King of the Castle

by Виктория Холт

  We talked of the vines, pictures, and life in the neighbour hood. I was told I must visit the church and the old hotel de ville: and most of all I must come back and visit the Bastides. I must look in whenever I was passing. Both Jean Pierre and his father who said very little would be delighted to show me anything I wished to see.

  The children were sent out to play when they had finished their bread and chocolate and the conversation turned once more to the chateau.

  Perhaps it was the wine to which I, certainly, was unaccustomed, particularly at that hour of the day but I grew more indiscreet than I would normally have been.

  I was saying: “Genevieve is a strange girl. Not in the least like Yves and Margot. They are so spontaneous, so natural normal, happy children. Perhaps the chateau is not a good environment for a child to grow up in.” I was speaking recklessly and I didn’t care. I had to find out more about the chateau and most of all the Comte.

  “Poor child!” said Madame Bastide.

  “Yes,” I went on, ‘but I believe it is three years since her mother died, and that is time for one so young to have recovered. “

  There was silence, then Jean Pierre said: “If Mademoiselle Lawson is long at the chateau she will soon learn.” He turned to me.

  “The Comtesse died of an overdose of laudanum.” I thought of the girl in the graveyard and I blurted out: “Not… murder!”

  “They called it suicide,” said Jean Pierre.

  “Ah,” put in Madame Bastide, ‘the Comtesse was a beautiful woman. ” And with that she returned to the subject of the vineyards. We talked of the great calamity which had hit most of the vineyards in France a few years ago when the vine-louse had attacked the vines, and because Jean Pierre loved the vineyards so devotedly when he spoke of them he made everyone share his enthusiasm. I could picture the horror when

  the vine-louse was discovered to be attached to the roots of the vine; I could feel the intense tragedy to all those concerned when they had to face the problem of whether or not to flood the vineyards.

  “There was disaster throughout France at that time,” he said.

  “That was less than ten years ago. Is that not so, Father?”

  His father nodded.

  “It has been a slow climb back to prosperity, but it’s coming.

  Gaillard suffered less than most. “

  When I rose to go, Jean Pierre said he would walk back with me.

  Although there was no danger of my losing my way, I was glad of his company for I found the Bastides warm and friendly a quality I had come to treasure. It occurred to me that when I was with them I myself became a different person from the cool and authoritative woman I showed to the people of the chateau. I was like a chameleon changing my colour to fit in with the landscape. But it was done without thought, so it was absolutely natural. I had never before realized how automatically I put on my defensive armour, i>ut it was very pleasant to be in company where I did not need it.

  As we came out of the gate and took the road to the chateau I asked:

  “The Comte … is he really so terrifying?”

  “He is an autocrat… one of the old aristocrats. His word is law.”

  “He has had tragedy in his life.”

  “I believe you are sorry for him. When you meet him you’ll see that pity is the last thing he would need.”

  “You said that they called his wife’s death suicide …” I began.

  He interrupted me swiftly.

  “We do not even speak of such things.”

  “But…”

  “But,” he added, ‘we keep them in our minds. “

  The chateau loomed before us; it looked immense,

  impregnable. I thought of all the dark secrets it could be keeping and felt a shiver run down my spine.

  “Please don’t bother to come any farther,” I said.

  “I am sure I am keeping you from your work.”

  He stood a few paces from me and bowed. I smiled and turned towards the castle.

  I went to bed early that night to make up for the previous night’s lack of sleep. I dozed and my dreams were hazy. It was strange, because at home I rarely dreamed. This was muddled dreaming of the Bastides, of cellars containing bottles of wine, and through these dreams flitted a vague faceless shape whom I knew to be the dead Comtesse. Sometimes I felt her presence without seeing her; it was as though she were behind me whispering a warning, “Go away. Don’t you become involved in this strange household.” Then again she would be jeering at me. Yet I was not afraid of her. There was another shady shape to strike terror into me. Monsieur Ie Comte. I heard the words as though from a long way; then growing so loud that it was like someone shouting in my ears.

  I awoke startled. Someone was shouting. There were voices below and scurrying footsteps along the corridor. The chateau was waking up although it was not morning. In fact the candle I hastily lighted showed me my watch lying on the table and this told me it was only just after eleven.

  I knew what was happening. It was what everyone was waiting for and dreading.

  The Comte had come home.

  I lay sleepless, wondering what the morning would bring.

  The chateau was quiet when I awoke at my usual time. Briskly I rose and rang for my hot water. It came promptly.

  The maid looked different, I told myself. She was uneasy. So the Comte had his effect even on the humblest servants.

  “You would like your petit dejeuner as usual, mademoiselle?”

  I looked surprised and said: “But of course, please.”

  I guessed they were all talking about me, asking themselves what my fate would be. I looked round the room. Perhaps I shall never sleep here again, I thought. Then I was unhappy thinking of leaving the chateau, never really knowing these people who had taken such a hold on my imagination. I wanted to know more of Genevieve, to try to understand her. I wanted to see what effect on Philippe de la Talle his cousin’s return would have. I wanted to know how far Nounou was responsible for the waywardness of her charge. I should have liked to hear what had happened to Mademoiselle Dubois before she had come to the chateau. Then of course there were the Bastides. I wanted to sit in that cosy room and talk about the vines and the chateau. But most of all I wanted to meet the Comte not just once and briefly to receive my dismissal, but to learn more of a man who, it seemed generally believed, had been responsible for the death of his wife, even if he had not actually administered the poison dose.

  My breakfast came and I felt too excited for food, but I was determined none of them should say that I was so frightened that I had been unable to eat, so I drank two cups of coffee as usual and ate my twist of hot bread. Then I went along to the gallery.

  It was not easy to work. I had already prepared an estimate which Philippe de la Talle had said would be given to the Comte on his return. He had smiled at me when I gave it to him and glancing through it had remarked that it looked like the work of an expert. I was sure he was’ hoping it would please the Comte-partly, I imagined, to justify his having allowed me to stay, but there was an element of kindness in him, I was sure, which made him want me to have the job because I had betrayed how badly I needed it. I summed him up as a man who would be kind, unless being so made too many demands upon him.

  I imagined the Comte’s receiving my estimate, hearing that a woman had come instead of a man. But I could not picture him clearly. All I could imagine was a haughty man in white wig and crown. It was a picture I had seen either of Louis XIV or XV. The King . the King of the Castle.

  I had a note-pad with me and tried to jot down a few points which I had passed over on my previous examination If he will let me stay, I told myself, I shall become so absorbed in the work that he can have murdered twenty wives for all I care.

  There was one painting in the gallery which had particularly caught my attention. It was a portrait of a woman. The costume placed it in the eighteenth century mid or perhaps a little later. It interested me not because of the excelle
nce of the work there were better pictures in the gallery but because although it was of a later date than most of them it was in a greater state of deterioration. The varnish was very dark and the whole surface was mottled as though it suffered from a skin disease. It looked to me as though it had been exposed to the weather.

  I was contemplating this picture when I heard a movement behind me. I swung round to find that a man had entered the gallery and was standing there watching me. I felt my heart pound and my legs tremble.

  I knew at once that I was at last face to face with the Comte de la Talle.

  “It is Mademoiselle Lawson, of course,” he said. Even his voice was unusual deep, cold.

  “You are the Comte de la Talle?”

  He bowed. He did not come towards me. His eyes surveyed me across the gallery, and his manner was as cool as his voice. I noticed that he was tallish, and I was struck by his leanness. There was a slight resemblance to Philippe; but there was none of Philippe’s femininity in this man. He was darker than his cousin; his cheekbones were high and this gave his face the pointed look which seemed almost satanic. His eyes were very dark sometimes they could seem almost black, I discovered later, depending on his mood; they were deeply set and his lids were heavy; his aquiline nose gave to his face the look of haughtiness; his mouth was mobile; it changed according to the man he was. But at this time I knew only one man the arrogant King of the Castle on whom my fate depended.

  He wore a black riding-coat with a velvet collar and above his white cravat his face was pale, even cruel.

  “My cousin has told me of your coming.” He advanced towards me now. He walked as a king might have walked through the hall of mirrors.

  I had regained my poise very quickly. There was nothing like haughtiness to bring out my bristling armour.

  “I am glad you have returned. Monsieur Ie Comte,” I said, ‘for I have been waiting several days to know whether you wish me to stay and do the work. “

  “It must have been tiresome for you to be uncertain whether or not you were wasting your time.”

  “I have found the gallery very interesting, I assure you, so it will not have been an unpleasant way of wasting time.”

  “It is a pity,” he said, ‘that you did not tell us of your father’s death. It would have saved so much trouble. “

  So I was to go. I felt angry because I was so miserable. Back to London, I thought. I should have to find a lodging. And how could I afford to live until I discovered a post? I looked down the years and saw myself becoming more and more like Mademoiselle Dubois. What nonsense! As if I ever should! I could go to Cousin Jane. Never, never!

  I hated him in that moment because I believed he guessed the thoughts which were passing through my mind. He

  would know that a woman as independent as I, must have been desperate to have come in the first place, and he was enjoying tormenting me.

  How she must have hated him, that wife of his! Perhaps she killed herself to get away from him. I should not be surprised if that were the answer.

  “I did not realize that you were so old-fashioned in France,” I said with a touch of venom.

  “At home I have done this work with my father.

  No one minded because I was a woman. But as you have different notions here there is nothing more to be said. “

  “I disagree. There is a great deal to be said.”

  “Then,” I said, lifting my eyes to his face, ‘perhaps you will begin to say it. “

  “Mademoiselle Lawson, you would like to restore these pictures, would you not?”

  “It is my profession to restore paintings and the more in need of repair they are, the more interesting the task becomes.”

  “And you find mine in that need?”

  “You must know that some of these pictures are in poor condition. I was examining this one when I realized you had come in. What kind of treatment could it have had to be in that state?”

  “Pray, Mademoiselle Lawson, do not look at me so sternly. I am not responsible for the state of the picture.”

  “Oh? I presumed it had been some time in your possession. You see, there is a failing in the paint. It is chalky. Obviously it has been ill-treated.”

  A smile twisted his mouth and his face changed. There might have been a glimmer of amusement there now.

  “How vehement you are! You might be fighting for the rights of man rather than for the preservation of paint on canvas.”

  “When would you wish me to leave?”

  “Not until we have talked, at least.”

  “Since you find you cannot employ a woman I do not think we should have anything to talk about.”

  “You are very impulsive, Mademoiselle Lawson. Now I should have thought that was a characteristic a restorer of old paintings could well do without. I have not said I would not employ a woman. That was your suggestion.”

  “I can see that you disapprove of my being here. That is enough.”

  “Did you expect approval of your … deception?”

  “Monsieur Ie Comte,” I said, “I worked with my father. I took over his commissions. You had previously approached him to come here. I thought the arrangement still stood. I see no deception in that.”

  “Then you must have been surprised by the astonishment you caused.”

  I replied shortly: “It would be difficult to do delicate work of this nature in an atmosphere of disapproval.”

  “That I can well understand.”

  “Therefore…”

  “Therefore?” he repeated.

  “I could leave today if I could be taken to the mainline station. I understand there is only one morning train from the Gaillard halt.”

  “How thoughtful of you to look into such arrangements. But I must repeat. Mademoiselle Lawson, you are too impulsive. You must understand my uneasiness. And you will forgive me saying so, you do not look old enough to have had a great deal of experience in skilled work of this nature.”

  “I have worked with my father for years. There are some who grow old and never acquire the skill. It is a feeling in oneself for the work, an understanding, a love of painting that is born in one.”

  “You are poetical as well as an artist, I see. But at… er … thirty or so … one would necessarily not have had a lifetime’s experience.”

  “I am twenty-eight,” I retorted hotly; and I saw at once that I had fallen into the trap. He had determined to bring me off the pedestal on which I was trying to take a firm stand and show me that I was after all an ordinary woman who couldn’t bear to be thought older than she was.

  He raised his eyebrows; he was finding the interview amusing. I saw that I had betrayed my desperate situation and the streak of cruelty in him made him want to prolong the indecision, to torment me for as long as possible.

  For the first time since I had set out on this adventure I lost my control. I said: “There is no point in continuing. I realize that you have decided I cannot do this work because I am a woman. Well, monsieur, I leave you with your prejudices. So I will go either today or tomorrow.”

  For a few seconds he looked at me in mock bewilderment but as I moved towards the door, he was swiftly beside me.

  “Mademoiselle, you have not understood. Perhaps your knowledge of French is not as expert as your knowledge of painting.”

  Once more I rose to the bait.

  “My mother was French. I have understood perfectly every word you have said.”

  “Then I am to blame for my lack of lucidity. I have no wish that you shall go … just yet.”

  “Your manner suggests that you are not prepared to trust me.”

  “Your own assumption, mademoiselle, I do assure you.”

  “Then you mean you wish me to stay?”

  He pretended to hesitate.

  “If I may say so without offence, I should like you to undergo a little test. Oh please, mademoiselle, do not accuse me of prejudice against your sex. I am prepared to believe that there may be brilliant women in the
world. I am impressed by what you tell me of your understanding and love of painting. I am also interested in the estimates of damage and the cost of repairing the pictures you have examined. It is all very clear and reasonable.”

  I was afraid that my eyes had begun to shine with hope and so would betray my excitement. If, I told myself, he realized how very eagerly I desired this commission he might continue baiting me.

  He had seen.

  “I was going to suggest… but then you may have decided that you would prefer to leave today or tomorrow.”

  “I have come a long way, Monsieur Ie Comte. Naturally I should prefer to stay and carry out the work providing it could be done in a congenial atmosphere. What were you going to suggest?”

  “That you restore one of the pictures and if that is satisfactorily accomplished you continue with the rest.”

  I was happy in that moment. I should have been relieved, of course, for I was certain of my capabilities. The immediate future was taken care of. No ignoble return to London! No Cousin Jane! But it was more than that. An inexplicable feeling of joy, anticipation, excitement. I could not explain. I was certain that I could pass this test, and that meant a long stay at the castle. This wonderful old place would be my home for months to come. I could explore it, as well as its treasures.

  I could continue my friendship with the Bastides. I could indulge my curiosity concerning the inhabitants of the chateau.

  I was insatiably curious. I had known this since my father had pointed it out to me and deplored this trait; but I could not stop myself wanting to know what went on behind the facade people showed the world. To discover this was like removing the film of decay from an old painting; and to learn what the Comte was like would be revealing a living picture.

  “This proposition seems to appeal to you.”

  So once more I had betrayed my feelings, something I

  prided myself on rarely doing. But perhaps he was particularly perceptive.

  “It seems a very fair one,” I said.

  “Then, it’s agreed.” He held out his hands.

  “We will shake on it. An old English custom, I believe. You, mademoiselle, have been kind enough to discuss the problem in French; we will seal the bargain in English. “