went to the schoolroom through which she would have to pass to her own bedroom, and as I entered Nounou came out of her room.

“She’s back,” I said.

Nounou nodded.

“I saw her.”

Shortly afterwards Genevieve came up.

She looked flushed and almost beautiful with her dark eyes brilliant.

When she saw us waiting there she smiled mischievously at us and taking off her hard riding-hat threw it on the schoolroom table.

Nounou was trembling and I said: “We were anxious. You know you are not supposed to go riding alone.”

“Really, miss, that was long ago. I’m past that now.”

“I didn’t know it.”

“You don’t know everything although you think you do.”

I was deeply depressed, because the girl who stood before us defying us, jeering at us, was no different from the one who had been so rude to me on my arrival. I had thought that we had made some progress but I realized there had been no miracle. Although she could be interested and pleasant, she was wild as ever when the desire to be so took possession of her.

“I am sure your father would be most displeased.”

She turned to me angrily.

“Then tell him. Tell him. You and he are such friends.”

I said angrily: “You are being absurd. It is very unwise for you to ride alone.”

She stood still smiling secretly and I wondered in that moment whether she had been alone. The thought was even more alarming.

Suddenly she swung round and faced us.

“Listen,” she said, ‘both of you. I shall do as I like. Nobody . just nobody . is going to stop me. “

Then she picked up her hat from the table and went into her room slamming the door behind her.

Those were uneasy days. I had no wish to go to the Bastides’, for I feared to meet Jean Pierre and I felt that the pleasant friendly relationship which I had always enjoyed would be spoilt. The Comte had gone up to Paris for a few days after the kermes se Genevieve avoided me. I tried to throw myself even more wholeheartedly into work and now that more of the wall-painting was emerging this helped my troubled mind.

I was working one morning when I looked up suddenly and found that I was not alone. This was an unpleasant habit of Claude’s. She would come into a room noiselessly and one would be startled to find her there.

She looked very pretty that morning in a blue morning gown, piped with burgundy-coloured ribbon. I smelt the faint musk-rose scent she used.

“I hope I didn’t startle you, Mademoiselle Lawson?” she said pleasantly.

“Of course not.”

“I thought I would speak to you. I am growing more and more uneasy about Genevieve. She is becoming impossible. She was very rude to me and to my husband this morning. Her manners seem to have deteriorated lately.”

“She is a child of moods but she can be charming.”

“I find her extremely ill-mannered and gauche. I hardly think any school would want her if she behaved like this. I noticed her behaviour with the wine-grower at the kermes se In her present mood there could be trouble if she became too headstrong. She can no longer be called a child and I fear she might form associations which could be dangerous.”

I nodded, for I understood clearly what she meant. She was referring to Genevieve’s obsession with Jean Pierre.

She moved closer to me.

“If you could use your influence with her … If she knew we were concerned she would be all the more reckless. But I can see you realize the dangers.”

She was looking at me quizzically. I guessed she was thinking that if there should be trouble of the nature she was hinting at, I should in a way be to blame. Wasn’t I the one who had fostered this friendship?

Genevieve had scarcely been aware of Jean Pierre before my friendship with the family.

I felt uneasy and a little guilty.

She went on: “Have you thought any more of that proposition I put to you the other day?”

“I feel I must finish my work here before I consider anything else.”

“Don’t leave it too long. I heard a little more about it yesterday.

One of the party is thinking of starting an exclusive art school in Paris. I think there would be a very good opening there. “

“It sounds almost too good to be true.”

“It’s a chance in a lifetime, I should imagine. But, of course, the decision will have to be made fairly soon.”

She smiled at me almost apologetically and left.

I tried to work but I could not put my mind to it. She wanted me to go. That much was evident. Was she piqued because some of that attention which she felt should be hers was given to me by the Comte?

It might be. But was she also genuinely concerned for Genevieve? This would be, I was ready to admit, a very real problem. Had I misjudged her?

I soon became convinced that Claude was really concerned about Genevieve. That was when I heard her in deep conversation with Jean Pierre in the copse in which the Comte had had his accident. I had been to see Gabrielle and was on my way back to the chateau and had taken the short cut through the copse, when I heard their voices.

I did not know what was said and I wondered why they had chosen such a rendezvous. Then it occurred to me that the meeting might not have been arranged. They had met by chance and Claude had decided to take the opportunity of telling Jean Pierre that she did not approve of Genevieve’s friendship with him.

It was, after all, no concern of mine and I turned hastily away.

Skirting the copse, I rode back to the chateau. But the incident confirmed me in my opinion that Claude really was worried about Genevieve. And in my pride I had thought her main feeling was jealousy of the Comte’s interest in me!

I tried to put all these disturbing matters out of my mind by concentrating on my work. The picture was growing-and there she was before me the lady with the emeralds, for discoloured as they were I could see by the shape of the ornaments that they were identical to those which I had seen on the first picture I had cleaned. The same face. This was the woman who had been the mistress of Louis XV and had started the emerald collection. In fact the picture was very like the other except that in this her dress was of blue velvet and in the other red and in this one, of course, nestling against the blue velvet of her skirt was the spaniel. It was the inscription that puzzled me.

“Forget me not.” And now I had uncovered the dog in his glass coffin and saw there was something lying beside him. It had been a moment of excitement so great when I had uncovered that object that I almost forgot my personal dilemma.

Beside the dog in the glass coffin was something which looked like a key, at one end of which was an ornamental fleur-delis.

I was sure it was meant to convey something, for the lettering, the case in which the dog was enclosed, and the key, if key it was, were not part of a later painting; they had been put on to the original portrait of the woman and dog and by a hand which could be called nothing more than that of an unskilled amateur.

As soon as the Comte returned to the chateau I should show him this.

The more I thought about the addition to the wall-painting the more significant it seemed. I tried to think of it exclusively; other thoughts were too painful. Genevieve avoided me. She went riding alone every afternoon and no one prevented her. Nounou shut herself in her room and I believe re-read the earlier diaries in a vain endeavour I suppose to relive the peaceful days with a more amenable charge.

I was worried about Genevieve and wondered if Claude was right and I was partly to blame.

I thought of our first meeting, how she had shut me in the oubliette and how even before that she had promised to introduce me to her mother and had taken me to her grave and there informed me that she had been murdered . by her father.

I suppose it was this memory which led me one afternoon to the graveyard of the de la Talles.

I went to that of Francoise and read her name once more on the open marble book and then I looked for the grave of the lady in the portrait. She must be there.

I did not know her name, only that she was one of the Comtesses de la Talle, but since she had been a mistress of Louis XV in her youth I guessed that the date of her death must be somewhere in the second half of the eighteenth century, and eventually I discovered a Marie Louise de la Talle who had died in the year 1761. This would doubtless be the lady of the pictures, and as I approached the vault with its statues and decorations my foot touched something. I stared down incredulously, for what I saw was a cross similar to that which I had discovered in the moat. I bent down to look and I discovered that a date had been scratched on it. There were letters too. I knelt down. I could just read it.

“Fidele 1790.”

The same name! Only the date was different. The dog had been buried in the moat in 1749. This dog had the same name and a different date.

This Fidele had died when the revolutionaries were marching on the chateau, when the young Comtesse had had to flee, not only for her own life but for that of the unborn child.

Surely there was something significant about this? I was deeply conscious of it as I stood there. Whoever had painted the coffin-like case about the dog and had written the words “Forget me not’ on the picture was trying to convey something. What?

And here I had stumbled on this second grave of Fidele and the date was important. I knelt down and looked at the cross. Beneath the name Fidele and the date, some words had been scratched.

“N’oubliez pas …” I made out, and my heart beat wild with excitement then, for the inscription was like that on the picture.

“N’oubliez pas ceux qui furent oublies.”

What did it indicate?

Of only one thing was I certain; and that was that I was going to find out, for it had occurred to me that this was not the grave a beloved mistress had made for a dog. There was one dog’s grave and that was in the moat. Someone who had lived in the year 1790 that most fateful and eventful year for the French people-was trying to send a message over the years.

It was a challenge and one I must accept.

I rose to my feet and left the graveyard making my way through the small copse to the gardens. I remembered passing a shed in which I knew gardening tools were kept, and there I found a spade and went back to the graveyard.

As I made my way through the copse I had a sudden uneasy feeling that I was being watched. I stood still. There

was silence except for the sudden flutter of a bird in the leaves above me.

“Is anyone there?” I called.

But there was no answer. You’re being foolish, I told myself. You’re nervous. You’re reaching out for the past and it’s making you uneasy.

You’ve changed since you came to the chateau. You used to be a sensible young woman. Now you do all manner of foolish things. What would anyone think if they found me with a spade, intent on digging in the graveyard?

Then I would explain. But I didn’t want to explain. I wanted to take my discovery complete and exciting to the Comte. Reaching the cross I looked over my shoulder. I could see no one, but it would not be difficult for someone to have followed me through the copse, to be hiding now behind one of those house like tombs which the French erect to their dead.

I began to dig.

The small box was very near the surface and I saw at once that it was not big enough to contain the remains of a dog. I picked it up and brushed off the dirt. It was made of metal and there were words scratched on this, similar to those on the cross. ‘1790. N’oubliez pas ceux qui furent oublies. “

It was difficult to open the box for it had become wedged with rust.

But eventually I managed it; and I think I must have been expecting what was inside.

I knew as soon as I picked it up that when I had uncovered the wall-painting I had uncovered a message which had been intentionally left. For there in the box was the key which was lying beside the dog in the picture. I knew it because at one end was the fleur-delis.

Now I had to find the lock which fitted the key and then I should know what the one who had drawn that message had wanted to say. It was a link with the past. It was the most thrilling discovery I or my father had ever made. I wanted to tell someone . anyone . the Comte, of course.

I looked down at the key in my hand. Somewhere in the chateau there would be the lock to fit it.

I must find it.

I put the key carefully into the pocket of my dress. I closed the box and put it back in the earth. Then I covered it. In a few days no one would know that the ground had been disturbed.

I went to the toolshed and carefully replaced the spade. Then I went into the chateau and up to my room. But it was not until I was there and the door was shut that I could rid myself of the notion that I had been overlooked.

Those were days of burning heat. The Comte stayed in Paris and I had now exposed the whole of the wall-painting and’ was cleaning it. A process which would not take me very long; and when I had done that and the few pictures in the gallery I should really have no excuse for staying. If I were wise I should tell Claude that I wanted to take up her suggestion.

The harvest was almost upon us.

I had a feeling that we were moving towards a climax and when the harvest was over this episode in my life would be over too.

Wherever I went I carried the key with me in the pocket of one of my petticoats. It was a very secure pocket, in which I carried anything I was afraid of losing, for it buttoned tightly and there was no way in which articles hidden there could be lost.

I had thought a great deal about the key and I had come to the conclusion that if I could find the lock to it I should discover the emeralds. Everything pointed to this. The coffin had been painted over the dog in the picture in the year 1790that very year when the revolutionaries had marched on the chateau. I was certain the emeralds had been taken from the strongroom and hidden somewhere in the chateau and this was the key to open the receptacle in which they lay. This key was the property of the Comte and I had no right to keep it; but I should give it to no one else, and together he and I should seek to find the lock which fitted it.

I had a great desire to find that lock myself. To await him on his return and say to him: “Here are your emeralds.”

They could not be in a casket. That would have been discovered long ago. It must be a cupboard, a safe, somewhere which had gone undetected for a hundred years.

I began by examining every inch of my own room, tapping the panelling where I thought there might possibly be a cavity.

And as I did this I stopped short suddenly, remembering the tapping Genevieve and I had heard in the night. Someone else was searching as I was. Who? The Comte? That was understandable, but why should he, who owned the chateau and had every right to look for hidden treasure which belonged to him, seek to find it by stealth?

I thought of the treasure hunt when I found the clues and I knew that the words scratched on the box were a clue of a similar sort.

Could those who had been forgotten be those prisoners of the past who had been chained to their cages or dropped into the oubliette^ The servants believed those dungeons to be haunted and refused to go there. That might have applied to the revolutionaries storming the chateau. Somewhere down there was the lock which would fit the key I carried in my petticoat pocket.

It must be in the oubliette of course. The word forgotten was the clue to that.

I remembered the trap door, the rope ladder and the occasion when

Genevieve had shut me there. I longed to explore the oubliette, and yet remembering how I had once been shut down there I was reluctant to go alone.

Should I tell Genevieve of my discovery? I decided against it. No, I must go alone but I must make sure that it was known I was there so that if by some chance that trap door should be shut down I should be rescued.

I went along to Nounou.

“Nounou,” I said, “I am going to explore the oubliette this afternoon.

I think there may be something interesting under the lime-wash. “

“Like that picture you’ve been finding?”

“Something like that. There’s only a rope ladder for getting in and out, so if I should not be back in my room by four o’clock, you would know where to find me.”

Nounou nodded.

“Though she wouldn’t do it again,” she said.

“You need have no fear of that, miss.”

“No; but that’s where I shall be.”

“I’ll remember.”

I also took the precaution of mentioning where I should be to the maid who brought my lunch.

“Oh, will you, miss,” she said.

“Rather you than me.”

“You don’t like the place?”

“Well, miss. When you think of what’s gone on there. They say it’s haunted. You know that, don’t you?”

“That’s often said about such places.”

“Well, all those people … shut down there to pine away … Ugh, rather you than me.”

I touched the key beneath my skirts and thought of the pleasure I should have when I took the Comte to his oubliette and said to him: “I have found your treasure.”

I was not going to let the fear of ghosts scare me.

As I stood in that room with its trap door which was the only entry to the oubliette, watching the play of sunlight on the weapons decorating the walls, it occurred to me that the lock which would fit the key might be in this room, for those who were about to be forgotten had first passed this way.

Guns of various shapes and kinds! Were they ever used now? I knew it was the duty of one of the servants to come to this room periodically and make sure everything was well kept. I had heard it said that the servants came in twos.

If there was anything here surely it would have been discovered long ago.

As I stood there my eye caught something gleaming on the floor and I went swiftly to it.

It was a pair of scissors the kind which I had seen used for snipping off grapes which were not up to the required standard. There had been occasions when, as I had stood talking to him, I had seen Jean Pierre take such a pair of scissors from his pockets and use them on the vines.

I stooped and picked up the scissors. They were of an unusual shape.

Could there be two pairs so much alike? And if not, how had Jean Pierre’s scissors come to be here?

I slipped them into my pocket thoughtfully. Then deciding that what I sought was more likely to be in the oubliette, I took out the rope ladder, opened the trap door and descended to that place of doom where the forgotten had perished. I shivered as I relived those dreadful moments when Genevieve had pulled up the ladder and shut the trap door leaving me to experience a little of what hundreds must have felt before within these walls.

It was an eerie place, close, confined, dark, except for the light which came through the trap door.

But I had not come to let my fancies rule my common sense. Here was where the forgotten had ended their days and this was where the clue had led me. I believed that somewhere in this enclosed space was the lock which the key would open.

I examined the walls. Here was the familiar lime-wash which must have been done about eighty years ago. I tapped the wall gently to test for cavities but I could find nothing of interest. I looked about me, at the ceiling, at the flagged stone floors. I went into that aperture which Genevieve had told me was a maze. Could it be in there somewhere? The light was too poor for me to examine it well, but as I put out my hand to touch the stone pillar I could not imagine how anything could be secreted there.

I decided to make a through examination of the walls, and while I was doing this what little light there was disappeared.

I gave a little cry of horror and turned to the trap door.

Claude was looking down at me.

“Making discoveries?” she asked.

I stood looking up at her and moved towards the rope ladder. She pulled it a few inches from the ground rather playfully.

“I’m wondering whether there are any to make,” I answered.

“You know so much about ancient castles. I saw you come here and guessed what you were up to.”

I thought: She is watching me, all the time, hoping that I will make the decision to go.

I reached out to touch the ladder but laughingly she jerked it upwards.

“Don’t you feel a little alarmed down there. Mademoiselle Lawson?”

“Why should I?”

“Think of all the ghosts of dead men who have died horrible deaths cursing those who left them there to die.”

“They would have no grudge against me.”

I kept my eyes on the rope ladder which she held just out of my reach.

“You might slip and fall down there. Anything could happen. You might be a prisoner there … like those others.”

“Not for long,” I answered.

“They would come to look for me. I have told Nounou and others that I’d be here so I shouldn’t be left long.”

“You’re very practical as well as clever. Do you think you are going to find wall paintings down there?”

“In castles like this one never knows what one will find. That’s where the excitement comes in.”

“I should like to join you.” She let the ladder fall and I felt a relief as I was able to touch it.

“But I don’t think I will,” she went on.

“If you discover something you will let us know fast enough, I’m sure.”

“I shall let it be known. I’m coming up now, in any case.”

“And you’ll be investigating again?”

“Very probably, although the examination I have made today makes me think I shan’t find anything down here.”

Firmly I grasped the ladder and climbed up to the room.

Claude had made me forget my discovery in the gun room, but no sooner had I returned to my own room than I remembered the scissors in my pocket.

It was early so I decided I would take a walk to the Maison Bastide to ask if they belonged to Jean Pierre.

I found Madame Bastide alone. I showed her the scissors and asked if they were her grandson’s.

“Why, yes,” she said, ‘he’s been looking for those. “

“You’re sure they are his?”

“Undoubtedly.”

I laid them on the table.

“Where did you find them?”

“In the chateau.”

I saw the fear leap into her eyes, and in that moment the incident seemed to take on a greater significance.

“Yes, in the gun-room. I thought it was an odd place to find them.”

There was a silence while I was deeply aware of the clock on the mantelpiece ticking away the seconds.

“He lost them some weeks ago when he went to see Monsieur Ie Comte,” said Madame Bastide, but I felt she was trying to excuse Jean Pierre’s being in the chateau and to suggest that he had lost the scissors before the Comte’s departure.

We avoided looking at each other. I knew Madame Bastide was alarmed.

I couldn’t sleep very well that night. It had been a disturbing day. I wondered what Claude’s motives had been when she had followed me to the oubliette. What would have happened if I had not taken the precaution of telling Nounou and the maid that I should be there? I shivered. Did Claude want me out of the way and was she growing impatient because I was still hesitating to take the solution she had offered me?

And then finding Jean Pierre’s scissors in the gun-room had been disturbing particularly in view of Madame Basride’s reaction when I returned them.

It was small wonder that I felt restless.

I was half-dozing when the door of my room opened and I awoke with a start, my heart beating so fast that I felt it would burst. I sensed that there was something evil in my room.

Starting up in bed I saw a figure swathed in blue at the foot of my bed. I was half-dreaming, I suppose, because for a few seconds I thought I really was face to face with one of the chateau ghosts. Then I saw it was Claude.

“I’m afraid I frightened you. I didn’t think you would be asleep yet.

I knocked at your door but you didn’t answer. “

“I was dozing,” I said.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

I looked surprised and she went on: “You’re thinking I’ve had better opportunities… but it’s not easy to tell you. I had to wait until I could . and I kept putting it off. “

“What have you to tell me?”

“I’m going to have a child,” she said.

“Congratulations!” But why, I thought, wake me to tell me that?

“I want you to understand what this means.”

“That you are going to have a child? I think this is good news and I suppose not wholly unexpected.”

“You are a woman of the world.”

I was a little surprised to hear myself referred to as such, and I did not protest although I felt she was attempting to flatter me, which was strange.

“If he is a boy he will be the future Comte.”

“You are presuming that the Comte will have no sons of his own.”

“But surely you know enough of the family history to understand that Philippe is here because the Comte has no wish to marry. If he does not, then my son will inherit.”

“That may be so,” I said.

“But what is it you are trying to tell me?”

“I’m telling you that you should accept the proposition I have put to you before it is too late. The offer won’t remain open indefinitely. I was going to talk to you this afternoon but I found it too difficult.”

“What do you want to Say to me?”

“I want to be quite frank. Whose child do you think I am going to have?”

“Your husband’s, of course.”

“My husband has no interest in women. In any case he is impotent. You see how this simplifies the plan. The Comte does not want to marry but he would like his son to inherit. Do you understand?”

“It is no concern of mine.”

“No, that’s true. But I’m trying to help you. I know you think that strange, but it’s true. I haven’t always been very pleasant to you, I know. So you wonder why I should bother to help you. I don’t know why… except that people like you can get hurt even worse than most. The Comte is a man who will have his own way.

His family have always been like that. They care for nothing but getting their own way. You should leave here. You should let me help you. I can do it now, but unless you make up your mind, you will lose this chance. You admit it’s an excellent chance? “

I did not answer. I could only think of her implication that the child she carried was the Comte’s. I didn’t want to believe it but it fitted in with what I knew. This would ensure his child’s inheriting the titles and estates. And Philippe, the complaisant, would pose as the child’s father to the outside world. It was the price he must pay to be called Comte, should the real Comte die before him; it was the price he must pay to call the chateau his home.

She is right, I thought. I must get away.

She was watching me intently and she said gently, almost tenderly: “I know how you feel. He has been … attentive, hasn’t he? He has never met anyone quite like you before. You are different from the rest of us, and he always was attracted by novelty. That is why nothing can last with him. You should go to prevent yourself being hurt… badly.”

She was like a ghost at the foot of my bed, warning me to avert the tragedy which loomed over me.

She went on: “Shall I arrange for you to go on that tour?”

I answered quietly: “I will think about it.”

She shrugged, and turning, glided to the door. There she paused to look back at me.

“Good night,” she said softly, and she was gone.

I lay awake for a long time.

I should be deeply hurt if I stayed. I had not realized until now how deeply, how bitterly.