“Do you know that area of France?” Edward asked.
“I have never been to France at all,” I confessed.
“Well, it’s a desolate area. The house is in a wild and
remote district right in the Gorge itself. It’s a rugged
country, with huge cliffs and deep gloomy gorges, waterfalls and rushing torrents, not unlike the Gustave Dore drawings for Dante’s Inferno, you know.” Edward
paused to sip his drink thoughtfully and then occupied
himself with lighting a cigar. When it was drawing to his
satisfaction, he went on. “In the house, apart from the
family retainers of which there seemed to be only three
(a small number for such a large establishment), was the
uncle and his nephew, who, I take it, was your visitor of
the other night. The uncle was—well, not to put too fine
a point on it— a most unpleasant old man. He must have
been about eighty-five, I suppose, with a really evil,
leering face, and an oily manner that he obviously
thought was charm. The boy was about fourteen, I
suppose, with huge dark eyes in a pale face. He seemed
an intelligent lad, old for his age, but the thing that
worried me was that he seemed to be suffering from
intense fear, a fear, it seemed to me, of his uncle. The
first night I arrived, after we had had dinner which was,
to my mind, meager and badly cooked fare for France, I
went to bed early, for I was fatigued after my journey.
The old man and the boy stayed up. As luck would have
it, the dining room was directly below my bedroom, and
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so although I could not hear clearly all that passed
between them, I could hear enough to discern that the
old man was doing his best to persuade his nephew into
some course of action that the boy found repugnant, for
he was vehement in his refusal. The argument went on
for some time, the uncle’s voice getting louder and
louder and more angry. Suddenly, I heard the scrape of a
chair as the boy stood and shouted— positively shouted,
my dear Peter— in French at his uncle, ‘No, no, I will not
be devoured so that you may live . . . I hate you.’ I heard
it quite clearly and I thought it an astonishing statement
for a young boy to make. Then I heard the door of the
dining salon open and bang shut, and I heard the boy’s
footsteps running up the stairs and, eventually, the
banging of what I assumed was his bedroom door. After
a short while I heard the uncle get up from the table and
come upstairs. There was no mistaking his footfall, for
one of his feet was twisted and misshapen, and so he
walked slowly with a pronounced limp, dragging his left
foot. He came slowly up the stairs, and I do assure you,
my dear Peter, there was positive evil in this slow,
shuffling approach that really made my hair stand on
end. I heard him go to the boy’s bedroom door, open it
and enter. He called the boy’s name two or three times,
softly and cajolingly, but with indescribable menace.
Then he said one sentence that I could not catch. After
this he closed the boy’s door and for some moments I
could hear him dragging and shuffling down the long
corridor to his own quarters. I opened my door and from
the boy’s room I could hear muffled weeping, as though
the poor child had his head under the bedclothes. It went
on for a long time, and I was very worried. I wanted to go
and comfort the lad, but I felt it might embarrass him,
and in any case it was really none of my business. But I
did not like the situation at all. The whole atmosphere,
my dear Peter, was charged with something unpleasant. I
am not a superstitious man, as you well know, but I lay
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awake for a long time and wondered if I could stay in the
atmosphere of that house for the two or three weeks it
would take me to finish the job I had agreed to do.
Fortunately, fate gave me the chance I needed: the very
next day I received a telegram saying that my sister had
fallen gravely ill and so, quite legitimately, I could ask de
Teildras Villeray to release me from my contract. He
was, of course, most reluctant to do so, but he eventually
agreed with ill grace. While I was waiting for the dogcart
to arrive to take me to the station, I had a quick look
round some of his library which, since it was really
extensive, spread all over the house. But the bulk of it
was housed in what he referred to as the Long Gallery, a
very handsome long room that would not have disgraced
one of our aristocratic country houses. It was all hung
with giant mirrors between the bookcases. In fact, the
whole house was full of mirrors. I can never remember
being in a house with so many before. Well, he certainly
had a rare and valuable collection, particularly on one of
your pet subjects, Peter: the occult. I noticed, in my
hurried browse, among other things some most interesting Hebrew manuscripts on witchcraft, as well as an original copy of Mathew Hopkin’s Discovery o f Witches
and a truly beautiful copy of Dee’s De Mirabilius
Naturae. But then the dogcart arrived and, making my
farewells, I left. I can tell you, my dear boy, I was never
so glad in my life to be quit of a house. I truly believe the
old man to have been evil and would not be surprised to
learn that he practiced witchcraft and was trying to
involve that nice young lad in his foul affairs. However, I
have no proof of this, you understand, so that is why I
would not wish you to repeat it. I should imagine that the
uncle is now dead, or if not, he must be in his nineties. As
to the boy, I later heard from friends in Paris that there
were rumors that his private life was not all it should be,
some talk of his attachment to certain women, you
know, but this was all circumstantial, and in any case, as
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you know, dear boy, foreigners have a totally different
set of morals to an Englishman. It is one of the many
things that sets us apart from the rest of the world, thank
God.”
I had listened with great interest to Edward’s account,
and I resolved to ask Gideon about his uncle if I got the
chance.
So I prepared myself for my trip to France with, I must
admit, pleasurable anticipation, and on April the fourteenth I embarked on the train to Dover, thence uneventfully (even to mal de mer) to Calais. I spent the night in Paris, sampling the delights of French food and wine,
and the following day I embarked once more on the
train. Eventually, I arrived at the bustling station at
Tours, and Gideon was there to meet me, as he had
promised he would. He seemed in great spirits and
greeted me as if 1 were an old and valued friend, which, I
confess, flattered me. I thanked him for coming to meet
me, but he waved my thanks away.
“ It’s nothing, my dear Peter,” he said. “I have nothing
to do ex
cept eat, drink and grow fat. A visit from
someone like you is a rare pleasure.”
Outside the station we entered a handsome brougham
drawn by two beautiful bay horses, and we set off at a
spanking pace through the most delicious countryside,
all green and gold and shimmering in the sunlight. We
drove for an hour along roads that got progressively
narrower and narrower, until we were travelling along
between high banks emblazoned with flowers of every
sort, while overhead, the branches of the trees on each
side of the road entwined branches covered with the
delicate green leaves of spring. Occasionally, there would
be a gap in the trees and high banks, and I could see the
silver gleam of the Loire between the trees and realized
that we were driving parallel to the great river. Once, we
passed the massive stone gateposts and huge wrought
iron gates that guarded the wide paths up to an immense
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and very beautiful chateau in gleaming pinky-yellow
stone. Gideon saw me looking at it, perhaps with an
expression of wonder, for it did look like something out
of a fairy tale, and he smiled.
“I hope, my dear Peter, that you do not expect to find
me living in a monster like that? If so, you will be
doomed to disappointment. I am afraid that my chateau
is a miniature one, but big enough for my needs.”
I protested that I did not care if he lived in a cow shed:
for me the experience of being in France for the first time
and seeing all these new sights, and with the prospect of a
fascinating job at the end of it, was more than sufficient.
It was not until evening, when the mauve tree shadows
were stretched long across the green meadows that we
came to Gideon’s establishment, the Chateau St. Claire.
The gateposts were surmounted by two large, delicately
carved owls in a pale honey-colored stone, and I saw that
the same motif had been carried out most skillfully in
the wrought iron gates that hung from the pillars. As
soon as we entered the grounds, I was struck by the
contrast to the countryside we had been passing through,
which had been exuberant and unkempt, alive with wild
flowers and meadows, shaggy with long rich grass. Here
the drive was lined with giant oak and chestnut trees,
each the circumference of a small room, gnarled and
ancient, with bark as thick as an elephant’s hide. How
many hundred years these trees had guarded the entrance to the Chateau St. Claire, I could not imagine, but many of them must have been well-grown trees when
Shakespeare was a young man. The greensward under
them was as smooth as baize on a billiard table, and
responsible for this were several herds of spotted fallow
deer, grazing peacefully in the setting sun’s rays. The
bucks, with their fine twisted antlers, threw up their
heads and gazed at us without fear as we clopped past
them and down the avenue. Beyond the greensward I
could see a line of gigantic poplars and, gleaming be
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tween them, the Loire. Then the drive turned away from
the river and the chateau came into sight. It was, as
Gideon had said, small but perfect, as a miniature is
perfect. In the evening sun its pale straw-colored walls
glowed and the light gave a soft and delicate patina to the
bluish slate of the roofs of the main house and its two
turrets. It was surrounded by a wide verandah of great
flagstone, hemmed in by a wide balustrade on which
were perched above thirty peacocks, their magnificent
tails trailing down towards the well-kept lawn. Around
the balustrade, the flower beds, beautifully kept, were
ablaze with flowers in a hundred different colors that
seemed to merge with the peacocks’ tails which trailed
amongst them. It was a magnificent and breathtaking
sight. The carriage pulled up by the wide steps, the butler
threw open the door of the brougham, and Gideon
dismounted, took off his hat and swept me a low bow,
grinning mischievously.
“Welcome to the Chateau St. Claire,” he said.
Thus for me began an enchanted three weeks, for it
was more of a holiday than work. The miniature but
impeccably kept and furnished chateau was a joy to live
in. The tiny park that meandered along the riverbank
was also beautifully kept, for every tree looked as if it
were freshly groomed; the emerald lawns looked as if
they were combed each morning; and the peacocks,
trailing their glittering tails amongst the massive trees,
looked as if they had just left the careful hands of
Faberge. Combined with a fine cellar and a kitchen ruled
over by a red balloon of a chef whose deft hands could
conjour up the most delicate and aromatic of meals, you
had a close approach to an earthly paradise. The mornings would be spent sorting and cataloguing the books (and a most interesting collection it was), and then in the
afternoon Gideon would insist that we go swimming or
for a ride round the park, for he possessed a small stable
of very nice horses. In the evenings, after dinner, we
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would sit out on the still sun-warmed terrace and talk,
our conversation made warm and friendly with the wine
we had consumed and the excellent meal we had eaten.
Gideon was an excellent host, a brilliant raconteur and
this, together with his extraordinary gift for mimicry,
made him a most entertaining companion. I shall never
know now, of course, whether he deliberately exerted all
his charm in order to ensnare my liking and friendship. I
like to think not; I like to think that he quite genuinely
liked me and my company. Not that I suppose it matters
now. But certainly, as day followed day, I grew fonder
and fonder of Gideon. I am a solitary creature by nature,
and I have only a very small circle of friends— close
friends— whom I see perhaps once or twice a year,
preferring, for my part, my own company. However, my
time spent at the chateau with Gideon had an extraordinary effect upon me. It began to dawn upon me that I had perhaps made myself into too much of a recluse. It was
also borne upon me most forceably that all my friends
were of a different age group; they were all much older
than I was. Gideon, if I could count him as a friend (and
by this time, I certainly did), was the only friend I had
who was, roughly speaking, my own age. Under his
influence I began to expand. As he said to me one night, a
slim cigar crushed between his strong white teeth,
squinting a t me past the blue smoke, “The trouble with
you, Peter, is that you are in danger of becoming a young
fogey.” I had laughed, of course, but on reflection I knew
he was right. I also knew that when the time came for me
to leave the chateau, I would miss his volatile company a
great deal, probably more than I cared to admit, even to
myself.
In all our talks Gideon discussed his extensive family
with me with a sort of ironic affection, telling me
anecdotes to illustrate their stupidity or their eccentricity, never maliciously but rather with a sort of detached good humor. However, the curious thing was that he
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never once mentioned his uncle, the Marquis, until one
evening. We were sitting out on the terrace, watching the
white owls that lived in the hollow oaks along the drive
doing their first hunting swoops across the greensward in
front of us. I had been telling him of a book which I knew
was to be put up for sale in the autumn and which I
thought could be purchased for some two thousand
pounds, a large price, but it was an important work and I
felt he should have it in his library, as it complemented
the other works he had on the subject. Did he want me to
bid for him? He had flipped his cigar butt over the
balustrade into the flower bed, where it lay gleaming like
a monstrous red glowworm, and he chuckled softly.
“Two thousand pounds?” he said. “My dear Peter, I
am not rich enough to indulge my hobby to that extent
unfortunately. If my uncle were to die now it would be a
different story.”
“Your uncle?” I queried cautiously. “I did not know
you had any uncles.”
“Only one, thank God,” said Gideon, “but unfortunately he holds the purse strings of the family fortunes and the old swine appears to be indestructible. He is
ninety-one and when I last saw him, a year or two back,
he did not look a day over fifty. However, in spite of all
his efforts I do not believe him to be immortal, and so
one day the devil will gather him to his bosom, and on
that happy day I will inherit a very large sum of money
and a library that will make even you, my dear Peter,
envious. But until that day comes I cannot go around
spending two thousand pounds on a book. But waiting
for dead men’s shoes is a tedious occupation, and my
uncle is an unsavory topic of conversation, so let’s have
some more wine and talk of something pleasant.”
“If he is unsavory, then he is in contrast to the rest of
your relatives you have told me about,” I said lightly,
hoping he would give me further information about his
infamous uncle.
Visions of Fear - Foundations of Fear III (1992) Page 38