“The anxieties! Each year it is the same, and since the big trouble ten years ago, it has not been good here at St. Vallient. Monsieur Jean Pierre is a wizard. The chateau wine is becoming as good as it ever was. I trust soon that Monsieur Ie Comte will allow my husband to retire.”
“Must he await permission from Monsieur Ie Comte?”
“Indeed yes, mademoiselle. Monsieur Ie Comte will give him his cottage. How I long for that day! I will keep a few chickens and a cow … perhaps two; and that will be the best for my husband. It is too much for an old man. How can he, when he is no longer young, fight all the hazards? Who but the good God can say when the frost is coming to destroy the vines? And when the summers are too humid there are always the pests. The spring frosts are the worst, though. The day will be fine and then the frost comes like a thief in the night to rob us of our grapes. And if there is not enough sun then the grapes are sour.
It is a life for a young man . such as Monsieur Jean Pierre. “
“I hope then that you will soon be allowed to retire.”
“It is all in the hands of God, mademoiselle.”
“Or, perhaps,” I suggested, “Monsieur Ie Comte.” She lifted her hands as though to say that was the same thing.
After a while Jean Pierre returned and we left St. Vallient. We talked of the Durands and he said that the poor old man had had his day and it was time he retired.
“I was hearing how he had to wait for the Comte’s decision.”
“Oh yes,” replied Jean Pierre.
“Everything here depends on him.”
“You resent it?”
“The days of despotic rulers are supposed to have ended.”
“You could always break away. He could not prevent you.”
“Leave our home?”
“If you hate him so much …”
“Did I give that impression?”
“When you speak of him, your voice hardens and there is a look in your eyes …”
“It is nothing. I am a proud man, perhaps too proud. This place is my home as much as his. My family has been here through centuries just as his has. The only difference is that his lived in the chateau. But we were all brought up in the shadows of the chateau, and this is our home just as it is his.”
“I understand that.”
“If I do not like the Comte I am merely in the fashion. What does he care for this place? He is hardly ever here. He prefers his mansion in Paris. He does not deign to notice us. We are not worthy of his attention. But I would never let him drive me from my home. I work for him because I must and I try not to see him or think of him. You will feel the same. I expect you already do.”
He began to sing suddenly; he had a pleasant tenor voice which vibrated with emotion.
“Qui sont-ils, les gens qui sont riches? Sont-ils plus que moi quin’ ai rien? Je cours, je was, je vir, je vi ens
Je n’ai pas peur de perd’ ma fortune. ]e cours, je was, je vir, je vi ens Pas peur de perdre mon bien. “
He finished and smiled at me, waiting for my comments.
“I like that,” I said.
“I am so pleased; so do I.”
He was looking at me so intently that I lightly touched my horse’s flank. Bonhomme broke into a gallop. Jean
Pierre was close behind me; and so we returned to Gaillard.
As we passed the vineyard I saw the Comte. He could only have come from the vineyard buildings. He inclined his head in greeting when he saw us.
“You wished to see me, Monsieur Ie Comte?” asked Jean Pierre.
“Another time will do,” answered the Comte, and rode on.
“Should you have been there when he called?” I asked.
“No. He knew I was going to St. Vallient. It was on his instructions that I went.”
He was puzzled, but as we passed the buildings on the way to the Bastide house Gabrielle came out. Her cheeks were flushed and she looked very pretty.
“Gabrielle,” called Jean Pierre.
“Here is Mademoiselle Lawson.”
She smiled at me rather absently, I thought.
“The Comte called, I see,” said Jean Pierre. His manner had changed also.
“What did he want?”
“To look at some figures … that was all. He will call another time to see you.”
Jean Pierre wrinkled his brows and he kept looking at his sister.
Madame Bastide welcomed me as warmly as ever, but I noticed all the time I was there how absentminded Gabrielle was and that even Jean Pierre was subdued.
While I was working in the gallery next morning the Comte looked in.
“And how is the work progressing?” he asked.
“Satisfactorily, I think,” I answered.
He looked quizzically at the picture on which I was working. I pointed out the surface coating, which was brittle and discoloured, and said that I had come to the conclusion that the varnish was responsible for the buckling of the paint.
“I’m sure you’re right,” he said lightly.
“I am glad too that you don’t spend all your time working.”
I thought he was referring to the fact that he had seen me riding on the previous day when I might have been working in the gallery and I retorted hotly: “My father always said that it was not wise to work after luncheon. The work demands great concentration, and after having worked all the morning one is possibly not as alert as one should be.”
“You looked surprisingly alert when we met yesterday.”
“Alert?” I repeated the word foolishly.
“At least,” he went on, ‘as though the amenities we have to offer are as interesting outside the chateau as in. “
“You mean the horse? You did say I might ride if I had the opportunity.”
“I am delighted that you are able to find opportunities … and friends with whom to share them.”
I was startled. Surely he could not object to my being friendly with Jean Pierre.
“It is kind of you to take an interest in how I spend my leisure time.”
“Well, you know I happen to have a great regard for … my pictures.”
We walked round the gallery studying them, but I fancied he was not doing so with real attention; and I believed he was critical of my riding not with Jean Pierre, but riding when I might have been working. The idea made me indignant. I had quoted an estimate for the work, but of course if I completed it quickly I would cease to live at the chateau and so cease to be a burden on the household.
I blurted out: “If you are not satisfied with the speed at which I am working …”
He spun round as though delighted and smiled at me across the distance which separated us.
“What gave you such an idea. Mademoiselle Lawson?”
“I thought… I imagined …”
His head was slightly on one side. He was discovering traits in my character of which I myself had not been aware. He was saying: See how quickly you take offence! Why? Because you feel yourself to be vulnerable . very vulnerable?
Then,” I went on lamely, ‘you are satisfied with what I am doing?”
“Immensely so, Mademoiselle Lawson.”
I turned back to my work and he continued to walk round the gallery. I was not looking when he went out and shut the door quietly behind him.
I could not work comfortably for the rest of that morning.
Genevieve came running after me when I was on my way to the stables.
“Mademoiselle, will you ride over to Carrefour with me?”
“Carrefour?”
“My grandfather’s house. If you won’t come I shall have to take one of the grooms. I’m going to see my grandfather. I’m sure he’d like to meet you.”
If I had been inclined to refuse such an ungracious invitation the mention of her grandfather decided me.
Through Nounou’s conversation and the little notebooks which Fran9oise had written I had a clear picture of a neat little girl with her innocent secrets and her ch
arming ways. Now the opportunity to meet the little girl’s father and to see the house which formed a background to the life portrayed in those notebooks was irresistible.
Genevieve sat her horse with the ease of one who had been in the saddle from early childhood. Occasionally she pointed out landmarks to me and at one spot pulled up so that we could look back at the chateau.
It was an impressive sight seen from this distance; here one could get a better conception of the symmetry of those ancient embattled walls, the massive buttresses, the cylindrical towers and the sharp conical points which rose from the roofs. There it stood in the midst of the vineyards; I could see the church spire and the hotel de ville standing guard over the houses of the little town.
“You like it?” asked Genevieve.
“I think it’s a lovely sight.”
“It all belongs to Papa but it never will to me. I should have been a son. Then Papa would have been pleased with me.”
“If you are good and well-mannered he will be pleased with you,” I replied sententiously.
She looked at me with the scorn I felt I deserved.
“Really, mademoiselle, you do talk just like a governess. They always say things they don’t mean. They tell you you should do this … but they don’t always do it themselves.” She looked at me sideways, laughing to herself.
“Oh, I don’t mean Esquilles. She should never do anything. But there are some …”
I remembered suddenly the governess whom she had shut in the oubliette and I did not pursue the conversation.
She touched her horse’s flanks and galloped ahead of me, a charming picture with her hair flying out from under her riding hat. I came up beside her.
“If Papa had had a son we need not have Cousin Philippe here. That would have been pleasant.”
“I am sure he is always kind to you.”
She gave me a sidelong glance.
“At one time I was going to marry him.”
“Oh … I see. And not now.”
She shook her head.
“I don’t care. You don’t imagine I should want to marry Philippe, do you?”
“He is considerably older than you.”
“Fourteen years…. just double.”
“But I suppose as you grew older the disparity would not seem so great.”
“Well, Papa decided against it. Tell me, why do you think he did that, mademoiselle? You know so much.”
“I assure you I know nothing of your father’s intentions. I know nothing of your father …” I was surprised at the heat in which I had spoken, for it was quite uncalled for.
“So you don’t know everything! I’ll tell you something. Philippe was very angry when he knew Papa wouldn’t let him marry me.”
She tossed her head and smiled complacently so I retorted: “Perhaps he does not know you very well.”
That made her laugh.
“It’s nothing to do with me really,” she admitted.
“It’s being Papa’s daughter. No, when my mother was … when my mother died, Papa changed his mind. He changed a great deal then. I think he wanted to insult Philippe.”
“Why should he want to insult Philippe?”
“Oh … just because it amuses him. He hates people.”
“I am sure that is not the truth. People don’t hate indiscriminately without reason.”
“My father is not like ordinary people.” She spoke almost proudly her voice unconsciously vibrating with hatred, a queer inverted hatred which was touched with respect.
“We are all different,” I said quickly.
Her laughter was high-pitched and I noticed that it took on this quality when she talked of her father.
“He hates me,” she went on.
“I am like my mother, you see. Nounou says I grow more like her every day. I remind him of her.”
“You have listened to too much gossip.”
“Perhaps you haven’t listened to enough.”
“Listening to gossip is not a very admirable way of spending the time.”
That made her laugh again.
“All I can say, miss, is that you don’t always spend your time admirably.”
I felt myself flush with that annoyance which a home truth inspires.
She pointed at me.
“You love to gossip, miss. Never mind. I like you for it. I couldn’t bear you if you were as good and proper as you make out to be.”
“Why don’t you speak to your father naturally not as though you’re afraid of him?” I said.
“But everybody’s afraid of him.”
“I am not.”
“Really, miss?”
“Why should I be? If he doesn’t like my work he can say so and I should go away and never see him again.”
“Yes, it might be easy for you. My mother was afraid of him … terribly afraid of him.”
“Did she tell you so?”
“Not in words, but I knew. And you know what happened to her.”
I said: “Isn’t it time we went on? We shan’t be back before dark if we dally like this.”
She looked at me pleadingly for a moment and then said: “Yes, but do you think when people die … not like ordinary people die but when they are … Do you think that some people don’t rest in their graves?
Do you think they come back looking for . “
I said sharply: “Genevieve, what are you saying?”
“Miss,” she said, and it was like a cry for help, ‘sometimes at night I wake up startled and I think I hear noises in the chateau. “
“My dear Genevieve, everyone awakes startled now and then. It’s usually a bad dream.”
“Footsteps … tapping … I hear it. I do. I do. And I lie there shivering … expecting to see …”
“Your mother?”
This girl was frightened; she was stretching out to me for help. It was no use telling her she was speaking nonsense, that there were no ghosts. That would not help her at all because she would think it was merely grownup talk to soothe the children.
I said: “Listen, Genevieve, suppose there are ghosts, suppose your mother did come back?”
She nodded, her eyes enormous with interest.
“She loved you, didn’t she?”
I saw her hands tighten on the reins.
“Oh, yes, she loved me … no one loved me like she did.”
“She would never have hurt you, would she? Do you think that now she is dead she would have changed towards you?”
I saw the relaxed expression; I was pleased with myself. I had found the comfort she so desperately needed.
I went on: “When you were a child she looked after you:
if she saw you about to fall she would rush to pick you up, wouldn’t she? ” She nodded.
“Why should she change towards you because she is dead? I think what you hear is creaking boards in a very old house, the rattle of doors, windows … anything like that. There could be mice … But just suppose there are ghosts. Don’t you think your mother would be there to protect you from harm?”
“Yes,” she said, her eyes shining.
“Yes, she would. She loved me.”
“Remembef that if you awake startled in the night.”
“Oh, yes,” she said.
“I will.”
I was pleased, and felt that to continue the conversation might spoil the effect I had made so I moved on and in a short while we were cantering side by side.
We did not speak again until we reached Maison Carrefour.
It was an old house standing back from the crossroads. A thick stone wall surrounded it, but the elaborately-wrought iron gates were open.
We went through these gates and under a wide archway and were in an inner courtyard. There were green shutters at the windows, and I was immediately conscious of a deep silence. I had imagined the home of the bright little girl who had recorded her daily life in her notebooks to be different from this.
Genevieve glanced at me quickly to guess
my reactions, but I hoped I betrayed nothing.
We left our horses in the stables and Genevieve led me to a door.
She lifted the heavy knocker and I heard the sound reverberating through the lower part of the house. There was silence; then came the shuffle of footsteps, and a manservant appeared.
“Good day, Maurice,” said Genevieve.
“Mademoiselle Lawson has come with me today.”
The courtesies exchanged, we were in the hall, the floor of which was covered with mosaic tiles.
“How is my grandfather today, Maurice?” asked Genevieve.
“Much the same, mademoiselle. I will see if he is ready.”
The manservant disappeared for a few moments before he came back to the hall and said that his master would see us now.
There was no fire in the room and the chill struck me as I entered. At one time it must have been beautiful, for it was perfectly proportioned. The ceiling was carved and there was an inscription on it which I couldn’t see clearly except that it was in medieval French; the closed shutters kept out all but the minimum of light and the room was austerely furnished. In a wheelchair sat an old man. He startled me for he was more like a corpse than a living human being; his eyes were sunken in his cadaverous face and were too brilliant. In his hands he held a book which he had closed as we entered. He was wearing a brown dressing-gown tied with a brown cord.
“Grandfather,” said Genevieve, “I have come to see you.”
“My child,” he answered in a surprisingly firm voice, and held out a thin white hand on which blue veins stood out.
“And,” went on Genevieve, “I have brought Mademoiselle Lawson who has come from England and is cleaning my father’s pictures.”
The eyes which were all that seemed alive about him were trying to probe my mind.
“Mademoiselle Lawson, you will forgive my not rising. I can do so only with great difficulty and the help of my servants. I am pleased you have come with my grand daughter. Genevieve, bring a chair for Mademoiselle Lawson … and for yourself.”
“Yes, Grandfather.”
We sat before him. He was charmingly courteous; he asked me about my work, expressed great interest and said that Genevieve must show me his collection. Some of it might be in need of restoration. The thought of living, even temporarily, in such a house as this, depressed me. For all its mystery the chateau was alive. Alive! That was it. This was like a house of the dead.
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