King of the Castle

by Виктория Холт

  I closed the book. I was so tired that I was soon asleep.

  Three

  I spent the next morning in the gallery. I was half-expecting a visit from the Comte after the interest he had shown the night before, but he did not come.

  I had lunch in my room as usual, and when I had finished there was a knock on my door and Genevieve came in. Her hair was neatly tied behind her back and she looked subdued as she had last night at dinner. It occurred to me that her father’s being in the house had a marked effect upon her.

  First we mounted the staircase in the polygon al tower and reached the summit of the building. In the tower she pointed out to me the surrounding countryside speaking in slow, rather painful English, as the Comte had suggested. I believed that although at times she hated and feared him, she had a desire to win his respect.

  “Mademoiselle, can you see a tower right away to the south? That is where my grandfather lives.”

  “It is not very far.”

  “It is nearly twelve kilometres. You can see it today only because the air is so clear.”

  “Do you visit him often?”

  She was silent, looking at me suspiciously. I said: “It is not so very far.”

  “I go sometimes,” she said.

  “Papa does not go. Please do not tell him.”

  “He would not wish you to go?”

  “He has not said so.” Her voice was faintly bitter.

  “He doesn’t say much to me, you know. Please promise not to tell him.”

  “Why should I tell him?”

  “Because he talks to you.”

  “My dear Genevieve, I have met him only twice. Naturally he talks about his paintings to me. He is concerned for them. He is not likely to speak to me of other things.”

  “He doesn’t usually talk to people … who come to work here.”

  “They probably don’t come to restore his paintings.”

  “I think he was interested in you, mademoiselle.”

  “He was concerned as to what I should do to his works of art. Now, look at this vaulted ceiling. Notice the shape of the arched door.

  That enables you to place it within a hundred years or so. ” Actually I wanted to talk about her father, to ask how he usually behaved to people in the house; I wanted to know why he would not wish her to visit her grandfather.

  “You speak too fast, mademoiselle, I cannot follow.”

  We descended the staircase, and when we had reached the bottom she said in French: “Now you have been to the top you must see the lower part. Did you know that we had dungeons in the chateau, mademoiselle?”

  “Yes, your father sent me a book which had been written for an ancestor of yours. It gave a very good idea of what the chateau contained.”

  “We used to keep prisoners here, mademoiselle. If anyone offended a Comte de la Talle he was put into the dungeons. My mother told me. She took me there once and showed me. She said that you didn’t have to be in a dungeon, though, to be imprisoned. She said stone walls and chains were one way of keeping prisoners; there were others.”

  I looked at her sharply, but her eyes were wide and innocent and the demure look was still on her face.

  “In the royal chateau there were dungeons … oubliettes they called them because people were sent into them and forgotten. They are the

  prisons of the forgotten. Did you know, mademoiselle, that the only way into these prisons was through trap doors which could not easily be seen from above?”

  “Yes. I have read of these places. The victim was made to stand unsuspectingly on the trap door, which was opened by pressing a lever in another part of the room; suddenly the floor opened beneath him and he would fall down. “

  “Down into the oubliette. It was a long drop. I’ve seen it. Perhaps his leg would be broken and there would be no one to help him; he would lie there forgotten with the bones of others who had gone before him. Mademoiselle, are you afraid of ghosts?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Most of the servants are. They won’t go into the room above the oubliette … at least they won’t go alone. They say at night there are noises in the oubliette… queer groaning noises. Are you sure you want to see it?”

  “My dear Genevieve, I have stayed in some of the most haunted houses in England.”

  Then you are safe. Papa said, didn’t he, that French ghosts would be more polite than English ones and only come when expected. If you aren’t frightened and don’t believe in them you wouldn’t be expecting them, would you? That was what he meant. “

  How she remembered his words! I thought then: The child needs more than discipline. She needs affection. It was three years since her mother had died. How she must have missed it since then with such a father!

  “Mademoiselle, you are sure you are not afraid of the oubliette?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “It is not as it was,” she said almost regretfully.

  “They cleared out a lot of bones and horrid things a long time ago when there was a search for the emeralds. It was my grandfather who did that, and of course the first place you would look for them would be in the oubliette, wouldn’t it? They didn’t find them though, so they weren’t there. They say they were taken away but I think they’re here. I wish Papa would have a treasure hunt again. Wouldn’t that be fun? “

  “I expect thorough searches have been made. From what I have read it seems certain that they were stolen by the revolutionaries who broke into the chateau.”

  “But they didn’t break into the strongroom, did they? And yet the emeralds were gone.”

  “Perhaps the emeralds were sold before the Revolution. Perhaps they hadn’t been in the chateau for years. I’m merely guessing. But suppose one of your ancestors needed money and sold them. He or she might not have told anyone of this. Who can say?”

  She looked at me with surprise. Then she said triumphantly “Have you told my father that?”

  “I’m sure the idea has occurred to him. It’s one obvious solution.”

  “But the woman in the picture you are working on is wearing them. They must have been in the family then.”

  “They could have been imitation.” ^ “Mademoiselle, no de la Talle would wear imitation jewels.”

  I smiled and then gave a little exclamation of pleasure for we had come to a narrow and uneven staircase.

  “This leads underground, mademoiselle. There are eighty steps. I’ve counted them. Can you manage? Hold the rope banister.”

  I did so and followed her down; the staircase became spiral and narrow so there was only room for us to go in single file.

  “Can’t you feel the cold, mademoiselle?” There was a note of excitement in her voice.

  “Oh, imagine being brought down here knowing that you might never come up again. We are now down below the level of the moat.

  This is where we used to keep people who had offended us. “

  Having passed down the eighty steps we were confronted by a heavy oak door studded with iron; words had been carved on it and they stood out clearly and ironically.

  “Entrez, Messieurs, Mesdames, chez votre maitre Ie Comte de la Talle.”

  “You are thinking it a pleasant welcome, mademoiselle?” She was smiling at me slyly and it was as though another girl peeped out from behind that demure expression.

  “I shuddered.

  She came close to me and whispered: “But it is all over now, mademoiselle. This is no longer chez nous. We never entertain here now. Come along in. Look at these holes in the walls. They are called cages. Look at the chains. We used to chain them here and give them bread and water now and then. They never lived long, though. You see, it is dark even now, but with the door shut there is no light at all… no light… no air. Next time we come we must bring candles … or a lantern would be better. The air is so close. If I had brought a light I could have shown you the writing on the walls. Some of them scratched prayers to the saints and the Holy Mother. Some of them scratched what r
evenge they would take on the de la Talles.”

  “It’s unhealthy down here,” I said, looking at the fungoid growth on the slimy walls.

  “And as you say, we can see little without a light.”

  “The oubliette is on the other side of the wall. Come on. I will show you. The oubliette is even more haunted than this place, mademoiselle, because there were the truly forgotten ones.”

  She smiled secretly and led the way up the stairs. Throwing open a door she announced: “This is now the gun-gallery.”

  I stepped inside and saw the guns of all shapes and sizes ranged about the walls. The ceiling was vaulted and supported by stone pillars; the floor appeared to be of flagged stone and was covered in places by rugs. There were the same stone window seats which were in my bedroom and the alcoves narrowing to a slit letting in a little light. I had to admit to myself, although I would not to Genevieve, that there was something chillingly forbid ding about this chamber. It had not been altered for hundreds of years and I could imagine the unsuspecting victim coming into the room. There was one chair, so ornately carved that it was almost like a throne. I wondered that such a piece of furniture was left in a room like this. It was a large wooden chair, and the carving on the back was of the fleursdelis and arms of the de la Talle family. I pictured the man who would sit there and naturally I pictured the present Comte talking to his victim, and then suddenly the pressing of a lever which would release the spring of the trap door; the agonizing scream, or the moment of silent terror as the victim realized what was happening to him as the floor opened and he fell down to join those who had gone before him, never again to see the light of day, to join the forgotten.

  “Help me with the chair, mademoiselle,” said Genevieve.

  “The spring is under it.”

  Together we pushed aside the throne-like chair and Genevieve rolled up the rug.

  “There,” she went on.

  “I press here … and look … see it’s happening.”

  There was a groaning, squeaking sound and it was as though a large square hole had appeared in the floor.

  “In the old days it happened quickly and noiselessly. Look down there, mademoiselle. You can’t see much, can you? But there is a rope ladder.

  It’s kept in the cupboard here. Twice a year some of the menservants go down there, to clean it I suppose. Of course it’s all right now. No bones, mademoiselle, no mouldering bodies. There are only ghosts and you don’t believe in them. “

  She had brought out the rope ladder, hung it on two hooks, which had evidently been fixed for it beneath the floorboards, and let it fall.

  “There, mademoiselle, are you coming down with me?” She started to descend, laughing up at me.

  “I know you’re not afraid.”

  She reached the floor and I followed her.

  We were in a small chamber; a little light penetrated from the open trap door and there was just enough to show me the piteous engravings on the walls.

  “Look at those openings in the walls. They were for a purpose. The prisoners thought there was a way out through them. There’s a sort of maze in which you can lose yourself; you see they would think that if they could find the way through these passages they would be free. They only lead back to the oubliette. It’s called exquisite torture. ”

  “That’s interesting,” I said.

  “I have never heard of that. This must be unique.”

  “Do you want to examine it, mademoiselle? I knew you would because you are not afraid, are you? You are so brave, and you don’t believe in ghosts.”

  I went to the opening in the wall and took a few steps into the darkness. I touched the cold wall and it took me some seconds to realize that this did not lead anywhere. It was merely an alcove cut into the thickness of the wall.

  I turned and heard a low chuckle. Genevieve had ascended the ladder and was pulling it up.

  “You love the past, mademoiselle,” she said.

  “Well, this is like it.

  The de la Talles do still leave their victims to perish in their oubliettes. “

  “Genevieve!” I cried shrilly.

  She laughed.

  “You’re a liar,” she retorted shrilly.

  “But perhaps you don’t know it. Now is the time to find out whether you’re afraid of ghosts! “

  The trap door shut with a bang. For the moment the darkness seemed intense and then my eyes grew accustomed to the dimness. It was some more seconds before the horror of my position began to dawn on me.

  The girl had planned this last night when her father had suggested she should show me the chateau. After a while she would release me. All I had to do was keep a hold on my dignity, to refuse to admit even to myself the rising panic and wait until I was free.

  “Genevieve!” I called.

  “Open that trap door immediately.”

  I knew that my voice could not be heard. The walls were thick, so were the slabs over my head. What would be the point of an oubliette where the screams of the victims could be heard? The very description implied what happened to those who were incarcerated here. Forgotten!

  I had been foolish to trust her. I had had a glimpse of her nature when I had first seen her; yet I had allowed myself to be deceived by her apparent docility. Suppose she was more than mischievous? Suppose she was wicked?

  With sudden horror I asked myself what would happen when I was missed.

  But when should I be missed? Not until dinner time when either a tray would be brought to my room or I should be summoned to dine at the family table. And then . Should I have to wait in this gruesome place all those hours?

  Another thought occurred to me. What if she went to my room, hid my things, making it seem that I had left? She might even forge a note explaining that I had gone because I was not pleased with my reception because I no longer cared to do the work.

  Was she capable of that?

  She could be the daughter of a murderer!

  Was that fair? I knew scarcely anything of the mystery surrounding the

  Comte’s wife all I knew was that there was a mystery. But this girl was strange; she was wild; I now believed she was capable of anything.

  In those first moments of near-panic I understood a little of what those victims must have felt when they found themselves in this terrible place. But I could not compare myself with them. They would have fallen damaging their limbs; I had at least descended by the ladder. I was the victim of a joke; they of revenge. It was quite different. Soon the trap door would open, the girl’s head would appear. I must be very stern with her, at the same time showing no sign of panic and above all retaining my dignity.

  “I sat on the floor leaning against the cold stone wall and looked up at the trap door. I tried to see the time by the watch pinned to my blouse. I could not do so, but the minutes were ticking away. It was useless to pretend I was not frightened. A sense of terrible doom impregnated the place; the air was close; I felt stifled; and I knew that I, who had always prided myself on my calmness, was near to panic.

  Why had I come to the chateau? How much better to have tried to find a respectable post as a governess to which I should have been so well fitted! How much better to have gone to Cousin Jane, to have nursed her, waited on her, read to her, listened to her a hundred times a day reminding me that I was a poor relation!

  I wanted a chance to live quietly, without excitement, I should not mind as long as I could live. How often had I said I would rather be dead than live a life of servitude and I had thought I meant it. Now I was ready to barter independence, a life of interest anything for the chance of remaining alive. I would never have thought it possible until this moment. How much did I know of myself? Could it be that the armour I put on to face the world deceived me as much as it did others?

  I was trying to think of anything which would turn my thoughts from this terrible place in which it seemed to me tortured minds and bodies of those who had suffered had left something behind them.

>   “Do you believe in ghosts, mademoiselle?”

  Not in the broad sceptical daylight when I am within easy reach of my fellow human beings. In a dark oubliette into which I had been tricked and left. I did not know.

  “Genevieve!” I called. And the note of panic in my voice frightened me.

  I stood up and paced up and down. I called again and again until my voice was hoarse. I sat down and tried to be calm; then I paced up and down again. I found myself looking furtively over my shoulder. I began to tell myself that I was watched. I kept my eyes on the opening in the wall which I could just make out and which Genevieve had said was a maze and I knew to be a dark alcove . but I was expecting someone . something to emerge.

  I was afraid that I was going to sob or scream. I tried to take a grip on myself by saying aloud that I would find a way out, although I knew there was no way. I sat down again and tried to shut out the gloom by covering my face with my hands.

  I started up in dismay. There was a sound. I put my hand to my mouth automatically to suppress a scream. I fixed my eyes on that dark aperture.

  A voice said: “Mademoiselle!” And the place had lightened I gave a great sob of relief. The trap door was open, and the grey frightened face of Nounou was looking down at me.

  “Mademoiselle, are you all right?”

  “Yes … Yes …” I had run to look up at her.