The Secret of the Chateau

by Kathleen McGurl

  October brought two significant pieces of news. The first, read in a newspaper, seemed to exasperate Pierre. ‘They have changed the calendar. We no longer have Janvier, Février, Mars and so on, but thermidor, fructidor, prairial and who knows what else. It is ridiculous. They are changing everything. Next they will say the Earth no longer goes around the sun, but must go around the moon instead.’

  Catherine laughed with him, but it was a hollow laugh. How far would this revolution go? Her thoughts turned as so often to the poor dear Queen, still imprisoned with her children in the Tuileries. What would become of her?

  The answer came a couple of weeks later. On trumped-up charges, chiefly of indecency against her own son, Marie Antoinette had been found guilty and sentenced to death by guillotine.

  ‘She was dignified to the end,’ Pierre told a weeping Catherine. ‘Her last words were to apologise to the executioner, for stepping on his toes as she ascended the scaffold. But the crowd cheered, and now she is gone.’

  ‘I cannot bear it. She would not have hurt her son. That is all lies! She committed no crime.’

  ‘She was a symbol of the ancien régime, my dear. Her spending was part of the cause of Louis’s bankruptcy, one of the original causes of the Revolution. Being Austrian meant the people never really loved her.’

  ‘I loved her,’ Catherine said quietly.

  ‘Madame, shall I light a fire in here?’ Catherine turned in shock and clapped a hand over her mouth. Madame Bernard had entered the room. Neither Catherine nor Pierre had noticed – they would never have spoken so openly about the royal family in front of anyone. As far as they were aware, no one locally other than Claudette knew they’d been part of the Court.

  ‘Ah, no, thank you, Madame Bernard. We are warm enough.’ Pierre, thankfully had kept his cool and acted as though the housekeeper hadn’t heard anything. He even smiled and bowed to her.

  But Catherine noticed how the woman’s eyes were glittering with hate as she turned her gaze towards her.

  ‘You have heard the news?’ she asked Catherine. ‘That the Austrian bitch is finally dead? It is good news, no? We are all celebrating in the kitchen. I imagine you will want a bottle of your best wine with dinner tonight.’

  ‘We have heard, yes. So now France can move on to a glorious republican future. France will be the greatest country on earth. That is indeed something to celebrate,’ Pierre said.

  Madame Bernard looked confused, as though working out whether or not he’d agreed about celebrating the death of the Queen. She looked as though she was about to say something more, but in the end simply left the room.

  Catherine breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Did she hear? What I said about loving the Queen?’

  Pierre crossed the room and took her in his arms. ‘If she did, what can she possibly do about it? Winter is coming. Soon we will be snowed in as usual. There will be no revolutionary action here over the winter. And in the spring, my darling, we will take our money and our jewels, and leave. It is time to seek safety elsewhere. Perhaps in Piedmont. No, Switzerland, I think. I have a cousin there, who will offer us shelter.’

  Catherine felt too exhausted by it all, too upset about the news of Marie Antoinette, to argue with him. They’d lose the château, they’d lose their land if they left – that had happened to other emigrés. The State would seize it all. But they had the children to think about. Michel and Jeanne deserved the best chances possible, and it did seem that leaving France would be the safest course of action now. Just one more winter to get through, and they could leave when the snow melted.

  Chapter 23

  Lu

  When the next Tuesday rolled around it was with some trepidation that I drove into the village, parked outside the salle des fetes, and went inside armed with a lesson plan of sorts for my first English conversation class. I’d planned this first session to be an introductory one – getting to know each other, finding out what people expected from the class – to help me shape future lessons. If everything dried up I had an idea to talk about animals – people’s pets. Everyone liked talking about their pets. I’d brought photos of Felix, Clarabel and the kittens just in case.

  I was early; I collected the key from the caretaker and opened up the hall twenty minutes before the class was due to start. There was no one waiting in the tiny car park, but that was to be expected. They’d all be local, and turn up just at the last minute, perhaps walking here. If anyone turned up. I felt like a kid anxiously awaiting my own birthday party, terrified that no one would attend. But Pascal from the mairie had said he’d come, and he’d seemed sure there were plenty of people who’d be interested. In my mind, a class of six to eight would be perfect. Enough to show there was a demand for this, but not so many that I couldn’t remember everyone’s names.

  The salle des fetes was like small function halls anywhere – stacks of chairs and fold-up tables along one side of the room, a tiny stage, a little kitchen area in which coffee could be prepared and mugs washed up afterwards. Being France, there was a decent capsule coffee machine and a large pot of capsules, with an honesty box – 50c for a coffee. I’d brought biscuits, and there was a cupboard housing an assortment of small coffee cups.

  I set out some chairs around a table, picked one for myself, and laid out paper and pens. I was pleased to see a clock on the wall that would allow me to keep an eye on the time. Then all I could do was sit and wait for people to turn up.

  Pascal was the first to arrive, and he brought with him three friends, all around his age. I was delighted to see him. If no one else came, at least there were four, enough for a lively class. But I needn’t have worried. A middle-aged couple came next, and a couple of teenagers were pushed giggling through the door by their parents.

  Once everyone was settled, I made a short speech in French that I had prepared. Basically, I said that this was the only French I intended speaking, as I wasn’t very good at it, and that we would use English for the whole session. And then I introduced myself in English.

  ‘My name is Lu Marlow, and I live in the château up the valley with my husband and friends. I moved to France three months ago. I have a dog called Felix and I love to walk in the mountains. I hope we can use this class to help you learn English and to make friends. Now, please could each of you tell us a little about yourselves?’

  We went around the table and each person did as I’d asked. Pascal and one of his friends had the best English – I felt there wasn’t much they would learn but the practice would be good for them. The teenagers were the worst. They were here, they said, because their parents said it would help them pass their school exams. The middle-aged couple were planning to take a motorhome on an extended trip to Britain and Ireland the following year.

  It all went well, the mix of people helped, and the first hour flew by. We broke for coffee, and stood around in the little kitchen chatting while we waited for the coffees to brew. I had to give stern glances to the different groups as they lapsed into French chatter.

  ‘If you are stuck for an English word, use the French but then try to continue your conversation in English,’ I told them. ‘Or try to find another way to say it.’

  We talked about pets for the second half, as planned. One of the teenagers spoke for a long time about a cat she knew from school that’d had kittens, and it was after some time that I realised Steve’s kittens, Flip and Flop, had come from this litter. She was delighted to hear how well they were doing and how they had asserted their authority over poor Felix within moments of meeting him.

  When it was time to pack up they all helped with the washing up and putting away of the tables and chairs. I was delighted how well it had gone, and had lots of suggestions (from them all) for topics for future sessions. All were planning to come back the following week, although I had the impression I’d only see the teens until their exam came around, then they’d be off.

  ‘It went well, yes?’ Pascal said, as we stacked the last chairs.

  ‘I though
t so. What did you think?’

  ‘I think it was excellent,’ he said, and I smiled. ‘And I think I will like a session to talk of local history.’

  ‘I would like a session,’ I corrected him. ‘I’d like that too. I’m very interested in the local history, especially anything relating to the château or the people who lived there around the time of the Revolution – the Aubert family.’

  ‘I studied history at university,’ he said. ‘I have some books on the history of this place.’

  My eyes lit up. ‘I’d love to borrow them, if I may?’

  ‘Of course. But they are in French. I could help you understand them, perhaps? In return for these English lessons.’

  ‘Parfait!’ I said, grinning. A perfect swap.

  ‘If you come to the mairie tomorrow I bring the books for you.’

  ‘I will bring the books.’ I was still in teacher mode and couldn’t help but correct him again.

  ‘I will bring the books,’ he said with a smile. ‘Au revoir, Madame Marlow, and thank you.’

  I called at the mairie as Pascal had suggested the next day. He handed me a box full of history books, in which he’d helpfully inserted Post-it notes in the pages where Saint Michel-sur-Verais was mentioned, or Château d’Aubert.

  ‘You can take them home, and perhaps after the next English lesson I can explain them to you,’ he said.

  ‘Great idea. Thank you so much!’ Now I had homework too.

  ‘Also I think there are records in the church that might be helpful.’

  I stared at him. Of course – just like in England the church would have records of baptisms, marriages and burials. At least from before the Revolution. After that, when the revolutionaries had tried to remove all power from the church, there would be civil records.

  ‘Thank you! I will go and enquire.’

  ‘And from after 1792 there are records here in the archive,’ he said. I detected a glint in his eye. Pascal looked as keen as I was to find out more about the Auberts. And he didn’t know yet about the mysterious window in the tower, or the face in that window … I decided to wait and talk about those later, in case he thought I was just some mad old Englishwoman.

  ‘An archive! Brilliant! May I look at it now?’

  He glanced at the clock, and then nodded. ‘Yes. I have time now to help you. Come this way.’

  He led me upstairs, into a room that was lined with shelving filled with box files. I thought he was going to start pulling down boxes but instead he sat at a computer in one corner, and pulled up a chair for me. ‘Our records are online. I show you.’

  I grinned. It was always so much easier when records had been digitised. And indeed, starting from the date of the French revolution, within a few minutes he’d found records of baptisms for two Aubert children – Michel and Jeanne, in 1792 and 1793. Their father was listed as Pierre Aubert and their mother as Catherine Aubert. ‘You’ve found them already!’ I said, and Pascal smiled.

  ‘I am sorry but I must return to work. I show you how to make the search, and then you can continue, yes?’ He showed me how the website worked and left me to it. I had a notepad and pen in my pocket and began making notes. Civil records had begun in 1792, and before that there were the local church records, all digitised. It was thrilling to discover these two children. And then I found Pierre Aubert’s burial record from 1794, and the burial of a child named Louis Aubert in 1791 – the other name on the Aubert tomb. Louis must have been Michel and Jeanne’s older brother. The poor mite had died as a baby. Nothing more for Catherine. I searched for marriages and deaths but there was nothing. She’d vanished, or maybe moved to a different département or even a different country.

  Giving up on Catherine, I searched for her children, Michel and Jeanne. Had Michel grown up and inherited the château? Unlikely. It would have been seized by the State in 1793 or 1794, around the time of Pierre’s death. Maybe searching for the children was pointless, as their father had died and I couldn’t find their mother. They were so young at the time of their father’s death. If Catherine had survived, the children would have gone with her, wherever she went.

  Yet … after a bit of searching, I found a marriage for Jeanne, some twenty years later. And another for Michel. Both had stayed in the local area and married local people – Jeanne’s husband was a baker, and Michel’s wife’s father was the local miller. So the children at least had integrated into the local society – renouncing their nobility as was necessary after the Revolution. What had become of their mother, though? Perhaps I’d never know.

  I jotted down all the details and all the many questions which occurred to me. It would be interesting to try to trace Michel and Jeanne forward. Had they had children? If Michel had a son, that would mean a continuation of the Aubert name. There were no more Aubert names on the tomb in the cemetery after Pierre’s, but perhaps there’d been no one able or willing to pay to use that grave plot after the Revolution.

  It was Catherine who was getting under my skin, though. She’d lost her husband, but what had happened to her? She had been the last of the aristocratic Auberts. Her children had survived to adulthood, but she seemed to be nowhere in the records. Another mystery.

  Time was getting on, and I had errands to run and dogs to walk, so I closed down the website and went back downstairs. Pascal was busy with someone else, so I sat to wait until he could spare a moment.

  ‘Did you find what you want?’ he asked.

  ‘I found some interesting things, but of course there are always more questions than answers.’ I told him about the Aubert children and the lack of information on Catherine Aubert.

  ‘Maybe she was a … emigré … sorry I do not know the English word.’

  ‘We often borrow the French word! Yes, I think perhaps she left the country. But why did she not take her children with her?’

  ‘Maybe she think they are safer here in the village.’ He gave a Gallic shrug.

  ‘You may be right. Well, perhaps I can continue to search for them, now I know the websites to use. I’ll read your books too, and see you next Tuesday.’

  ‘Bon chance, Madame Marlow, et au revoir.’

  As I left, I reflected on how Clemmie’s suggestion that I try teaching English had led me to Pascal, who’d led me to the archives. Making an effort to fit into the community and keep myself busy had helped me progress my research project. Funny how things worked out.

  The sun doesn’t always shine in the south of France. We discovered that over the next week, when the wind picked up and storms raged over the whole Alpes-Maritimes area. Apart from dashes to the village in the car to buy bread we pretty much stayed in the château, even lighting a fire in the wood-burning stove one day when it felt decidedly cooler. Even the ghost, if ghost it was, seemed miserable, howling at us down the chimney, playing havoc with the electricity despite Steve’s efforts to get it fixed. The lights flickered endlessly in the evenings.

  Phil sat beside the patio door, looking disconsolately at his garden where much of his late summer produce was being flattened by the rain. ‘I should have harvested the last of my lettuces,’ he said. ‘They’ll be mush.’ He’d brought Clarabel into the stables and provided her with straw bedding. She still had plenty of kitchen scraps to eat daily, and Phil paid her regular visits to scratch her ears and top up her food bucket. She didn’t seem to care about the weather. As long as she had plenty to eat, she was happy.

  The same could not be said of Felix. Or me. We longed to be able to get out into the mountains. I tried a short walk, but the paths were muddy and slippery as torrents of water gushed down the mountain sides. It seemed unsafe, and all it achieved was to give me another job to do – bathing Felix. I decided to stay home and concentrate on researching Pierre and Catherine’s descendants instead.

  It took a lot of work. Even though the département’s records were all online, it’s always more difficult to trace a person forwards in time rather than backwards. If you are going backwards, you know that
a person who died or got married must have been born, so there must be a birth record for them. And that person certainly had parents, who probably married and definitely were born, so they too can be traced. But going forward, looking for what happened to a person after they were born is far harder. Did they marry and change name, move away, or die? They could have died at any time, as a baby or as a ninety-year-old. Did they have any children? But with diligence I gradually began to find some details for both Michel and Jeanne Aubert. I’d already found that they’d stayed in the village and married – this had meant a change of name for Jeanne of course. They had children – four for Jeanne and three for Michel, so then there were a host more names to follow. Sadly some of the children died in infancy. But I kept at it and gradually a chain emerged, with some lines dying out if a person had no children and others disappearing – presumably people who’d moved away.

  ‘Have you bought shares in Sellotape?’ Gray asked, when he came into the dining room where I was working, and saw my sheets of A4 taped together, with the Aubert family tree scrawled all over it.

  ‘Not yet. But I might. Look, this is the Auberts’ family tree.’

  ‘The who?’

  ‘The people who lived in this château around the time of the French Revolution. Pierre Aubert had been Comte de Verais until the revolutionary government abolished the nobility.’

  ‘Oh! Cool. Is this what Aimée was helping you with?’

  I smiled as I noted the goofy look he took on at the mention of Aimée’s name. ‘She gave me some pointers, then her assistant Pascal has helped too.’

  ‘What are you hoping to find?’ Gray sat down beside me, studying the papers.

  I shrugged. ‘Not entirely sure. What I really want to know is what happened to Catherine Aubert. Her children stayed in the village but I can’t find any death record for her. It’s as though she vanished.’