The Demon Lover

by Виктория Холт

  The servant bowed in the same ceremonious fashion and signed for us to follow him.

  We were taken into a large hall with an arched roof supported by thick round stone columns. There were several windows but they were so narrow that they did not let in a great deal of light; stone benches were cut out of the wall; there was a long, beautifully carved table in the centre of the hall -a concession to a later period, for I presumed the hall itself was pure Norman, and another concession was that there was glass in the windows.

  “Excuse me for one moment,” said the servant.

  “I will acquaint Monsieur de Marnier of your arrival.”

  My father and I looked at each other in suppressed awe when we were alone.

  “So far, so good,” he whispered.

  I agreed, with the proviso that we had not yet come very far.

  In a very short time we were making the acquaintance of Monsieur de Marnier who quickly let us know that he held the very responsible post of Majordomo, house steward of the Chateau de Centeville. He was a very impressive personage in a blue coat with splashes of gold braid on it and large buttons which depicted something. As far as I could see at the time it seemed to be some sort of ship. Monsieur de Marnier was both gracious and disturbed. He had been misled. He had been told one gentleman.

  “This is my daughter,” explained my father.

  “I thought it was understood. I don’t travel without her. She is necessary to my work.”

  “Of course, Monsieur Collison. Of course. An oversight. I will discover … It will be necessary to have a room prepared. I will see to that. It is a bagatelle… of no importance. If you will come to the room which has been prepared for Monsieur, I will arrange for one to be made ready for Mademoiselle. We dine at eight of the clock.

  Would you care for some refreshment to be sent to your room meanwhile? ”

  I said some coffee would be excellent.

  He bowed.

  “Coffee and a little gouter. It shall be done. Please to follow me. Monsieur de Mortemer will see you at dinner. He will then acquaint you with what is expected.”

  He led the way up a wide staircase and along a gallery. Then we came to a stone spiral staircase-typically Norman, which was a further indication of the age of the castle, each step being built into the wall at one end leaving a round piece at the other as the shaft. I was a little concerned for my father as his eyes might fail him in the sudden change of light on this rather dangerous staircase. I insisted that he go ahead and I walked close behind him in case he should stumble.

  At length we came to another hall. We were very high and I could see that up here the light would be good and strong. We turned off the hall to a corridor. The servant opened the door to that room which had been allotted to my father. It was large and contained a bed and several pieces of heavy furniture of an early period. The windows were long and narrow, excluding the light; and the walls were decorated with weapons and tapestry.

  I could feel the past all around me but here again there were a few concessions to modern comfort. I saw that behind the bed a ruelle had been made. It was an alcove in which one could wash and dress a kind of dressing-room which would have no place in a Norman fortress.

  “You will be informed, Mademoiselle, when your room is ready for you,” I was told.

  Then we were alone.

  My father seemed to have cast off a good many years. He was like a mischievous boy.

  “The antiquity of everything!” he cried.

  “I could fancy I was back eight hundred years and that Duke William is going to appear suddenly to tell us that he plans to conquer England.”

  “Yes, I feel that too. It is decidedly feudal. I wonder who this Monsieur de Mortemer is?”

  “The name was spoken with such respect that he might be the son of the house.”

  “Surely the Baron who is about to be married wouldn’t have a son … one who is old enough to receive us at any rate.”

  “Could be a second marriage. I hope not. I want him to be young, unlined … Then he will look handsome.”

  “Older faces can be more interesting,” I pointed out.

  “If people realized it, yes. But they all long for the contours of youth, the un shadowed eyes, the matt complexions. For an interesting miniature give me the not so young. But so much depends on this. If we can make our subject look handsome … then we shall get many commissions. That is what we need, daughter.”

  “You talk as though they are going to accept me. I have my doubts. At the Court of Francois Premier they might have done. He loved women in every way and respected their equal right to intelligence and achievement. I doubt we shall find the same in feudal Normandy.”

  “You’re judging our host by his castle.”

  “I sense that he clings to the past. I feel it in the air.”

  “We shall see, Kate. In the meantime let us think up a good plan of action. I wonder where we shall be working. It’ll have to be lighter than these rooms.”

  “I am beginning to wonder where this will end.”

  “Let us concern ourselves first with the beginning. We’re here, Kate.

  We’re going to meet this Monsieur de Mortemer tonight. Let’s see what he has to say to your presence here. “

  While we were talking there was a knock and a maidservant came in carrying coffee and a kind of brioche with a fruit preserve. When we had eaten, she said she would return and take me to my room, which was next to my father’s. Then water would be brought for us to wash. We had plenty of time before dinner.

  The coffee and brioche were delicious and my spirits rose. I began to catch my father’s optimism.

  My room was very like his. There were thick carpets on the floor and the draperies at the window were of dull purple velvet. There was an armoire, some chairs and a table on which stood a heavy mirror. I knew I could be comfortable here.

  My luggage was brought in and I prepared to change for dinner.

  What did one wear in a place like this? I had imagined that there would be a certain amount of ceremony, and I was thankful for Lady Farringdon’s parties for which I had had several dresses made.

  I chose a fairly sober one of dark green velvet with a full skirt and fitted bodice. It was by no means a ball gown but it had been suitable for the musical evenings which Lady Farringdon had given and I thought it would fit the present occasion. Moreover I always felt my most confident in that colour green jewel colour, my father called it.

  “The old masters were able to produce it,” he said.

  “No one else was very successful with it after the seventeenth century. In those days colour was important and great artists had their secrets which they kept to themselves. It’s different now. You have to buy it in a tube and it is not the same.”

  When I was ready I went to my father’s room. He was waiting for me and I had not been there more than a few minutes when there was a discreet tap on the door. It was the steward himself who had come to conduct us down to dinner.

  We seemed to walk some distance and were in another part of the castle. The architecture had changed a little. The castle was evidently vast and must have been added to considerably over the centuries. It seemed to have changed from early Norman to late Gothic.

  We were in a small room panelled with a painted ceiling which caught my eye immediately. I should enjoy examining that at some later time.

  In fact there were so many features of this place about which I had promised myself the same thing. We had been hurried through a. picture gallery and I was sure my father found the same difficulty as I did in not begging the steward to call a halt so that we might study the pictures.

  This was like an anteroom the sort of place, I thought, where one might wait to receive an audience with a king. This Baron de Centeville seemed to live like a king. I wondered what sort efface he had. I had a strong feeling that it was not going to suit a miniature.

  Someone had entered the room. I caught my breath. He was the most
handsome man I had ever seen. He was of medium height with light brown hair and eyes; he was elegantly dressed and his dinner jacket was of a rather more elaborate cut than I was accustomed to seeing at home. His very white shirt was daintily tucked and his cravat was of sapphire blue. A single stone sparkled in it as only a diamond could.

  He bowed low and taking my hand kissed it.

  “Welcome,” he said in English, “I am delighted to receive you on behalf of my cousin, the Baron de Centeville. He regrets he is unable to see you tonight. He will be here tomorrow. You must be hungry.

  Would you care to come to dinner immediately? It is a small affair this evening. We dine . a trois . very in time . I thought that best on the night of your arrival. Tomorrow we can make arrangements. ”

  My father thanked him for his gracious welcome.

  “I fear,”

  he said, ‘that there may have been some misunderstanding and only I was expected. My daughter is also a painter. I find it difficult nowadays to travel without her. “

  “It is our great pleasure to have Mademoiselle Collison with us,” said our host.

  He then informed us that he was Bertrand de Mortemer, a distant cousin of the Baron. The Baron was the head of the family . He was a member of a smaller branch. We understood?

  We said we understood perfectly and it was very good of Monsieur de Mortemer to show such solicitude for our comfort.

  “The Baron has heard of your fame,” he explained.

  “As you may have been told, he is about to marry and the miniature is to be a gift for his bride elect. The Baron may ask you to paint a miniature of his bride if…”

  “If,” I finished bluntly, ‘he likes the work. “

  Monsieur de Mortemer bowed his head in acknowledgement of the truth of this.

  “He will most certainly like it,” he added.

  “Your miniatures are well known throughout the Continent, Monsieur Collison.”

  I was always deeply moved to see my father’s gratification at praise and it was particularly poignant now that his powers were fading. I felt a great surge of tenderness towards him.

  He was growing more and more confident every minute-and so was I. One could not imagine Monsieur de Mortemer being anything but pleasant and if the great and mighty Baron were like him, then we were indeed safe.

  “The Baron is a connoisseur of art,” said Monsieur de Mortemer.

  “He enjoys beauty in any form. He has seen a great deal of your work and has a very high opinion of it. It was for this reason that be selected you to do the miniature rather than one of our own countrymen.”

  “The art of miniature painting is the one I think in which the English can be said to excel above others,” said my father, off on to one of his favourite subjects.

  “It is strange because it was developed in other countries before it came to England. Your own Jean Pucelle had his own group in the fourteenth century while our Nicolas Hilliard, who might be said to be our founder, came along two centuries later.”

  “It requires much patience, this art of the miniature,” said Monsieur de Mortemer.

  “That is it, eh?”

  “A great deal,” I corroborated.

  “Do you actually live here with your cousin, Monsieur de Mortemer?”

  “No… no. I live with my parents… south of Paris. When I was a boy I lived here for a while. I learned how to manage an estate and live er … comme Ufaut… you understand? My cousin in my patron.

  Is that how you say it? “

  “A sort of guiding influence, the patriarch of the family?”

  “Perhaps,” he answered with a smile.

  “My family estate is small in comparison. My cousin is … er … very helpful to us.”

  “I understand perfectly. I hope I am not asking impertinent questions.”

  “I am sure, Mademoiselle Collison, that you could never be impertinent. I am honoured that you should feel such an interest in my affairs.”

  “When we … when my father is going to paint a miniature he likes to know as much as he can about the subject. The Baron seems to be a very important man … not only in Centeville but in the whole of France.”

  “He is Centeville, Mademoiselle. I could tell you a great deal about him, but it is best that you discover for yourself. People do not always see through the same eyes, and perhaps a painter should only look through his own.”

  I thought: I have asked too many questions, and I can see that Monsieur de Mortemer is the soul of discretion. But toujours la politesse A good old French saying. He is right. We must discover this all-important Baron for ourselves.

  My father turned the conversation to the castle. He obviously felt that would be a safe subject.

  We had been right in thinking that the original structure dated back to some time before 1066. Then it had been a fortress with little more than sleeping quarters for the defenders and the rest equipped for fighting off invaders Over the intervening centuries it had been added to. The sixteenth century had been the era of building. Francois Premier had set the fashion and had built Chambord and restored and, embellished wherever he went. A great deal had been added to Centeville in his day, but this was apparent only in the interior.

  Wisely, the Norman aspect had been preserved outwardly, which was probably the reason why the place was so impressive.

  Monsieur de Mortemer talked enthusiastically about the castle and the treasures it contained.

  “The Baron is a collector,” he explained.

  “He inherited many beautiful things and he has added to them. It will be my pleasure to show you some of the rare pieces here.”

  “Do you think the Baron will permit that?”

  “I am sure he will. He will be gratified by your interest.”

  “I am a little concerned as to where I shall paint the miniature,” said my father.

  “Ah yes, indeed. The Baron has employed artists here before. He understands about the light which will be needed. Previously the work has been executed in what we call the Sunshine Room. That is a room we have here in that part of the castle which is the most modern, by which I mean it is seventeenth-century. It was built to let in the sun on all sides. It is high and there are windows in the roof. You will see it tomorrow. I think it will please.”

  “It sounds ideal,” I said.

  We talked desultorily on one or two other topics. The journey we had had, the countryside compared with that at home and so on, until finally he said: “You must be absolutely exhausted. Let me have you conducted to your rooms. I hope you will then have a good night and in the morning you will feel refreshed.”

  “Ready to meet the Baron,” I added.

  He smiled and his smile was very warn and friendly. I felt a glow of pleasure. I liked him. I liked him very much. I found his perfect grooming not in the least effeminate, only very pleasant. I thought he had a charming smile and although his implication that we bestowed a privilege on Centeville by being here might not be entirely sincere, it had certainly put us at our ease, and I liked him still more for that.

  It was a relief to get into bed that night. I was very tired, for the journey and the apprehension as to what we should find at the end of it had exhausted me so completely that I was asleep almost as soon as my head touched the pillow.

  I was awakened by a gentle tapping at the door. It was one of the maids bringing petit dejeuner which consisted of coffee, rolls of crusty bread with butter and confiture.

  “I will bring you hot water in ten minutes, Mademoiselle,” she told me.

  I sat up in bed and drank the coffee, which was delicious. I was hungry enough to enjoy the rolls.

  The sun was shining through the long narrow window and I felt a pleasurable sense of excitement. The real adventure was about to begin.

  When I was washed and dressed I went to my father’s room. He had been awakened when I had, and had enjoyed his coffee and rolls and was now ready.

  Monsieur de Marnier appeared. He had instr
uctions to take us to Monsieur de Mortemer when we were ready.

  We followed him to that part of the castle where we had taken dinner on the previous evening. Bertrand de Mortemer was awaiting us in what I called the anteroom with the painted ceiling.

  “Good morning,” he said, smiling most agreeably.

  “I trust you have slept comfortably.”

  We assured him that we had and were most grateful for all the concern of our wellbeing which was shown to us.

  He spread his hands. It was nothing, he told us. Centeville was privileged.

  “Now you will wish to see the Sunshine Room. Would you follow me.”

  We were delighted when we saw it.

  It had been built by one of the Barons who had had an artist working in the castle on a permanent basis.

  “Do you think it will suit you?” asked Bertrand.

  “It’s perfect,” I told him and my father agreed with me.

  “So often one is expected to paint in rooms which are quite inadequate,” he said.

  “This will be just what we need.”

  “Perhaps you would like to arrange … what has to be arranged.

  Bring up the tools of your trade, as they say. “

  I looked at my father.

  “Let us do that,” I said.

  “Then we shall be all in readiness.”

  “Shall you start the portrait as soon as the Baron arrives?”

  My father hesitated.

  “I like to talk awhile with my subject first… to get to know him, you see.”

  “I am sure the Baron will understand that.”

  “Well, let us prepare,” I said to my father.

  “Do you think you can find your way back to your rooms?” asked Monsieur de Mortemer.

  “We have to learn,” I replied.

  “Well, now that you have seen the Sunshine Room let me take you back.

  After that you can find your own way, perhaps. “

  “I shall note the landmarks as we pass through,” I said with a smile.

  to that room. It was what we would call in England a solarium and was of course ideal for our purpose. My father commented that everything was working out splendidly.