The King of the Castle

Four

I told myself it was not my affair to assess whether or not the master of the house was a murderer, but to discover how much restoration the paintings needed and what methods should be used to produce the best results; and during the weeks that followed I became absorbed in my work.

Guests came to the chateau, which meant that I was not invited to dinner. I was not really displeased about this, as the Comte’s attitude towards me disturbed me. I felt that he was almost hoping that I would fail. I feared that he might undermine my confidence, and while I was occupied in my delicate task I had to believe it would be a complete success.

But after leaving me alone for a few days he came to the gallery one morning when I was at work.

“Oh, dear. Mademoiselle Lawson,” he exclaimed as he looked at the picture before me.

“What are you doing?”

I was startled, for the picture had been reacting perfectly to my treatment and I felt the colour rush to my cheeks. I was about to protest angrily when he went on: “You are going to restore such colour to this painting that you will remind us all over again of those tiresome emeralds.”

He was amused to see my relief that he had not implied criticism of my work.

I said sharply to hide my embarrassment: “Then you are becoming convinced that a woman might have some ability?”

“I always suspected you had great ability. Who but a woman of character and determination would have come to us in the first place, eager to defend what is I am sure misguidedly called the weaker sex? “

“My only wish is to do a good job.”

“If all the militant females in the past had had your good sense, what a lot of trouble might have been saved!”

“I hope I shall be able to save you trouble, for I can assure you that had these paintings been neglected much longer…”

“I am aware of it. That was why I decided to ask your father here.

Alas, he could not come. But in his place we have his daughter. How fortunate we are! “

I turned to the painting, but I was afraid to touch it. I dared not make a false move. Work such as this needed complete absorption.

He came and stood close to me, and although he pretended to be studying the picture, I believe he was watching me.

“It seems so interesting,” he said.

“You must explain to me.”

“I have carried out one or two tests, and naturally before beginning I have made sure that I am using what, in my opinion is the best treatment.”

“And what is the best treatment?” His eyes were fixed on my face, and again I felt the uncomfortable colour in my cheeks.

“I’m using a mild alcohol solvent. It wouldn’t be active on a hardened layer of oil paint, but this paint has been mixed with a soft resin.”

“How clever of you!”

“It is part of my work.”

“At which you are such an expert.” :

“Are you convinced of that then?” My voice sounded a little too eager and I felt my lips harden to counteract the effect my remarks might have had.

“You are in the process of convincing me. You like this, picture,

Mademoiselle Lawson?” | “It’s interesting. It’s not one of your best. It doesn’t compare, of course, with the Fragonards or Bouchers. But I think the artist was a master of colour. The alizarin is beautiful. He is daring in his use of colour. His brush strokes are a little harsh, but…” I broke off because I sensed he was laughing at me.

“I’m afraid I become rather boring when I talk about paintings.”

“You are too self-critical, Mademoiselle Lawson.”

Self-critical! It was the first time anyone had ever told me that. And yet I knew it was true. I knew that I was like a hedgehog, putting out my prickles in self-defence. So I had betrayed myself.

“You will soon have restored this picture,” he went on.

“And then I shall know whether you have decided if I am worthy to be given this commission.”

“I’m sure you have no doubt what the verdict will be,” he answered, and smiling, left me.

A few days later the picture was finished and he came to pass judgment. He stood for some seconds frowning at it, and I felt my spirits sinking although before he had come in I had felt pleased with my work, knowing I had done a good job. The colours were startling and the fabric of the gown and the artist’s facility in handling his paint reminded me of Gainsborough. All this had been hidden when I had started the work; now it was revealed.

And he stood there looking dismayed.

“So,” I said, ‘you are not pleased? “

He shook his head.

“Monsieur Ie Comte, I don’t know what you expect, but I assure you that anyone who understands painting …”

He turned his attention from the picture to me; he had raised those proud eyebrows very slightly; his mouth was curved in a smile which belied the astonishment his eyes were trying to convey.

‘...as you do,” he finished for me.

“Ah, yes, if I possessed that talent, I should cry: “This is a miracle. That which was hidden has now been shown to us in all its glory!” It’s true. It’s magnificent. But I’m still thinking of those emeralds. You have no idea what trouble they have caused us. Now, due to you. Mademoiselle Lawson, there will be new treasure hunts. There will be new speculations. “

I knew that he was teasing me and I told myself fiercely that he had been hoping I should fail. Now he was reluctant to admit that I had succeeded admirably, and as he couldn’t deny it, was talking about his emeralds.

It was typical of the man, I told myself; and then quickly added a reminder that whatever he was, was no concern of mine. He was of no importance to me; I was only interested in his paintings.

“And as far as the picture is concerned you have no complaints?” I asked coolly.

“You live up to your credentials.”

“Then you will wish me to continue with the rest of the paintings?”

An expression I did not understand flickered across his face.

“I should be very disappointed if you did not. “

I felt radiant. I had won.

But my triumph was not complete, for as he stood there smiling at me, I knew he was reminding me how well aware he was of my doubts and fears and everything I had sought to hide.

Neither of us had noticed that Genevieve had come into the gallery, and as she did not make her presence known she could have been there for some seconds watching us.

The Comte saw her first.

“What do you want, Genevi eve?” he asked.

“I… I came to see how Mademoiselle Lawson was getting on with the picture.” | “Then come and see.” | She came, looking sullen as she so often did in company!

“There!” he said.

“Is it not a revelation?”

She did not answer.

“Mademoiselle Lawson expects to be complimented on her work. You remember what the picture was like before.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Such lack of artistic appreciation! You must try to persuade Mademoiselle Lawson to teach you to understand pictures while she is with us.”

“So … she is going to stay?”

His voice changed suddenly. It was almost caressing.

“I hope,” he said, ‘for a long time. Because you see there are so many in the chateau who need her attentions. “

Genevieve gave me a swift glance; her eyes were hard; they looked like black stones. She turned to the picture and said:

“Perhaps if she is so clever she will find the emeralds for us.”

“You see Mademoiselle Lawson, it is exactly as I said.”

“They certainly look magnificent,” I replied.

“No doubt due to the artist’s … er … facility with paint?”

I cared nothing for his mockery, nor for the brooding resentment of his daughter. It was these beautiful paintings which were my concern, and the fact that they were now shrouded in the fog of neglect only made my project the more exciting.

Even in that moment he knew what I was thinking, for he bowed and said: “I will leave you. Mademoiselle Lawson. I can see you are eager to be alone … with the pictures.” He signed to Genevieve to go with him; and when they had gone I stood there in the gallery and let my eyes revel first in one and then in another.

I had rarely been so excited in my life.

Now that I was staying at the chateau to complete the work I decided to take advantage of the Comte’s offer and make use of the stables, which would enable me to see in more of the country. I had already explored the little town; had drunk coffee in the patisserie, chatting with the genial but inquisitive proprietress, who was pleased to welcome anyone from the chateau. She had talked with reverence but sly knowingness of Monsieur Ie Comte, with respectful contempt of Monsieur Philippe, and with pity for Mademoiselle Genevieve. And mademoiselle was there to clean the pictures! Well, well, that was very interesting, that was, and she hoped mademoiselle would come again and next time perhaps take a little of the gateau de la mais on which was highly thought of in Gaillard.

I had wandered through the market and had seen the glances in my direction; I had visited the ancient hotel de ville and the church.

So the prospect of going farther afield was pleasant and I was particularly pleased that I was expected at the stables.

A suitable mount was found for me named Bonhomme and we approved of each other from the beginning.

I was surprised and pleased when Genevieve asked me if she could accompany me one morning. She was in one of her demure moods and as we rode I asked her why she had been so foolish as to shut me in the oubliette.

“Well, you weren’t afraid, so you said, and I didn’t think it would hurt you.”

“It was a stupid thing to do. Suppose Nounou hadn’t found out!”

“I should have rescued you after a while.”

“After a while! Do you know some people might have died of fright?”

“Died!” she said fearfully.

“No one dies of being shut up.”

“Some nervous people might have died of fright.”

“But you never would.” She regarded me intently.

“You didn’t tell my father. I thought you might… as you and he are so friendly.”

She rode on a little way in advance, and when we returned to the stables she said casually: “I’m not allowed to ride alone. I always have to take one of the grooms with me. There was no one to ride with me this morning, so I shouldn’t have had a ride if you hadn’t come with me.”

“I’m glad to have been of service,” I replied coolly.

I met Philippe when I was in the gardens and I fancied he knew I was there and had come out purposely to talk to me.

“Congratulations,” he said.

“I’ve been looking at the picture. The difference is remarkable. It’s hardly recognizable.”

I glowed with pleasure. How different, I thought, from the Comte. He is genuinely pleased.

“I’m so glad you think so.”

“Who could help thinking so! It’s miraculous. I’m delighted not only that the picture is a success but that you’ve proved you could do it.”

“How kind of you!”

“I’m afraid I was rather ungracious when you arrived. I was so taken by surprise and not sure what would be expected of me.”

“You were not ungracious, and I can well understand your surprise.”

“You see, this was my cousin’s affair, and naturally I wanted to do what he would wish.”

“Naturally. And it is good of you to take such an interest.”

He wrinkled his brow.

“I feel a kind of responsibility …” he began.

“I hope that you will not regret coming here.”

“Indeed no. The work is proving to be most interesting.”

“Oh, yes … yes … the work.”

He began to speak rather hurriedly of the gardens and insisted on showing me the sculptured decorations which had been done by Le Brun soon after he had completed the frescoes in the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles.

“Fortunately they escaped at the time of the Revolution,” he explained; and I sensed his reverence for everything connected with the chateau. I liked him for it also for his gracious apology for anything he might have said to hurt me during our first interview and his obvious pleasure in the fact that I had succeeded.

My days had formed themselves into a pattern. I was in the gallery early and worked steadily all through the morning. After lunch I usually went out, returning before dusk, which at this time of the year was soon after four o’clock. Then I would occupy myself with mixing solutions or reading notes of past experiments which filled my time until after dinner. Sometimes I took this alone in my room, but on several occasions Mademoiselle Dubois had asked me to dine in her room. I could not refuse these invitations although I wanted to; I listened to her life history: how she was the daughter of a lawyer, brought up not to work, how her father had been let down through a partner, how he had died of a broken heart and how she, being penniless, had been obliged to become a governess. Told in her self-pitying way the story seemed incredibly dull and I made up my mind not to inflict boredom on her by telling her my own.

After dinner I would read one of the books I had found in the library, for Philippe had told me that the Comte would be pleased if I made use of anything I wanted there.

As the days passed through that November, I was on the periphery of the chateau life, aware of it yet not aware of it, just as I heard the music in my room-conscious of it, yet only now and then did I know what was being ;| played. | One day when I had left the chateau on Bonhomme I I met Jean Pierre on horseback. He greeted me with | customary gaiety and asked whether I was going to call on his family.

I told him I was.

“Ride with me first over to the St. Vallient vineyards and then we will go back together.”

I had never been St. Vallient way and agreed. I always enjoyed his company and the Bastide household never seemed the same without him.

He had a vitality and gaiety which appealed to me.

We talked of Christmas, which would soon be with us.

“You will spend the day with us, mademoiselle?” he asked.

“Is that a formal invitation?”

“You know that I am never formal. It is just a heartfelt wish on behalf of the family that you will honour us.”

I remarked that I should be delighted and it was good of them to want me.

“The motives are entirely selfish, mademoiselle.” With one of those quick gestures which were characteristic of him he leaned towards me and touched my arm. I met his warm glance unwaveringly, telling myself that his manner of making me feel I was important to him was merely the natural courtesy Frenchmen showed automatically towards all women.

“I shall tell you nothing of our Christmas celebrations now,” he said.

“It must all be a surprise to you.”

When we reached the St. Vallient vineyards I was introduced to Monsieur Durand, who was in charge of them. His wife brought out wine and little cakes, which were delicious, and Jean Pierre and Monsieur Durand discussed the quality of the wine. Then Monsieur Durand took Jean Pierre off to talk business while his wife was left to look after me.

She knew a great deal about me, for clearly the affairs of the chateau were the pivot round which gossip revolved. What did I think of the chateau, the Comte? I gave guarded answers and she evidently thought she would glean little from me so she talked of her own affairs, how anxious she was on Monsieur Durand’s behalf because he was too old to continue with his work.

“The anxieties! Each year it is the same, and since the big trouble ten years ago, it has not been good here at St. Vallient. Monsieur Jean Pierre is a wizard. The chateau wine is becoming as good as it ever was. I trust soon that Monsieur Ie Comte will allow my husband to retire.”

“Must he await permission from Monsieur Ie Comte?”

“Indeed yes, mademoiselle. Monsieur Ie Comte will give him his cottage. How I long for that day! I will keep a few chickens and a cow … perhaps two; and that will be the best for my husband. It is too much for an old man. How can he, when he is no longer young, fight all the hazards? Who but the good God can say when the frost is coming to destroy the vines? And when the summers are too humid there are always the pests. The spring frosts are the worst, though. The day will be fine and then the frost comes like a thief in the night to rob us of our grapes. And if there is not enough sun then the grapes are sour.

It is a life for a young man . such as Monsieur Jean Pierre. “

“I hope then that you will soon be allowed to retire.”

“It is all in the hands of God, mademoiselle.”

“Or, perhaps,” I suggested, “Monsieur Ie Comte.” She lifted her hands as though to say that was the same thing.

After a while Jean Pierre returned and we left St. Vallient. We talked of the Durands and he said that the poor old man had had his day and it was time he retired.

“I was hearing how he had to wait for the Comte’s decision.”

“Oh yes,” replied Jean Pierre.

“Everything here depends on him.”

“You resent it?”

“The days of despotic rulers are supposed to have ended.”

“You could always break away. He could not prevent you.”

“Leave our home?”

“If you hate him so much …”

“Did I give that impression?”

“When you speak of him, your voice hardens and there is a look in your eyes …”

“It is nothing. I am a proud man, perhaps too proud. This place is my home as much as his. My family has been here through centuries just as his has. The only difference is that his lived in the chateau. But we were all brought up in the shadows of the chateau, and this is our home just as it is his.”

“I understand that.”

“If I do not like the Comte I am merely in the fashion. What does he care for this place? He is hardly ever here. He prefers his mansion in Paris. He does not deign to notice us. We are not worthy of his attention. But I would never let him drive me from my home. I work for him because I must and I try not to see him or think of him. You will feel the same. I expect you already do.”

He began to sing suddenly; he had a pleasant tenor voice which vibrated with emotion.

“Qui sont-ils, les gens qui sont riches? Sont-ils plus que moi quin’ ai rien? Je cours, je was, je vir, je vi ens

Je n’ai pas peur de perd’ ma fortune. ]e cours, je was, je vir, je vi ens Pas peur de perdre mon bien. “

He finished and smiled at me, waiting for my comments.

“I like that,” I said.

“I am so pleased; so do I.”

He was looking at me so intently that I lightly touched my horse’s flank. Bonhomme broke into a gallop. Jean

Pierre was close behind me; and so we returned to Gaillard.

As we passed the vineyard I saw the Comte. He could only have come from the vineyard buildings. He inclined his head in greeting when he saw us.

“You wished to see me, Monsieur Ie Comte?” asked Jean Pierre.

“Another time will do,” answered the Comte, and rode on.

“Should you have been there when he called?” I asked.

“No. He knew I was going to St. Vallient. It was on his instructions that I went.”

He was puzzled, but as we passed the buildings on the way to the Bastide house Gabrielle came out. Her cheeks were flushed and she looked very pretty.

“Gabrielle,” called Jean Pierre.

“Here is Mademoiselle Lawson.”

She smiled at me rather absently, I thought.

“The Comte called, I see,” said Jean Pierre. His manner had changed also.

“What did he want?”

“To look at some figures … that was all. He will call another time to see you.”

Jean Pierre wrinkled his brows and he kept looking at his sister.

Madame Bastide welcomed me as warmly as ever, but I noticed all the time I was there how absentminded Gabrielle was and that even Jean Pierre was subdued.

While I was working in the gallery next morning the Comte looked in.

“And how is the work progressing?” he asked.

“Satisfactorily, I think,” I answered.

He looked quizzically at the picture on which I was working. I pointed out the surface coating, which was brittle and discoloured, and said that I had come to the conclusion that the varnish was responsible for the buckling of the paint.

“I’m sure you’re right,” he said lightly.

“I am glad too that you don’t spend all your time working.”

I thought he was referring to the fact that he had seen me riding on the previous day when I might have been working in the gallery and I retorted hotly: “My father always said that it was not wise to work after luncheon. The work demands great concentration, and after having worked all the morning one is possibly not as alert as one should be.”

“You looked surprisingly alert when we met yesterday.”

“Alert?” I repeated the word foolishly.

“At least,” he went on, ‘as though the amenities we have to offer are as interesting outside the chateau as in. “

“You mean the horse? You did say I might ride if I had the opportunity.”

“I am delighted that you are able to find opportunities … and friends with whom to share them.”

I was startled. Surely he could not object to my being friendly with Jean Pierre.

“It is kind of you to take an interest in how I spend my leisure time.”

“Well, you know I happen to have a great regard for … my pictures.”

We walked round the gallery studying them, but I fancied he was not doing so with real attention; and I believed he was critical of my riding not with Jean Pierre, but riding when I might have been working. The idea made me indignant. I had quoted an estimate for the work, but of course if I completed it quickly I would cease to live at the chateau and so cease to be a burden on the household.

I blurted out: “If you are not satisfied with the speed at which I am working …”

He spun round as though delighted and smiled at me across the distance which separated us.

“What gave you such an idea. Mademoiselle Lawson?”

“I thought… I imagined …”

His head was slightly on one side. He was discovering traits in my character of which I myself had not been aware. He was saying: See how quickly you take offence! Why? Because you feel yourself to be vulnerable . very vulnerable?

Then,” I went on lamely, ‘you are satisfied with what I am doing?”

“Immensely so, Mademoiselle Lawson.”

I turned back to my work and he continued to walk round the gallery. I was not looking when he went out and shut the door quietly behind him.

I could not work comfortably for the rest of that morning.

Genevieve came running after me when I was on my way to the stables.

“Mademoiselle, will you ride over to Carrefour with me?”

“Carrefour?”

“My grandfather’s house. If you won’t come I shall have to take one of the grooms. I’m going to see my grandfather. I’m sure he’d like to meet you.”

If I had been inclined to refuse such an ungracious invitation the mention of her grandfather decided me.

Through Nounou’s conversation and the little notebooks which Fran9oise had written I had a clear picture of a neat little girl with her innocent secrets and her charming ways. Now the opportunity to meet the little girl’s father and to see the house which formed a background to the life portrayed in those notebooks was irresistible.

Genevieve sat her horse with the ease of one who had been in the saddle from early childhood. Occasionally she pointed out landmarks to me and at one spot pulled up so that we could look back at the chateau.

It was an impressive sight seen from this distance; here one could get a better conception of the symmetry of those ancient embattled walls, the massive buttresses, the cylindrical towers and the sharp conical points which rose from the roofs. There it stood in the midst of the vineyards; I could see the church spire and the hotel de ville standing guard over the houses of the little town.

“You like it?” asked Genevieve.

“I think it’s a lovely sight.”

“It all belongs to Papa but it never will to me. I should have been a son. Then Papa would have been pleased with me.”

“If you are good and well-mannered he will be pleased with you,” I replied sententiously.

She looked at me with the scorn I felt I deserved.

“Really, mademoiselle, you do talk just like a governess. They always say things they don’t mean. They tell you you should do this … but they don’t always do it themselves.” She looked at me sideways, laughing to herself.

“Oh, I don’t mean Esquilles. She should never do anything. But there are some …”

I remembered suddenly the governess whom she had shut in the oubliette and I did not pursue the conversation.

She touched her horse’s flanks and galloped ahead of me, a charming picture with her hair flying out from under her riding hat. I came up beside her.

“If Papa had had a son we need not have Cousin Philippe here. That would have been pleasant.”

“I am sure he is always kind to you.”

She gave me a sidelong glance.

“At one time I was going to marry him.”

“Oh … I see. And not now.”

She shook her head.

“I don’t care. You don’t imagine I should want to marry Philippe, do you?”

“He is considerably older than you.”

“Fourteen years…. just double.”

“But I suppose as you grew older the disparity would not seem so great.”

“Well, Papa decided against it. Tell me, why do you think he did that, mademoiselle? You know so much.”

“I assure you I know nothing of your father’s intentions. I know nothing of your father …” I was surprised at the heat in which I had spoken, for it was quite uncalled for.

“So you don’t know everything! I’ll tell you something. Philippe was very angry when he knew Papa wouldn’t let him marry me.”

She tossed her head and smiled complacently so I retorted: “Perhaps he does not know you very well.”

That made her laugh.

“It’s nothing to do with me really,” she admitted.

“It’s being Papa’s daughter. No, when my mother was … when my mother died, Papa changed his mind. He changed a great deal then. I think he wanted to insult Philippe.”

“Why should he want to insult Philippe?”

“Oh … just because it amuses him. He hates people.”

“I am sure that is not the truth. People don’t hate indiscriminately without reason.”

“My father is not like ordinary people.” She spoke almost proudly her voice unconsciously vibrating with hatred, a queer inverted hatred which was touched with respect.

“We are all different,” I said quickly.

Her laughter was high-pitched and I noticed that it took on this quality when she talked of her father.

“He hates me,” she went on.

“I am like my mother, you see. Nounou says I grow more like her every day. I remind him of her.”

“You have listened to too much gossip.”

“Perhaps you haven’t listened to enough.”

“Listening to gossip is not a very admirable way of spending the time.”

That made her laugh again.

“All I can say, miss, is that you don’t always spend your time admirably.”

I felt myself flush with that annoyance which a home truth inspires.

She pointed at me.

“You love to gossip, miss. Never mind. I like you for it. I couldn’t bear you if you were as good and proper as you make out to be.”

“Why don’t you speak to your father naturally not as though you’re afraid of him?” I said.

“But everybody’s afraid of him.”

“I am not.”

“Really, miss?”

“Why should I be? If he doesn’t like my work he can say so and I should go away and never see him again.”

“Yes, it might be easy for you. My mother was afraid of him … terribly afraid of him.”

“Did she tell you so?”

“Not in words, but I knew. And you know what happened to her.”

I said: “Isn’t it time we went on? We shan’t be back before dark if we dally like this.”

She looked at me pleadingly for a moment and then said: “Yes, but do you think when people die … not like ordinary people die but when they are … Do you think that some people don’t rest in their graves?

Do you think they come back looking for . “

I said sharply: “Genevieve, what are you saying?”

“Miss,” she said, and it was like a cry for help, ‘sometimes at night I wake up startled and I think I hear noises in the chateau. “

“My dear Genevieve, everyone awakes startled now and then. It’s usually a bad dream.”

“Footsteps … tapping … I hear it. I do. I do. And I lie there shivering … expecting to see …”

“Your mother?”

This girl was frightened; she was stretching out to me for help. It was no use telling her she was speaking nonsense, that there were no ghosts. That would not help her at all because she would think it was merely grownup talk to soothe the children.

I said: “Listen, Genevieve, suppose there are ghosts, suppose your mother did come back?”

She nodded, her eyes enormous with interest.

“She loved you, didn’t she?”

I saw her hands tighten on the reins.

“Oh, yes, she loved me … no one loved me like she did.”

“She would never have hurt you, would she? Do you think that now she is dead she would have changed towards you?”

I saw the relaxed expression; I was pleased with myself. I had found the comfort she so desperately needed.

I went on: “When you were a child she looked after you:

if she saw you about to fall she would rush to pick you up, wouldn’t she? ” She nodded.

“Why should she change towards you because she is dead? I think what you hear is creaking boards in a very old house, the rattle of doors, windows … anything like that. There could be mice … But just suppose there are ghosts. Don’t you think your mother would be there to protect you from harm?”

“Yes,” she said, her eyes shining.

“Yes, she would. She loved me.”

“Remembef that if you awake startled in the night.”

“Oh, yes,” she said.

“I will.”

I was pleased, and felt that to continue the conversation might spoil the effect I had made so I moved on and in a short while we were cantering side by side.

We did not speak again until we reached Maison Carrefour.

It was an old house standing back from the crossroads. A thick stone wall surrounded it, but the elaborately-wrought iron gates were open.

We went through these gates and under a wide archway and were in an inner courtyard. There were green shutters at the windows, and I was immediately conscious of a deep silence. I had imagined the home of the bright little girl who had recorded her daily life in her notebooks to be different from this.

Genevieve glanced at me quickly to guess my reactions, but I hoped I betrayed nothing.

We left our horses in the stables and Genevieve led me to a door.

She lifted the heavy knocker and I heard the sound reverberating through the lower part of the house. There was silence; then came the shuffle of footsteps, and a manservant appeared.

“Good day, Maurice,” said Genevieve.

“Mademoiselle Lawson has come with me today.”

The courtesies exchanged, we were in the hall, the floor of which was covered with mosaic tiles.

“How is my grandfather today, Maurice?” asked Genevieve.

“Much the same, mademoiselle. I will see if he is ready.”

The manservant disappeared for a few moments before he came back to the hall and said that his master would see us now.

There was no fire in the room and the chill struck me as I entered. At one time it must have been beautiful, for it was perfectly proportioned. The ceiling was carved and there was an inscription on it which I couldn’t see clearly except that it was in medieval French; the closed shutters kept out all but the minimum of light and the room was austerely furnished. In a wheelchair sat an old man. He startled me for he was more like a corpse than a living human being; his eyes were sunken in his cadaverous face and were too brilliant. In his hands he held a book which he had closed as we entered. He was wearing a brown dressing-gown tied with a brown cord.

“Grandfather,” said Genevieve, “I have come to see you.”

“My child,” he answered in a surprisingly firm voice, and held out a thin white hand on which blue veins stood out.

“And,” went on Genevieve, “I have brought Mademoiselle Lawson who has come from England and is cleaning my father’s pictures.”

The eyes which were all that seemed alive about him were trying to probe my mind.

“Mademoiselle Lawson, you will forgive my not rising. I can do so only with great difficulty and the help of my servants. I am pleased you have come with my grand daughter. Genevieve, bring a chair for Mademoiselle Lawson … and for yourself.”

“Yes, Grandfather.”

We sat before him. He was charmingly courteous; he asked me about my work, expressed great interest and said that Genevieve must show me his collection. Some of it might be in need of restoration. The thought of living, even temporarily, in such a house as this, depressed me. For all its mystery the chateau was alive. Alive! That was it. This was like a house of the dead.

Now and then he addressed Genevieve and I noticed how his eyes rested on her. He had given me his polite attention but the intentness of his scrutiny of her surprised me. He cares deeply for her, I thought. Why should she think herself unloved for I had come to the conclusion that this was one of the main reasons for her bad behaviour when she had such a doting grandparent.

He wanted to hear what she was doing, how she was progressing with her lessons. I was surprised that he spoke of Mademoiselle Dubois as though he knew her intimately while I had gathered from Genevieve that he had never actually met her. Nounou he knew well, of course, for she had once been part of his household, and he spoke of her as though she were an old friend.

“How is Nounou, Genevieve? I trust you are kind to her. Remember she is a good soul. Simple, perhaps, but she does her best. She always did. And she is good to you. Always remember that and treat her kindly, Genevieve.”

“Yes, Grandfather.”

“I hope you don’t grow impatient with her.”

“Not often. Grandfather.”

“Sometimes?” He was alert, uneasy.

“Well, only a little. I just say: ” You are a silly old ‘oman”.”

“That’s unkind. Did you pray afterwards to the saints for forgiveness?”

“Yes, Grandfather.”

“It is no use asking for forgiveness if you commit the same sin immediately afterwards. Guard your temper, Genevieve. And if you are ever tempted to do foolish things remember the pain that causes.”

I wondered how much he knew of the wildness of his granddaughter and whether Nounou paid him visits and told him. Did he know that she had shut me in the oubliette^ He sent for wine and the biscuits which were usually served with it.

These were brought by an old woman whom I guessed to be one of the Labisses. She wore a white cap on her grey hair, and somewhat morosely set down the wine without a word. Genevieve murmured a greeting and the woman bobbed a curtsy and went out.

While we were drinking the wine the old man said: “I had heard that the pictures were to be restored but I did not expect a lady to do them.”

I explained about my father’s death and that I was completing his commitments.

“There was a little consternation at first,” I said, ‘but the Comte seems pleased with my work. “

I saw his lips tighten and his hand clench on the rug.

“So … he is pleased with you.” His voice and his whole expression changed. I saw that Genevieve was sitting on the edge of her chair nervously watching her grandfather.

“At least he implies that he is, by allowing me to continue with the pictures,” I said.

“I hope,” he began, and his voice sank and I did not catch the rest of the sentence.

“I beg your pardon.”

He shook his head. The mention of the Comte’s name had evidently upset him. So here was another who hated that man. What was it in him that inspired such fear and such hatred? Conversation became uneasy after that and Genevieve, seeking to escape, asked if she might show me the grounds.

We left the main hall and went through several passages until we came to a stone-floored kitchen; she took me through this to a garden.

“Your grandfather is pleased to see you,” I commented.

“I believe he would like you to come often to see him.”

“He doesn’t notice. He forgets. He is very old and hasn’t been the same since … his stroke. His mind isn’t clear.”

“Does your father know you come?”

“He doesn’t ask.”

“You mean he never comes here?”

“He hasn’t been since my mother died. Grandfather wouldn’t want him, would he? Can you imagine my father here?”

“No,” I answered truthfully.

I looked back at the house and saw the curtains in an upper room move.

We were being watched. Genevieve followed my gaze.

“That’s Madame Labisse. She’s wondering who you are. She doesn’t like it the way it is now; she would like to go back to the old days. Then she was parlour maid and Labisse was footman. I don’t know what they are now.

They wouldn’t stay except for the fact that Grandfather has left them a legacy provided they’re in his service when he dies. “

“It’s a strange household,” I said.

“That’s because Grandfather is only half-alive. He has been like it for three years. The doctor says he cannot live for many more years so I suppose the Labisses think it worthwhile.”

Three years, I thought. That was the time of Francoise’s death. Was he so affected that he had had a stroke? If he loved her as he obviously did his granddaughter, I could understand it.

“I know what you’re thinking,” cried Genevieve.

“You’re thinking that that was the time my mother died. Grandfather had his stroke a week before she died. Wasn’t it strange … everyone was expecting him to die, but she was the one.”

How strange! She had died of an overdose of laudanum a week after her father had a stroke. Had it affected her so much that she had taken her life?

Genevieve had turned back to the house and I walked silently beside her. There was a door in the wall and she quickly passed through it holding it for me to do the same. We were in a small cobbled courtyard; it was very quiet here. Genevieve walked across the cobbles and I followed, feeling as though I were joining in a conspiracy.

We were standing in a dark lobby.

“Where is this?” I asked, but she put a hand to her lips.

“I want to show you something.”

She crossed the lobby and led the way to a door which she pushed open.

It was a room bare of everything but a pallet bed and a priedieu and a wooden chest. The floor was of stone flags and there were no rugs or carpets.

“Grandfather’s favourite room,” she said.

“It’s like a monk’s cell,” I said.

She nodded delightedly. She looked about her furtively and opened the chest.

“Genevieve,” I said, ‘you have no right. “

But curiosity would not let me resist looking at what lay there. I thought in astonishment, it’s a hair shirt. There was something else that made me shudder. A whip!

Genevieve let the lid of the chest fall.

“What do you think of this house, mademoiselle?” she asked.

“It is as interesting as the chateau, don’t you think?”

“It is time we left,” I said.

“We must say goodbye to your grandfather.”

She was silent all the way home. As for myself I could not get that strange house out of my thoughts. It was like something that clings to the memory after a nightmare.

The guests who had been staying at the castle left and I was immediately aware of the change. I became less aloof from the life of the place. For instance when I was leaving the gallery one morning I came face to face with the Comte.

He said: “Now that all the visitors have gone, you should dine with us now and then, Mademoiselle Lawson. En famille, you understand? I am sure you could enlighten us all on your favourite subject. Would you care to do so?”

I replied that it would be a pleasure.

“Well, join us tonight,” he said.

I felt elated as I went to my room. My encounters with him were always stimulating although often they left me tingling with rage. I took my black velvet dress and laid it on my bed, and while I was doing this there was a knock on my door and Genevieve came in.

“Are you going out to dinner tonight?” she asked.

“No, I’m dining with you.”

“You look pleased. Did Papa ask you?”

“It is a pleasure to receive an invitation when they are rather rare.”

She stroked the velvet thoughtfully.

“I like velvet,” she said.

“I was just going to the gallery,” I told her.

“Did you want to see me about something?”

“No, I only wanted to see you.”

“You can come to the gallery with me.”

“No, I don’t want to.”

I went alone to the gallery and was there until it was time to change for dinner. I sent for hot water and washed in the ruelle in an absurd but happy state of expectation. But when I came to put on my dress I stared at it in horror. I could not believe what I saw. When I had laid it out it had been ready to slip on; now the skirt hung in jagged and uneven strips. Someone had ripped it from waist to hem; the bodice, too, had been slashed across.

I picked it up and stared at it in bewilderment and dismay.

“It’s not possible,” I said aloud. Then I went to the bell rope and pulled.

Josette came hurrying to me.

“Why, mademoiselle …”

As I held out the dress to her she clapped her hands over her mouth to stop the exclamation.

“What does it mean?” I demanded.

“Oh … but it’s wicked. Oh, but whyY ” I can’t understand it,” I began.

“I didn’t do it, mademoiselle. I swear I didn’t do it. I only came to bring the hot water. It must have been done then.”

“I didn’t think for a moment that you did it, Josette. But I’m going to find out who did.”

She ran out crying almost hysterically.

“I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it. I won’t be blamed.”

And I stood in my room staring at the ruined dress. Then I went to my wardrobe and took out the grey with the lavender stripe. I had only just hooked it up when Josette appeared dramatically waving a pair of scissors.

“I knew who’d done it,” she announced.

“I went to the schoolroom and found these … just where she’d laid them down. Look, mademoiselle, pieces of velvet are still in them. See these little bits. They’re velvet.”

I knew, as I had known almost as soon as I had seen the ruined dress.

Genevieve. But why had she done this?

Did she hate me so much?

I went along to Genevieve’s room. She was sitting on her bed staring blankly before her while Nounou was pacing up and down crying.

“Why did you do it?” I asked.

“Because I wanted to.”

Nounou stood still staring at us.

“You behave like a baby. You don’t think before you act, do you?”

“Yes, I do. I thought I’d like to do it, so when you went to the gallery, I went for my scissors.”

“And now you’re sorry?”

“I’m not.”

“I am. I haven’t many dresses.”

“You might wear it all cut up. It might be becoming. I’m sure some people would think so.” She began to laugh helplessly and I could see that she was near to tears.

“Stop it,” I commanded.

“It’s a foolish way to behave.”

“It’s the way to cut up a dress. Whish! You should have heard the scissors. It was lovely.” She went on laughing and Nounou put a hand to her shoulder only to have it shaken off.

I left them; it was useless to try to reason with her while she was in that mood.

The dinner to which I had looked forward was an uncomfortable meal. I was conscious all the time of Genevieve, who had appeared, sullen and silent. She was watching me furtively all through the meal, waiting, I knew, for me to betray her to her father.

I talked a little, mostly about the pictures and the chateau, but I felt I was being rather dull and disappointing to the Comte, who had wanted perhaps to provoke spirited answers to his teasing manner.

I was glad to escape to my room, which I did immediately the meal was over. I was turning over in my mind what I should do. I should have to reason with Genevieve; I should have to explain to her that she could not find lasting pleasure in behaving as she did.

It was while I was meditating about this that Mademoiselle Dubois came to my room.

“I must talk to you,” she said.

“What a commotion!”

“You’ve heard about my dress?”

“The whole household knows of it. Josette went to the sommelier and he went to the Comte. Mademoiselle Genevieve has played too many tricks.”

“And so … he knows.”

She regarded me slyly.

“Yes … he knows.”

“And Genevieve?”

“She’s in her room cowering behind the skirts of Nounou. She’ll be punished and she deserves it.”

“I can’t think why she takes a delight in doing such things.”

“Mischief! Malice! She’s jealous of your being asked to dine with the family and the Comte taking such an interest.”

“Naturally he would be interested in his pictures.”

She tittered.

“I’ve always been careful. Of course when I came here I had no idea what sort of place it was. A Comte … a chateau … it sounds wonderful. But when I heard those terrible stories, I was quite terrified. I was ready to pack my bags and go. But I decided to give it a chance, though I saw how dangerous it was. A man like the Comte, for instance …”

“I should not think you would be in any danger from him.”

“A man whose wife died like that! You are rather innocent, Mademoiselle Lawson. As a matter of fact I had to leave my last post because of the unwelcome attentions of the master of the house.”

She had grown quite pink with, I told myself cynically, the exertion of imagining herself desirable. I am sure all the near-seductions she talked of had only taken place in her imagination.

“How awkward for you,” I said.

“When I came here I knew I had to take special care in view of the Comte’s reputation. There will always be scandal surrounding him.”

“There will always be scandal when there are those to make it,” I put in.

I disliked her for so many things; for her enjoyment of others’ discomfort, for her stupid simpering suggestions that she was a femme fatale; and irrationally, for her long nose, which made her look like a shrew-mouse. Poor woman, as if she could help her appearance! But the meanness of her soul was in her face that night and I disliked her. I told myself I hated those who stood in judgment on others.

I was glad when she had gone. My thoughts were occupied by Genevieve.

Our relationship had suffered a big setback and I was disappointed.

The loss of my dress troubled me little compared with the absence of the confidence I had felt I was beginning to inspire. And oddly enough, in spite of what she had done, I felt a new tenderness towards her. Poor child! She was in need of care; and she was groping blindly, trying to call attention to herself, I was sure. I wanted to understand her; I wanted to help her. It occurred to me that she received very little help and understanding in this house despised and rejected by her father, spoiled by her nurse. Something should be done, I was sure. It was not often that I acted on impulse but I did then.

I went to the library and knocked at the door. There was no answer so I went in and pulled the bell-rope. When one of the menservants appeared, I asked if he would take a message to the Comte as I wished to speak to him.

Only when I saw the surprise in the man’s face was I aware of the

greatness of my temerity, but I still felt that the need to act was so urgent that I didn’t care. On reflection I expected him to return and say that the Comte was too busy to see me and perhaps a meeting could be arranged the next day, but to my surprise when the door opened it was to admit the Comte.

“Mademoiselle Lawson, you sent for me?”

I flushed at the irony.

“I wished to speak to you, Monsieur Ie Comte.”

He frowned.

“This disgraceful affair of the dress. I must apologize for my daughter’s behaviour.”

“I had not come for an apology.”

“You are very forgiving.”

“Oh, I was angry when I saw the dress.”

“Naturally. You will be recompensed and Genevieve shall make you an apology.”

“That is not what I want.”

The puzzled expression on his face might have been feigned. He gave the impression, as he so often did, of knowing exactly what was going on in my mind.

“Then perhaps you will tell me why you … summoned me here?”

“I did not summon you. I asked if you would see me here.”

“Well, I am here. You were very quiet during dinner. It was no doubt due to this foolish affair, and you were being discreet, displaying national sang-fro id and hiding the indignation you felt towards my daughter. But now the secret is out and you no longer have any need to fear you are telling tales. And so … you have something to say to me.”

“I wanted to talk about Genevieve. Perhaps it is presumptuous of me . ” I paused for reassurance that this was not so, but it did not come.

“Please go on,” was all he said.

“I am concerned about her.”

He signed for me to be seated and sat opposite me. As he opened his eyes wider and sat back in his chair folding his hands with the carved jade signet ring on his little finger, I could believe all the rumours I had heard of him. The aquiline nose, the proud set of the head on the shoulders, the enigmatic mouth, and the eyes whose expression was unfathomable, belonged to a man who was born to rule; a man who believed in his divine right to have his own way and found it natural to remove anything or anyone who stood in his path.

“Yes, Monsieur Ie Comte,” I went on, “I am concerned for your daughter. Why do you think she did this?”

“She will no doubt explain.”

“How can she? She doesn’t even know herself. She has suffered a terrible ordeal.”

Was it my imagination or did he seem to grow a little more alert?

“What ordeal was this?” he asked.

“I mean … the death of her mother.”

His gaze met mine, steady, implacable, arrogant.

“That was several years ago.”

“But she found her mother dead.”

“I see that you have been well informed of the family’s history.”

I stood up suddenly. I took a step towards him. He immediately rose although I was tall he was considerably taller than I and looked down at me. I tried to read the expression in those deeply set eyes.

“She is lonely,” I said.

“Don’t you see? Please don’t be harsh with her. If you would only be kind to her… if only …”

He was no longer looking at me; a faintly bored expression had come into his face.

“Why, Mademoiselle Lawson,” he said, “I thought you had come here to restore our pictures, not ourselves.”

I felt defeated.

I said: “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come. I should have known it was useless.”

He led the way to the door; he opened it and bowed his head slightly as I went through.

I went back to my room wondering what I had done.

The next morning I went to the gallery to work as usual, expecting a summons from the Comte because I was certain that he would not allow such interference to pass. I had wakened often during the night to recall that scene, exaggerating it to such an extent that it was as though the devil himself had sat opposite me in that chair watching me through heavy-lidded eyes.

Lunch was brought up as usual. While I was eating it, Nounou came up.

She looked very old and tired and I guessed she had scarcely slept all night.

“Monsieur Ie Comte has been in the schoolroom all the morning,” she burst out.

“I can’t think what it means. He has been looking at all the exercise books and asking questions. Poor Genevieve is almost hysterical with fright.” She looked at me fearfully and added: “It’s so unlike him. But he has asked this, that and the other and he says he thinks she is quite ignorant. Poor Mademoiselle Dubois is almost in a state of collapse.”

“No doubt he feels it is time he took some notice of his daughter.”

“I don’t know what it means, miss. I wish I did.”

I went for a walk, taking a road which neither passed the Bastides’ house nor led into the town. I did not want to meet anyone; I merely wanted to be alone to think about Genevieve and her father.

When I returned to the chateau it was to find Nounou in my room waiting for me.

“Mademoiselle Dubois has gone,” she announced.

“What?” I cried.

“Monsieur Ie Comte just gave her her salary in lieu of notice.”

I was shaken.

“Oh … poor woman! Where will she go? It seems so … ruthless.”

“The Comte makes up his mind quickly,” said Nounou, ‘and then he acts. ”

“I suppose there will be a new governess, now.”

“I do not know what will happen, miss.”

“And Genevieve, how is she?”

“She never had any respect for Mademoiselle Dubois … and to tell the truth nor did I. She is afraid, though.”

After Nounou had gone I sat in my room wondering what would happen next. And what of myself? He could not call me inefficient. The work on the pictures was progressing very satisfactorily; but people were dismissed for other failings. Insolence, for one thing. And I had dared summon him to his own library, to criticize his treatment of his daughter. Now that I came to consider it calmly I had to admit that it would be understandable if I received my orders to go. As for the pictures, he could find someone to continue with the work. I was by no means indispensable.

Then, of course, there was the affair of the dress. I had been the loser, but every time he saw me he would remember what his daughter had done and remember, more over, that I had had too close a glimpse into his family’s secrets.

Genevieve came to my room and uttered a sullen apology which I knew she did not mean. I was too depressed If to say much to her.

When I was hanging up my things for the night I looked for the dress, which I had thrown into the wardrobe. It was no longer there. I was surprised and wondered whether Genevieve had removed it, but I decided to say nothing about its disappearance.

I was working in the gallery when the summons came.

“Monsieur Ie Comte would like to see you in the library, Mademoiselle Lawson.”

“Very well,” I said.

“I will be there in a few moments.” I picked up the sable brush I had been using and studied it thoughtfully. It is my turn now, I thought.

The door shut and I gave myself a few seconds in which to compose myself. Whatever happened I should pretend indifference. At least he would not be able to say I was incompetent.

I braced myself to go to the library. I thrust my hands into the pockets of the brown linen coat I was wearing, for fear they might tremble and betray my agitation. I wished my heart would not beat so fast; it might be obvious. I was glad my thick matt skin did not flush easily; but I guessed my eyes would be brighter than usual.

Without any outward show of haste I went to the library. As I approached the door I touched my hair and was reminded that it was probably untidy as it often became when I was working. All to the good. I did not want him to think I had prepared myself for the interview.

I knocked at the door.

“Please come in.” His voice was soft, inviting, but I did not trust his gentleness.

“Ah, Mademoiselle Lawson.”

He was smiling at me, intently, mischievously. What sort of mood was this?

“Please sit down.”

He took me to a chair which faced the window, so that the light was full on my face, and seated himself in shadow. I felt it was an unfair advantage.

“When we last met you were kind enough to express an interest in my daughter,” he said.

“I am very interested in her.”

“So good of you, particularly as you came here to restore the pictures. One would imagine you had little time to spare for that which did not concern your work. “

Now it was coming. I was not progressing fast enough. I was not giving satisfaction. This afternoon I would be speeding on my way from the chateau just as yesterday poor Mademoiselle Dubois had gone.

A horrible depression came over me. I could not bear to go. I should be more wretched than I had ever been in my life. I should never forget the chateau. I should be tormented by memories all my life. I wanted so much to know the truth about the chateau . about the Comte himself whether he was such a monster as most people seemed to think him. Had he always been as he was now? If not, what had made him so?

Did he know what I was thinking? He had paused and was watching me intently.

“I don’t know what you will think of my proposition, Mademoiselle Lawson, but one thing I do know is that you will be absolutely frank.”

“I shall try to be.”

“My dear Mademoiselle Lawson, you do not have to try. You are so naturally. It is an admirable characteristic and may I say one which I greatly admire.”

“You are very kind. Please tell me of this… proposition.”

“I feel my daughter’s education has been neglected. Governesses are a problem. How many of them take the posts because they have a vocation?

Very few. Most take them because, having been brought up to do nothing, they suddenly find themselves in a position where they have to do something. It is not a good motive for undertaking this most important occupation. In your profession it is necessary to have a gift. You are an artist. “

“Oh, no … I would not claim …”

“An artist manquee,” he finished and I sensed his mockery.

“Perhaps,” I said coolly.

“You see how different from these poor dejected ladies who come to teach our children! I have decided to send my daughter to school. You were gracious enough to offer an opinion as to her well-being. Please give me that candid opinion on this.”

“I think it could be an excellent idea, but it would depend on the school.”

He waved his hand.

“This is no place for a highly-strung child. Do you agree? It is for antiquarians, those whose passion is architecture, paintings … and those who are imbued with the old traditions antiquated too, you might say.”

He had read my thoughts. He knew that I saw him as the autocrat, the upholder of the divine right of the nobility. He was telling me so.

I said: “I suppose you are right.”

“I know I am. I have chosen a school in England for Genevieve.”

“Oh!”

“You seem surprised. Surely you believe that the best schools are in England?”

Here was mockery again and I said rather too warmly:

“That could be possible.”

“Exactly. There she would not only learn to speak the language but to acquire that excellent sang-fro id with which you, mademoiselle, are so lavishly endowed.”

“Thank you. But she would be far from her home.”

“A home in which, as you pointed out to me, she is not particularly happy.”

“But she could be. She is capable of great affection.”

He changed the subject.

“You work during the mornings in the gallery, but not in the afternoons. I’m glad that you are making use of the stables.”

I thought: He has been watching me. He knows how I spend my time. I believe I knew what was coming. He was going to send me away as he had Mademoiselle Dubois. My impertinence was as distasteful to him as her imcompetence.

I wondered whether he had submitted her to an inter view like this. He was a man who liked to hunt his prey before the kill. I remembered that thought occurring to me once before in this library.

“Monsieur Ie Comte,” I said, ‘if you are not satisfied with the work I have done, please tell me. I will prepare to leave at once. “

“Mademoiselle Lawson, you are very hasty. I am pleased to discover at least this flaw in you, because it prevents you from being perfect.

Perfection is so dull. I did not say I was displeased with your work.

In fact I find your work excellent. Some time I shall come to you in the gallery and ask you to show me how you get such excellent results.

Let me tell you what I have in mind. If my daughter is to go to England she must have a good knowledge of the language. I do not propose that she shall go immediately. Perhaps not for another year.

In the meantime she will take lessons from the cure. He will be at least as good as the governess who has just left us. Indeed he must be, for he couldn’t be worse. But it is her English about which I am most concerned. Until the spring you will be in the gallery only during the mornings. That leaves you some free time. I was wondering whether you would undertake to teach Genevieve English when you are not engaged on the pictures. I am sure she would profit greatly from such an arrangement. “

I was so overcome by my emotion that I could not speak.

He went on quickly: “I do not mean that you would confine yourself to a schoolroom, but that you and she should ride together … walk together…. She knows the fundamentals of grammar. At least I hope so. It is practice in conversation that she needs, and of course to acquire a reasonably good accent. You understand what I mean?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“You would of course be reimbursed. That is a matter which you could discuss with my steward. Now what do you say?”

“I… I accept with pleasure.”

“That is excellent.” He stood up and was holding out his hand. I put mine in his. He gripped it firmly and shook it.

I was so happy. The thought occurred to me that I had rarely been as happy in my life.

It was a week later when, entering my bedroom, I found a large cardboard box on my bed. I thought there had been a mistake until I saw my name on it; and at the foot of the label was an address in Paris.

I opened the box.

Green velvet in a rich jewel colour. Emerald green velvet! I took it out of the box. It was an evening gown, simply cut, but exquisite.

Certainly there must be some mistake. All the same I held it against me and went to the mirror. My shining eyes reflected the colour so that they seemed to match the velvet. It was beautiful. Why had it come to me?

I laid it reverently on my bed and examined the box. There I found a parcel wrapped in tissue paper and when I unrolled this, there was my old black velvet. I understood, before I read the card which fell out.

I saw the crest which I had begun to know well and on the card was written: “I trust this will replace the one which was spoilt. If it is not what you need, we must try again. Lothair de la Talle.”

I went to the bed; I picked up the dress; I had it against me; I hugged it. In fact I behaved like a foolish girl. And all the time my other self, the one I was always trying to be, was saying: Ridiculous!

You can’t accept it. And the real Me, the one who only appeared now and then but i was there all the time lying in wait to betray me, was saying: It’s the most beautiful dress. Every time you put it on you will feel excited. Why, in such a dress you could be an attractive woman.

Then I laid the dress on the bed and said: “I shall go to him at once and tell him that I cannot dream of accepting it.”

I tried to compose my features into a severe mould, but I kept thinking of his coming into my room or sending someone to find the ruined black velvet, sending it to Paris with the order: “Make a gown to these measurements. Make the finest gown you have ever made.”

How stupid I was! What was happening to me?

I had better see him so that the dress could be sent back to Paris without delay.

I went down to the library. Perhaps he was expecting me, for he might be aware that the dress had arrived. As if he would care when the dress arrived. He had merely decided it should be given to me as recompense and then forgotten all about it.

He was there.

“I must speak with you,” I said, and as always, because I was embarrassed, I sounded arrogant. He noticed it, for a smile briefly touched his lips and the amused glint leaped into his eyes.

“Please sit down. Mademoiselle Lawson. You are agitated.”

I was immediately at a disadvantage because the last thing I wanted was to betray my feelings, which I did not entirely understand myself.

It was unlike me to be so excited about clothes.

“By no means,” I said.

“I have merely come to thank you for sending me the dress to replace mine and to tell you that I cannot accept it.”

“So it has arrived. Does it not fit, then?”

“I… cannot say. I have not tried it. There was no need for you to send for it.”

“Forgive my disagreement, but in my opinion there was every need.”

“But no. It was a very old dress. I had had it for years, and this one is er …”

“I see that you do not like it.”

“That is not the point at issue.” Again the severity in my voice made him smile.

“Really? What is the point at issue?”

“That I cannot dream of accepting the dress.”

“Why not?”

“Because it is not necessary.”

“Now come, Mademoiselle Lawson, be frank and say that you consider accepting a … garment from me is improper if that is what you mean.”

“I think no such thing. Why should I?”

Again he made that entirely French gesture which implied anything one wished it to.

“I do not know. I do not imagine for one moment that I could understand what goes on in your mind. I was merely trying to find some reason why having had an article ruined in this house you could not accept a replacement.”

“This is a dress.”

“Why should a dress be different from any other object?”

“This is purely a personal thing.”

“Ah! Purely personal! If I had destroyed one of your solutions would you not have allowed me to replace it? Or is it really because this is a dress … something you would wear … something intimate, shall we say?”

I could not look at him; there was a warmth in his expression which disturbed me.

I turned away from his gaze and said: “There was no need for the gown to be replaced. In any case the green velvet is far more valuable than the one for which it was meant to compensate me.”

“Value is difficult to assess. The black dress was clearly more valuable to you, since you were distressed to have lost it and are reluctant to accept this one.”

“I think you wilfully misunderstand.”

He came to me swiftly and laid a hand on my shoulder.

“Mademoiselle Lawson,” he said gently, ‘it will displease me if you refuse to accept this dress. Your own was destroyed by a member of my family and I wish to replace it. Will you please accept it? “

“Since you put it that way …”

His hand fell from my shoulder but he was still standing close. I felt uneasy yet indescribably happy.

“Then you will. You are very generous. Mademoiselle Lawson.”

“It is you who are generous. There was no need …”

“I repeat there was every need.”

‘... to replace it so extravagantly,” I finished.

He laughed suddenly and I realized I had never heard him laugh like that before. There was no bitterness, no mockery.

“I hope,” he said, ‘that one day I shall be allowed to see you wearing it. “

“I have very few occasions for wearing such a dress.”

“But since it is such an extravagant dress perhaps those occasions should be created.”

“I do not see how that can be,” I replied, my voice growing colder as my hidden emotions grew greater.

“I can only say it was unnecessary, but good of you. I will accept the dress and thank you for your generosity.”

I moved to the door but he was there before me, opening it, inclining his head so that I could not see his expression.

As I went up to my room my emotions were overwhelming If I had been wise I should have analysed them. I should have been wise, but of course I wasn’t.