The King of the Castle

Eight

The Comte was suffering from nothing more than concussion and bruises.

It was his horse that had been shot. The accident was discussed for days in the chateau, the vineyards and the town. There was an inquiry but the identity of the one who had fired the shot was not brought to light, for the bullet was one which could have come from a hundred guns in the neighbourhood. The Comte could remember little of the incident. He could only say that he had been riding in the copse, had ducked to pass under a tree and the next thing he knew was that he was being put on a stretcher. It was believed that ducking had probably saved his life for the bullet had richocheted, hit the branch of a tree and then struck the horse’s head. It had all happened in less than a second; the horse had fallen and the Comte had been thrown into unconsciousness.

I was happy during the days that followed. I knew it was an uneasy situation, but only one thing mattered: he was alive.

Because I had always been sensible, even during those days of exquisite relief I asked myself what the future held. What had happened to me that I had allowed a man to become so important to me?

He could hardly have a similar interest in me; and if he did his reputation was such that any sensible woman would avoid him. And had I not prided myself on being a sensible woman?

But there was nothing in my life in those days but blissful relief.

I walked down to the patisserie in the market square.

often went there during my afternoon walks and had a cup of coffee.

Madame Latiere, the proprietress, welcomed me, and plunged quickly into the topic of the day.

“A mercy, mademoiselle. I hear Monsieur Ie Comte is unharmed. His saint was watching over him that day.”

“Yes, he was fortunate.”

“A terrible thing, mademoiselle. Our woods aren’t safe, it seems. And they haven’t caught the one who did it.”

I shook my head.

“I’ve told Latiere not to ride through those woods. I shouldn’t like to see him on a stretcher. Though Latiere’s a good man, mademoiselle.

He hasn’t an enemy in the place. “

I stirred my coffee uneasily.

She flicked a serviette over the table absently.

“Ah, Monsieur Ie Comte. He is gal ant fort gal ant My grandfather often talked of the Comte of his day. No girl in the neighbourhood safe … but he always found a husband if there was trouble, and believe me, they didn’t suffer for it. We’ve a saying here that in Gaillard you often come across chateau features. Handed down through the generations. Oh, well, there’s human nature for you.”

“What a change in the vineyards in these last weeks,” I said.

“I’m told that if the weather stays warm and sunny this will be a good year.”

“A good harvest.” She laughed.

“That will make up to Monsieur Ie Comte for what has happened in the woods, eh?”

“I hope so.”

“Well, it’s a warning, would you not say so, mademoiselle? He’ll not ride in those woods for a while, I’ll swear.”

“Perhaps not,” I said uneasily, and finishing my coffee, rose to go.

“Au revoir, mademoiselle,” said Madame Latiere rather wistfully. I think she had hoped for more gossip.

I couldn’t resist going over to see Gabrielle the very next day. She had changed since I had last seen her; her manner was nervous, but when I complimented her on her new house, which was looking charming, she was pleased.

“It is more than I dared hope,” she said.

“And you are feeling well?”

“Yes, I have seen Mademoiselle Carre; she is the midwife, you know.

She is satisfied and now it is only a matter of waiting. Maman, Jacques’s mother, is always at hand and so good to me. “

“Do you want a girl or a boy?”

“A boy, I think. Everyone likes the first to be a boy.”

I pictured him playing in the garden a small sturdy little fellow.

Would he have chateau features?

“And Jacques?”

She blushed.

“Oh, he is happy, very happy.”

“How fortunate that… it all worked out so well.”

“Monsieur Ie Comte is very kind.”

“Everybody doesn’t think so. At least the one who took a shot at him didn’t.”

She clenched her hands together.

“You think it was deliberate. You don’t think …”

“He had a lucky escape. It must have been a shock to you when it happened … so near here.”

As soon as I had said that I was ashamed of myself, for I knew that if there could be any foundation for my suspicion about the Comte and Gabrielle I must be hurting her deeply; yet I had to know whether the Comte was the father of her child.

But she did not resent what I had said and that made me happy, for she did not seem to grasp the implication which, I was sure, had she been guilty she would immediately have done.

She said: “Yes, it was a great shock. Fortunately Jacques wasn’t far away and he got the man with the stretcher.”

Still, I had to pursue my investigation.

“Do you think the Comte has enemies about here?”

“Oh, it was an accident,” she said quickly.

“Well,” I added, ‘he wasn’t hurt much. “

“I’m so thankful.” There were tears in her eyes. I wondered whether they were tears of gratitude or something that went deeper.

A few days later I was walking in the garden when I came face to face with the Comte. I was in the middle terrace with its ornamental gardens and parterres separated from each other by boxwood hedges, and wandering into one of these I found him sitting on a stone bench overlooking a small lily pond in which the goldfish were visible.

The sun was hot in the enclosed garden and at first I thought he was asleep. I stood looking at the scene for a few seconds and then was about to go away when he called to me: “Mademoiselle Lawson.”

“I hope I am not disturbing you.”

“It’s the pleasantest of disturbances. Do come and sit down for a while.”

I went to the seat and sat beside him.

“I’ve never really thanked you for your prompt action in the woods.”

“I’m afraid I did nothing praiseworthy.”

“You acted with commendable promptitude.”

“I only did what anyone would in the circumstances. Are you feeling recovered now?”

“Absolutely. Apart from certain strained muscles. I am told that in a week or so all that will pass. In the meantime I hobble round with my stick.”

I looked at his hands with the jade signet ring on the little finger which curled about the ivory-topped walking stick. He wore no wedding ring as was the custom for men in France. I wondered whether he was just naturally flouting conventions or whether that was significant.

He glanced at me and said: “You look … so contented, Mademoiselle Lawson.”

I was startled. I wondered how much of my feelings I had divulged.

“This setting,” I said quickly.

“The warm sun… the flowers, the fountain… it’s all so beautiful. Who wouldn’t be contented in such a garden? What is the statue in the middle of the pond?”

“It’s Perseus rescuing Andromeda. Rather a pleasant piece of work. You must take a close look at it. It was done about two hundred years ago by a sculptor whom one of my ancestors brought to the chateau. It would appeal to you particularly.”

“Why particularly?”

“I think of you as a female Perseus rescuing art from the dragon of decay, age, vandalism and so on.”

“That’s a very poetic fancy. You surprise me.”

“I’m not such a Philistine as you imagine. When you have given me a few more lessons in the gallery I shall become quite knowledgeable.

You will see. “

“I am sure you will have no wish to acquire knowledge which would be no use to you.”

“I always understood that all knowledge was useful.”

“Some more than others, and as one can’t acquire it all it might be a waste of time to clutter the mind with that which is of no practical use … at the expense of so much that is.”

He lifted his shoulders and smiled. And I went on: “It could be useful to know who caused the accident in the woods.”

“You think so?”

“Of course. What if it were repeated?”

“Well, then there might be a more unfortunate outcome … or fortunate, of course. It depends on which way you look at it.”

“I find your attitude extraordinary. You don’t seem to care that someone who intended to murder you is not discovered. “

“How? My dear Mademoiselle Lawson, there have been numerous inquiries.

It is not so easy to identify a bullet as you imagine. There is a gun in almost every cottage. Hares abound in the neighbourhood. They are good in the pot and they do some damage. The shooting of them has never been discouraged. “

“Then if someone was shooting a hare why shouldn’t they come forward and say so?”

“What! When they shot my horse instead?”

“So someone was shooting in the woods and the bullet hit the tree and then killed the horse Wouldn’t that person with the gun have been aware of you in the woods?”

“Let us say he … or she … was not.”

“So you accept the theory that it was an accident?”

“Why not, since it’s a reasonable theory.”

“It’s a comfortable theory, but I should not have thought you were a man to accept a theory because it was comfortable.”

“Perhaps when you know me better you will change your mind.” He was smiling at me.

“It is so pleasant here. I hope you had no other plans.

If not, will you stay and talk awhile? Then I will take you to the pond and you can have a closer look at Perseus. It’s really a little masterpiece. The look of determination on his face is quite extraordinary. He is determined of course to slay his monster. Now talk to me about the pictures. How are they progressing? You are such a wonder.

In a short time you will have finished work in the gallery and we shall have our pictures looking as they did when they were jirst painted. It’s fascinating, Mademoiselle Lawson. “

I talked of the pictures and after a while we looked at the statues.

Then we returned to the chateau together.

Our progress through the terraces was necessarily slow; and as we went into the chateau I fancied that I saw a movement at the schoolroom window. I wondered who was watching us -Nounou or Genevieve?

Suddenly interest in the Comte’s accident waned because the vines were in danger. They were now growing rapidly towards the peak at which they would arrive in early summer when the black-measles scare arose.

The news spread through the town and the chateau.

I went to see Madame Bastide to hear what was happening. As we sat drinking coffee together she told me what damage black measles could do. If it wasn’t kept down the whole crop could be contaminated perhaps not only this year but for years to come.

Jean Pierre and his father were working half the night. The vines had to be sprayed with a sodium arsenite spray and too much of such a solution could be harmful, too little could fail to destroy the pest.

“That is life,” said Madame Bastide with a philosophical shrug and proceeded to tell me once more of the great calamity when the vine louse had destroyed vines all over the country.

“Years it took us to bring prosperity back to the vines,” she declared.

“And every year there are these troubles … if it is not the black measles it is the grape-leaf-hopper or the root-worm. Ah, Dallas, who would be a vine grower?”

“Yet when the harvest is safely gathered in what a joy it must be.”

“You are right.” Her eyes shone at the thought.

“You should see us then. That is a time when we go wild with joy.”

“And if there hadn’t been continual danger you couldn’t feel quite so gay.”

“It is true. There is no time in Gaillard like the harvest… and to enjoy we must first suffer.”

I asked how Gabrielle was getting on.

“She is very happy. And to think it was Jacques all the time.”

“Were you surprised?”

“Oh, I don’t know. They were children together … always good friends. Perhaps one does not see the change coming. The girl is suddenly the woman, the boy the man; and there is nature waiting for them. Yes, I was surprised that it should be Jacques, though I should have known she was in love. She has been so absentminded lately. Ah, well, there it is. Everything is settled happily now. Jacques will do well at St. Vallient. Now of course he will be working as we are here for these pests spread fast.

It would be bad luck if one struck St. Vallient just as Jacques has taken over. “

“It was good of the Comte to offer Jacques St. Vallient at this time,” I said.

“It was just at the right moment.”

“Sometimes the good God gives us evidence of his loving care.” ^ I walked thoughtfully back to the chateau. Of course, I assured myself, Gabrielle had spoken to the Comte of her predicament, and because she was pregnant by Jacques, who was unable to support both a wife and his mother, the Comte had given Jacques St. Vallient. The Durands were too old to manage it now in any case. Naturally that was what had happened.

I was changing. I was becoming adept at believing what I wanted to.

Nounou was pleased when I called in at her private room which I did fairly frequently; she would always have the coffee waiting for me and we would sit and talk together-almost always of Genevieve, and Francoise.

At this time when the whole district was worrying about black measles, Nounou’s one concern was the fretfulness of Genevieve; her room seemed to be the one place where the vines were not discussed.

“I’m afraid she does not like Monsieur Philippe’s wife,” said Nounou, peering at me anxiously from under her heavy brows.

“She never liked a woman in the house since …”

I would not meet her eye; I did not want Nounou to tell me what I already knew about the Comte and Claude.

I said briskly: “It is a long time since her mother died. She must grow away from it.”

“If she had had a brother it would have been different. But now the Comte has brought Monsieur Philippe here and has married him to that woman…” I knew she had seen me chatting with the Comte in the gardens and was warning me.

“I dare say Philippe was eager to marry,” I said.

“Otherwise why should he? You talk as though …”

“I talk of what I know. The Comte will never marry. He dislikes women.”

“I have heard rumours that he is rather fond of them.”

“Fond! Oh, no, miss.” She spoke bitterly.

“He was never fond of anyone. A man can amuse himself with what he despises, and if he has a certain nature the more contemptuous he is, the more amusement he gets, if you follow me. Oh, well, it’s no concern of ours, you’re thinking, and you’re right. But I expect you’ll soon be be leaving us and forgetting all about us.”

“I haven’t looked so far ahead as that.”

“I thought you hadn’t.” She smiled dreamily.

“The chateau is a little kingdom of its own. I can’t imagine living anywhere else … yet I only came here when Francoise did.”

“It must be very different from Carrefour.”

“Everything’s different here.”

Remembering the gloomy mansion which had been Francoise’s home I said:

“Francoise must have been very happy when she first came.”

“Francoise wasn’t ever happy here. He didn’t care for her, you see. ” She looked at me earnestly.

“It’s not in him to care for anyone … only to use people. He uses everyone his workers, who produce the wine … and us here in the chateau.”

I said indignantly: “But isn’t it always so? One can’t expect one man to work a vineyard himself. Everyone has servants.”

“You did not understand me, miss. How could you? I say he did not love Francoise. It was an arranged marriage. Well, so are most in their station, but good comes from these marriages. Some are the better for being arranged, but not this one. Francoise was there because his family thought her a suitable wife; she was there to provide the family. As long as she did that he cared nothing for her. But she … she was young and sensitive … she did not understand. So she died. The Comte is a strange man, miss. Do not mistake that.”

“He is … unusual.”

She looked at me sadly and she said: “I wish I could show you how she was before… and after. I wish you could have known her.”

“I wish it too.”

“There are the little books she used to write in.”

“Yes, they give me an idea of what she was like.”

“She was always writing in them and when she was unhappy they were a great pleasure to her. Sometimes she would read them aloud to me.

“Do you remember this, Nounou?” she would say; and we’d laugh together. At Carrefour she was an innocent young girl. But when she married the Comte, she had to learn so much and learn quickly. How to be the mistress of a chateau . but that was not all. “

“How did she feel when she first came here?” My eyes strayed to the cupboard in which Nounou kept her treasures. There was the box containing the pieces of embroidery which Francoise had given her for

her birthdays and there were those revealing notebooks which contained the story of Francoise’s life. I wanted to read about the Comte’s wooing; I wanted to know Francoise, not as a young girl living her secluded life in Carrefour with her strict father and her doting Nounou, but as the wife of the man who had begun to dominate my life.

“When she was happy she did not write in her little books,” said Nounou.

“And when she first came here there were so many excitements so much to do. Even I saw little of her.”

“So she was happy at first.”

“She was a child. She believed in life … in people. She had been told she was fortunate, and she believed it. She was told that she would be happy … and she believed that too.”

“And when did she start to be unhappy?”

Nounou spread her hands and looked down at them as though she expected to find the answer there.

“She soon began to understand life was not as she had imagined it would be. And then she was going to have Genevieve and she had something to dream of. That was a disappointment, for everyone hoped for a son.”

“Did she confide in you, Nounou?”

“Before her marriage she would tell me everything.”

“And not afterwards?”

Nounou shook her head.

“It was only when I read …” she nodded to the cupboard, ‘that I understood. She was not such a child. She understood much. and she suffered. “

“Do you mean he was unkind to her?”

Nounou’s mouth hardened.

“She needed to be loved,” she said.

“And she loved him?”

“She was terrified of him.”

I was startled by her vehemence.

“Why?” I asked. Her mouth trembled and she turned away. I saw from her expression that she was looking into the past. Then suddenly her mood changed and she said slowly: “She was fascinated by him … at first.

It’s a way he has with some women. “

She seemed to come to a decision, for she stood up suddenly and went to the cupboard and taking the key which was always kept dangling at her waist she opened it.

I saw the notebooks all neatly stacked together. She selected one.

“Read about it,” she said.

“Take it away and read about it. But don’t let anyone else see it… and bring it back safely to me.”

I knew I should refuse; I felt I was prying not only into her private life but into his. But I couldn’t; I had to know.

Nounou was worried on my account. She believed that the Comte was to some extent interested in me. She was telling me in this oblique way that the man who had brought his mistress into the house and married her to his cousin was also a murderer. She was telling me that if I allowed myself to become involved with such a man I too could be in danger. In what way, she could not say. But she was warning me all the same.

I took the book back to my room. I could scarcely wait to read it; and as I read it I was disappointed. I had expected dramatic revelations.

There were the entries not unlike those I had read before. She had her own little plot in the garden where she grew her own flowers. It was such a pleasure to grow flowers.

“I want Genevieve to love them as I do.”

“My first roses. I cut them and kept them in a vase in my bedroom. Nounou says flowers should not be kept in your bedroom at night because they take all the air which you need. I told her it was nonsense but to please her I let her take them out.” Reading through those pages I

searched in vain for his name. It was not until almost at the end of the book that he was mentioned.

“Lothair returned from Paris today. Sometimes I think he despises me.

I know I am not clever like the people he meets in Paris. I must try really harder to learn something about the things he is interested in.

Politics and history, literature and pictures. I wish I did not find them so dull. “

“We all went riding today Lothair, Genevieve and myself. He was watching Genevieve. I was terrified that she would take a toss. She was so nervous.”

“Lothair has gone away. I am not sure where but I expect to Paris. He did not tell me.”

“Genevieve and I had the young children at the chateau today. We are teaching them their catechism. I want Genevieve to understand what her duty is as a daughter of the chateau. We talked about it afterwards and it was so peaceful. I love the evenings when they begin to darken and Nounou comes to draw the curtains and light the lamps. I reminded her how I had always liked that part of the day at Carrefour when she would come and close the shutters … just before it was dark, so that we never really saw the darkness. I told her this. And she said, ” You are full of fancies, cabbage. ” She has not called me ” cabbage” since before my marriage.”

“I went to Carrefour today. Papa was pleased to see me. He says that Lothair should build a church for the poor and I must persuade him to do this.”

“I spoke to Lothair about the church. He asked me why they wanted another church when they had one in the town. I told him that Papa thought that if they had a church close to the vineyard they could go in and worship at any hour of the day. It was for the good of their souls. Lothair said they had to concern themselves during working hours with the good of the grape. I don’t know what papa will say when I see him again. He will dislike Lothair more than ever.”

“Papa says Lothair should dismiss Jean Lapin because he is an atheist. He says that by continuing to employ him Lothair is condoning his sin and Lapin should be sent away and his family with him. When I told Lothair he laughed and said he would decide who should work for him and Lapin’s opinions were no concern of his, still less of my father’s. Sometimes I think Lothair dislikes Papa so much that he wishes he had never married me. And I know Papa wishes I had never married Lothair.”

“I went to Carrefour today. Papa took me to his bedroom and made me kneel and pray with him. I dream about Papa’s bedroom. It is like a prison. It is so cold kneeling on the stone flags that I feel cramped long afterwards. How can he sleep on such a hard pallet made of nothing but straw? The crucifix on the wall is the only brightness there; there is nothing else but the pallet and priedieu in the room.

Papa talked after we had prayed. I felt wicked . sinful. “

“Lothair came back today, and I am afraid. I felt I should scream if he came near me. He said: ” What is the matter with you? ” And I could not tell him how frightened I was of him. He went out of the room. I believe he was very angry. I think Lothair is beginning to hate me. I am so different from the women he likes … the women I believe he is with in Paris. I picture them in diaphanous gowns, laughing and drinking wine … abandoned women … gay and amorous. It is horrible.”

“I was frightened last night. I thought he was coming to my room. I heard his footsteps outside. He stopped at the door and waited. I thought I should scream aloud in terror … but then he went away.”

I had come to the last entry in the book.

What did it mean? Why had Francoise been so frightened of her husband?

And why had Nounou shown me that book? If she wanted me to know the story of Francoise’s life why did she not give them all to me? I knew there were others there. Could it be that Nounou, through those books which revealed the secrets of Francoise’s life, knew the secret of her death? And was it for this reason that she was warning me to leave the chateau?

I took the book back to Nounou the next day.

“Why did you give me this one to read?” I asked.

“You said you wanted to know her.”

“I feel I know her less than ever. Have you other books? Did she go on writing right until the time of her death?”

“She did not write so much after she wrote that one. I used to say to her: ” Francoise cherie, why don’t you write in your little notebooks? ” And she would say: ” There is nothing to write now, Nounou. ” And when I said ” Nonsense! ” she scolded me, and said I wanted to pry. It was the first time she’d said that. I knew she was afraid to write down what she felt.”

“But why was she afraid?”

“Don’t we all have thoughts which we would not wish to be known?”

“You mean she did not want her husband to know that she was afraid of him?” She was silent and I went on:

“Why was she afraid of him? You know, Nounou?”

She pursed her lips tightly together as though nothing on earth would make her speak.

But I knew that there was some dark secret; and I believed that had she not thought that I was of some use to Genevieve she would have told me to leave the chateau because she feared for me. But I knew that she would sacrifice me willingly for the sake of Genevieve.

She knew something about the Comte which she was trying to tell me.

Did she know that he had murdered his wife? “

The desire to know was becoming an obsession. But it was more than a desire to know; it was a desperate need to prove him innocent. We were riding when Genevieve, speaking in her rather slow English, told me that she had heard from Esquilles.

“Such an important person she seems to have become, miss. I will show you her letter.”

“I am so pleased that she is happily settled.”

“Yes, she is companion to Madame de la Condere and Madame de la Condere is very appreciative. They live in a fine mansion, not as ancient as ours but much more comme il faut. Madame de la Condere gives card parties and old Esquilles often joins them to make up the number. It gives her an opportunity of mixing in the society to which by rights she should belong.”

“Well, all’s well that ends well.”

“And, miss, you will be glad to hear that Madame de la Condere has a nephew who is a very charming man and he is always very agreeable to Esquilles. I must show you her letter. She is so coy when she writes of him. I do believe she has hopes of becoming Madame Nephew before long.”

“Well, I’m very pleased. I have thought about her now and then. She was so suddenly dismissed, and it was all due to your naughtiness.”

“She mentions Papa. She says how grateful she is to him for finding her such a congenial situation.”

“He … found it?”

“Of course. He arranged for her to go to Madame de la Condere. He wouldn’t just have turned her out. Or would he?”

“No,” I said firmly.

“He wouldn’t turn her out.”

That was a very happy morning.

The atmosphere lightened considerably during the next weeks. The black measles had been defeated and there was rejoicing throughout the vineyards and the towns which depended on their prosperity.

Invitations came to the chateau for the family to a wedding of a distant connection. The Comte said he was too bruised to go he continued to walk with a stick and that Philippe and his wife must represent their branch of the family.

I knew that Claude was resentful and hated the idea of going and leaving the Comte at the chateau. I was in one of the small walled gardens when she walked past with the Comte. We did not see each other but I heard their voices hers quite distinctly for it was high-pitched and very audible when she was angry.

“They’ll expect yowl”

“They’ll understand. You and Philippe will explain about my accident.”

“Accident! A few bruises!” He said something which I did not hear and she went on: “Lothair … please ” You don’t listen to me now. You seem as if . “

His voice was low, almost soothing, and by the time he had finished speaking they were out of earshot. There was no doubt of the relationship which existed between them, I thought sadly.

But to Paris went Claude and Philippe, and I thrust aside my doubts and fears and prepared to enjoy Claude’s absence.

The days were long and full of sunshine. The vines were in bloom. Each day I rose with a feeling of anticipation. I had never been so happy in my life; yet I knew that my happiness was about as dependable as an April day. I could make some alarming discovery; I could be sent away.

In a moment the skies could darken and the sun be completely blotted out. All the more reason to bask in it while it was there.

As soon as Philippe and Claude had left, the Comte’s visits to the gallery had become more frequent. Sometimes I fancied he was escaping from something, searching and longing to discover. There were times when I caught a glimpse of a different man behind his teasing smiles.

I even had the idea that he enjoyed our interviews as much as I did.

When he left me I would come to my senses and laugh at myself, asking:

How far are you prepared to delude yourself?

There was a simple explanation of what was happening:

There was no one at the chateau to amuse him; therefore he found me and my earnestness for my work diverting. I must remember that.

But he was interested in painting, and knowledgeable too. I recalled that pathetic entry in Francoise’s diary. She must try to learn something of the things which interested him. Poor frightened little Francoise! Why had she been afraid?

There were times when his face would darken with a cynicism which I imagined could be alarming to a meek and simple woman. There might even be a touch of sadism, as though he delighted in mockery and the discomfort it brought to others. But to me those expressions of his were like a film which something in his life had laid over his true nature just as lack of care will spoil a picture.

I was arrogant. Governessy, as Genevieve would say. Did I really think that because I could bring its old glory back to a painting I could change a man?

But I was obsessed by my desire to know him, to probe beneath that often sardonic mask, to change the expression of the mouth from a certain bitter disillusion. But before I could attempt this . I must know my subject.

How had he felt towards the woman whom he had married? He had ruined her life. Had she ruined his? How could one know when the past was engulfed in secrecy?

The days when I did not see him were empty; and those encounters which seemed so short left me elated and exhilarated by a happiness I had never in my life known before.

We talked of pictures; of the chateau; of the history of the place and the days of the chateau’s glory during the reigns of the fourteenth and fifteenth Louis.

“Then there was the change. Nothing was ever the same again. Mademoiselle Lawson. Some saw it coming years before.

“Apres moi Ie deluge,” said Louis XV. And deluge there was, with his successor going to the guillotine and taking so many of our people with him. My own great-great-grandfather was one of them. We were fortunate not to lose our estates. Had we been nearer Paris we should have done so. But you read about the miracle of St. Genevieve and how she saved us from disaster. ” His tone lightened.

“You are thinking that perhaps we were not worth saving.”

“I was thinking no such thing. As a matter of fact I think it’s a pity when estates have to pass out of families. How interesting to trace one’s family back hundreds of years.”

“Perhaps the Revolution did some good. If they had not stormed the chateau and damaged these pictures, we should not have needed your services.”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“If the pictures had not been damaged, they would not have needed restoration certainly. They might have needed cleaning.”

“But you might not have come here, Miss Lawson. Think of that.”

“I am sure the Revolution was a greater catastrophe than that would have been.”

He laughed; and he was different then. I caught a glimpse of the light-hearted person through the mask. It was a wonderful moment.

I joined him and Genevieve for dinner each night during the absence of Philippe and Claude. The conversation was animated between us, and Genevieve would look on in a kind of bewilderment; but attempts to draw her in were not very successful. She, like her mother, seemed to be afraid of him.

Then one evening when we went down to dinner he was not there. He had left no message that he would not be in, but after waiting for twenty minutes, dinner was served and we ate alone.

I felt very uneasy. I kept picturing him lying hurt or worse in the woods. If someone had tried to kill him and failed wasn’t it plausible that they should have another attempt?

I tried to eat, tried to disguise my anxiety, which Genevieve did not share, and I was glad when I could go to my room to be alone.

I walked up and down; I sat at my window; I could not rest. There was a mad moment when I thought of going to the stables and taking a horse to look for him. How could I do so at night and what right had I to concern myself in his affairs?

Of course, I reminded myself, the Comte who had been such a gracious companion to me had been the invalid. He had been recuperating from his accident and while he was confined to the chateau found me a substitute for his friends.

Why hadn’t I seen it?

It was daylight before I slept and when the maid brought my breakfast to my room I looked at her in surreptitious anxiety to see if she had heard any terrible news. But she was as placid as ever.

I went down to the gallery feeling tired and strained and in no mood to work; but I had told myself that if anything had happened I should have heard by now.

I had not been there very long when he came into the gallery. I started when I saw him and he looked at me strangely.

I said without thinking: “Oh … you are all right then?”

His face was expressionless, but he regarded me intently.

“I’m sorry I missed seeing you at dinner last night,” he said.

“Oh … yes. I… wondered …”

What was the matter with me? I was stammering like the foolish girls I so despised.

He continued to look at me and I was certain he had detected the signs of sleeplessness. What a fool I had been! Did I expect him to explain to me when he went out visiting his friends? Of course he would go out. He had only confined himself to the chateau because of his accident.

“I believe,” he said, ‘you were concerned for my safety. ” Did he know the state of my feelings as well as or perhaps better than I knew them myself?

“Tell me, did you imagine me shot through the heart… no, the head, because I believe you secretly think. Mademoiselle Lawson, that I have a stone where my heart should be. An advantage in a way. A bullet can’t pierce stone.”

I knew it was no use denying my concern so I tacitly admitted it in my reply.

“If you had been shot once it seemed plausible to imagine that it might happen again.”

“It would be too coincidental, don’t you think? A man shooting a hare happens to shoot my horse. It’s the sort of thing that could only happen once in a lifetime. And you are expecting it twice in a few weeks.”

“The hare theory might not be the true one.”

He sat down on the sofa beneath the picture of his ancestress in emeralds and regarded me on my stool.

“Are you comfortable there, Mademoiselle Lawson?”

“Thank you.” I could feel animation coming back into my body; everything was gay again. I had only one fear now. Was I betraying myself?

“We’ve talked about pictures, old castles, old families, revolutions, yet never about ourselves,” he said almost gently.

“I am sure those subjects are more interesting than I personally could be.”

“Do you really think that?”

I shrugged my shoulders a habit I had learned from those about me. It was a good substitute for the answer expected to a difficult question.

“All I know is that your father died and you took his place.”

“There is little else to know. Mine has been a life like many others of my class and circumstances.”

“You never married. I wonder why.”

“I might reply as the English milkmaid, ” Nobody asked me, sir, she said”.”

“That I find extraordinary. I am sure you would make an excellent wife for some fortunate man. Just imagine how useful you would be. His pictures would always be in perfect condition.”

“What if he had none?”

“I am sure you would very quickly remedy that omission.”

I did not like the light turn of the conversation. I fancied he was making fun of me; and it was a subject about which, in view of my new emotions, I did not care to be mocked.

“I am surprised that you should be an advocate for marriage.” As soon as I had spoken I wished I hadn’t. I flushed and stammered: “I’m sorry”

He smiled, the mockery gone.

“And I’m surprised that you are surprised. Tell me, what does D stand for? Miss D. Lawson. I should like to know. It is such an unusual name.”

I explained that my father had been Daniel and my mother Alice.

“Dallas,” he repeated my name.

“You smile?”

“It’s the way in which you say it… with the accent on the last syllable. We put it on the first.”

He tried it out again, smiling at me.

“Dallas, Dallas.” He made me feel that he liked saying it.

“You yourself have an unusual name.”

“It’s been used by my family for years … since the first King of the Franks. We have to be royal, you see. We throw in an occasional Louis, a Charles, an Henri. But we must have our Lothairs.

Now let me tell you how wrongly you pronounce my name. “

I said it and he laughed and made me say it again.

“Very good, Dallas,” he said.

“But then everything you do you do well.”

I told him about my parents and how I had helped Father in his work.

Somehow it came through that they had dominated my life and kept me from marriage. He mentioned this.

“Perhaps it was better so,” he said.

“Those who don’t marry, often regret the omission; but those who do so, often regret far more bitterly. They long to go back in time and not do what they did. Well, that’s life, isn’t it?”

“That may be so.”

“Take myself. I was married when I was twenty to a young woman who was chosen for me. It is so in our families, you know.”

“Yes.”

“These marriages are often successful.”

“And yours was?” My voice was almost a whisper.

He did not answer and I said quickly: “I’m sorry. I am being impertinent.”

“No. You should know.”

I wondered why, and my heart began to beat uncomfortably.

“No, the marriage was not a success. I think I am incapable of being a good husband.”

“Surely a man could be … if he wanted to.”

“Mademoiselle Lawson, how could a man who is selfish, intolerant, impatient and promiscuous be a good husband?”

“Simply by ceasing to be selfish, intolerant and so on.”

“And you believe that one can turn off these unpleasant qualities like a tap?”

“I think one can try to subdue them.”

He laughed suddenly and I felt foolish.

“I amuse you?” I said coolly.

“You asked an opinion and I gave it.”

“It’s absolutely true, of course. I could imagine you subduing such unpleasant characteristics if only I could so far stretch my imagination as to picture you possessing them. You know how disastrously my marriage ended.”

I nodded.

“My experiences as a husband have convinced me that I should abandon that role for ever.”

“Perhaps you are wise to make such a decision.”

“I was sure you would agree.”

I knew what he meant. If what he suspected was true and I had allowed my feelings for him to become too deep, I should be warned.

I felt humiliated and wounded and I said briskly: “I am very interested in some of the wall surfaces I have noticed about the chateau. It has occurred to me that there might be some murals hidden beneath the lime wash.”

“Oh?” he said; and I thought he was not paying attention to what I said.

“I remember my father’s making a miraculous discovery on the walls of an ancient mansion in Northumberland. It was a wonderful painting which had been hidden for centuries. I feel certain that there must be similar discoveries here.”

“Discoveries?” he repeated.

“Yes?”

What was he thinking of? That stormy married life with Francoise? But had it been stormy? Deeply unhappy, entirely unsatisfactory since he had determined never to run the risk of such an experience again.

I was aware of an intense passion engulfing me. I thought: What could I do? How could I leave this and go back to England back to a new life where there was no chateau full of secrets, no Comte whom I longed to restore to happiness?

“I should like to have a closer look at those walls,” I went on.

He said almost fiercely, as though denying everything that had gone before: Dallas, my chateau and myself are at your disposal. “