Daughter of Deceit

At La Maison Grise

I was sitting in the train which was taking me to London. I was still reeling from the blow. When Charlie had told us, we had been too stunned to take in what it meant at first. With a few words he had shattered our dreams; the whole world was falling about us. We could only see our lives in ruins.

I do not know how I lived through the next few days. We talked. Was Charlie sure? All the time, he had known, he said. There had been no secrets between him and my mother.

“You should never have met,” he said. “I should have known better than to bring you down here. I am to blame. I thought Roderick would marry Fiona Vance. They seemed to have such interests in common. Your mother would have been so distressed if she knew what had happened. The last thing she wanted was to harm anyone … least of all you, Noelle. She loved you more than anyone. She always wanted what was best for you.”

There was no way out of the situation. Whichever way we looked, we came face to face with the impossibility. Then I saw that there was only one thing for me to do, and that was to go away.

Where could I go? What could I do?

There was my old home … Robert Bouchere’s now. I could go there for a while. He had told me I must always regard it as my home. I could stay there while I tried to make some sense of my life, to start again, to try to build something out of the ruins.

Charlie said: “You must let me look after you, Noelle. In view of our relationship, it is only right that I should do so. I shall make you an allowance.”

I was not listening. I could only think: I always wanted to know my father. Oh, Charlie, why did it have to be you!

Poor Charlie was deeply distressed. His infidelity towards his wife had lain heavily on his conscience, and now this. The sins of the fathers visited on the children. Both his children … Roderick and myself … must pay the cost of his sin.

He was a most unhappy man—as unhappy as we were.

I wrote to Mrs. Crimp and told her that I should be coming to stay until I made plans. What plans? I wondered.

I cannot bear to dwell on that time. Even now, I want to put it out of my mind. The death of my beloved mother, to be followed so soon by this dark tragedy, overwhelmed me.

I just wanted to go to my old room, to shut myself in, to pray for strength and the will and the power to pick up the shattered fragments of my life and try to rebuild something from it.

Through the familiar streets where I had ridden with her on our way back from the theatre … back to the house … the house of memories. Briefly, I had believed I had escaped from the clinging past … only to find that I had stumbled into a second tragedy as great as the first.

I knew I had to stop brooding on my misfortunes. Self-pity never helped anyone. I had to force myself to look around me, find an interest in something … anything to take me out of this melancholy into which I had fallen.

Mrs. Crimp welcomed me warmly.

“I’m right glad to see you, Miss Noelle, and so will Mr. Crimp be. Your room is ready … and you can have your dinner when you want it.”

“I don’t feel much like eating, Mrs. Crimp, thank you.”

“Something on a tray perhaps? Something you could have in your room?”

“That sounds nice.”

Lisa Fennell was coming down the stairs. She ran to me and embraced me.

“I was so thrilled when Mrs. Crimp told me you were coming,” she said. “How are you?” She was looking at me anxiously.

“Oh … all right,” I answered. “And you?”

“Fine! Let’s go to your room. Mrs. Crimp says it is ready.”

She was watching me intently, and when we reached my room, she said: “My poor Noelle. Something terrible has happened, hasn’t it? Is it … Charlie?”

I shook my head.

“Lady Constance has been difficult?”

“No … no.” I hesitated. Then I thought: She will have to know. It is better to tell her now.

I said: “Roderick and I were to be married.”

She opened her eyes wide, and I felt my lips tremble. “But,” I went on, “he is my brother, Lisa. My half brother. Charlie is my father.”

Her jaw dropped. “Oh, my poor, poor Noelle. So that is why you have come back.”

I nodded.

“I see … what a dreadful thing! I suppose one might have guessed.”

“Yes … I suppose so. I just thought of them as very good friends. Rather naive of me, I suppose.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t thought beyond getting away. I’ll have to think where I’m going from here.”

“And … Roderick?” asked Lisa.

“We were both bewildered. Everything was going well. Lady Constance was reconciled … and then Charlie came back and told us … and everything was shattered. Oh, Lisa, I don’t know how I can bear it. My mother … and now this …”

Lisa nodded and the tears came into her eyes.

“That was terrible,” she said.

“And now, when I thought I was going to be happy again, this happened.”

“You must stop brooding on it, Noelle. You have to find an interest …”

“I know. Tell me, Lisa, how are things with you?”

“I’ve got a job, and I believe Dolly looks on me as one of his regulars now. Lottie Langdon was off one night and I had a chance to take the lead. The audience gave me quite a good reception. Lottie’s not as hard to follow as your mother was. I think I did rather well, actually. It all helps. I am sure Dolly will give me a place in his next. Rags and Tatters can’t last much longer, and he is already considering something. Well, Dolly always is considering something.”

“I’m glad things are going well with you.”

“You must come and see the show again. It’s improved since you saw it. But I reckon it’s on the way out.”

I knew that I had been right to come to London. I felt the influence of my mother here and the first tragedy superimposed itself on the most recent one; but I had learned to live without her; I had even been contemplating a happy life. Now I must learn to live without either of the two people whom I had loved best in the world.

Everyone helped a great deal. Dolly arrived. He had heard, through Lisa, what had happened, and was all sympathy. He was amazingly gentle. I was to let him know if I felt like a visit to the theatre. Even if it wasn’t his show I wanted to see, he’d make sure I had a good seat and was well looked after. There was a camaraderie among theatrical folk and the daughter of Desiree would be welcome anywhere.

The days flowed on. It was existing. That was all I could call it. I awoke each morning with a cloud of depression settling over me, and I went through the days in a blank despair.

Lisa thought I should do some sort of work.

“Work is the best thing at such times,” she said.

I wondered if I should go to a hospital. There would be some voluntary work I could do, I supposed.

Lisa thought that might be a little depressing, which was the last thing I needed. Perhaps Dolly could help?

“What good should I be in the theatre?” I asked.

Martha came to see me. She had heard from Lisa the reason for my return.

Martha was deeply shocked. “It would have broken her heart if she’d known what trouble she’d caused you. I always thought there was something special between her and Charlie. And he was so fond of you, too. And you, of course, were the apple of her eye. She’d have done anything for you. What a turnabout, eh? And it was you she was thinking about all the time. It was always ‘What’s best for Noelle?’ I used to say to her: ‘You make a god of that child. You want to think of yourself.’ And now, because of all this … well, I reckon she’s crying her eyes out in heaven, if she’s looking down and seeing what’s happened. What are you going to do about it, love? I reckon you ought to do something.”

“I could go right away from here. I have to do something, Martha. What do people like me do when they are left as I am? There are only two courses open to them, as I’ve said so often. Governess to some peevish child, or companion to a demanding old woman.”

“Can’t see you doing either of them, I’m sure.”

“I don’t know. It would be different. I could be a little dignified, too, because I would not depend entirely on my salary, as most of those poor people have to. I’d have a certain independence.”

“You’re not seriously thinking of that, are you?”

“The trouble is, I am not seriously thinking of anything. I am just drifting along.”

That was exactly what I was doing; and I should have gone on doing so but for the arrival of Robert Bouchere.

Robert was surprised and pleased to find me at the house, but when he realized how unhappy I was, he was overcome with sorrow and sympathy.

“You must tell me all about it,” he said. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

So I told him. He was deeply shocked.

“You had no idea?” he said.

“No. It did not occur to me.”

“Have you ever wondered about your father?”

“Yes.”

“And asked your mother?”

“She was always evasive. She only told me that he was a good man. Well … Charlie is a good man.”

“His friendship with her went back a long way.”

“Yes, I know. I should have guessed perhaps.”

“He was insistent on taking you to his home.”

“I realize why now. I’m afraid I have been innocent … and very naive. I just thought they were great friends. I should have thought that, as I knew him so well and was fond of him … she would have told me.”

“My dear Noelle, you have suffered two great shocks. You are bewildered, and the best thing for you to do is to make plans. You must take some action. I think it would be good for you to go right away from here.”

“Where should I go?”

“As Charlie did, I promised your mother that, if the need arose, I would look after you. It would seem that the need is now here. Why should you not come to France with me … to my home … if only while you have time to make some decision about your future? You would be in a new place. It would all be so different. You could start again … make a new life. I could believe that here you will not find that easy. Here you remember too much. She is still here … in this house. Do you feel her presence?”

“You have left her rooms exactly as they were,” I said. “How could they change? Everything here reminds me of her … you, too.”

“That is why you should get away. You nurse your grief, chere Noelle. That is not good. You must get away … leave it behind you.”

“Go away …” I said bluntly. “Go right away. You have never told me much about your home, Robert.”

“It would perhaps be interesting for you to discover?”

“Would they … want me there?”

“Who? There is my sister, my great-niece … and there are occasional visits from my nephew … my sister’s son.”

“I thought you had a wife.”

“She has been dead eight years. What do you say to this plan?”

“I had not thought to leave the country.”

“It is best to leave the country. Thus you get right away. Everything will be different in France. You will start a life that is new entirely. Who knows? Perhaps this will be best for you.”

“Robert, you are good to me.”

“But of course. I have promised her that, if Charlie is not there, I shall stand … what is it you say? … in his shoes?”

“Yes, Robert. That’s right. It is so kind of you to care as you do.”

“My dear, I am fond of you. Your mother was very dear to me. I know that her great concern was for you. She made me promise … and if she had not done so … it would have been my duty … even if it did not give me great pleasure … which it does, as you know well. What do you say?”

“I must think about it. I had wondered whether to try to get some post… perhaps in a hospital … where I could do something for sick people.”

He shook his head. “It is you who need to be looked after. You just come with me.”

“Shall you think me ungrateful if I say I should like to consider it?”

He waved a hand. “I give you one day … two days … but you must come. It is right for you. I promise you, there will be a new life … new people … new country. This will fade.”

“Robert, thank you, thank you. I will think of it very seriously. I think you may be right. But I do need to collect my thoughts. Please give me time.”

“I give,” he said, with a little smile.

I was wavering. Since Robert had made his suggestion, my interest was stirring and my melancholy had lifted a little. I knew I was wrong to steep myself in sorrow as I was doing here. I had to move on. I must stop thinking of what might have been and accept the fact that there was never going to be a life with Roderick. I had to move on: and here was Robert, throwing me a lifeline.

He was good to me during those days. I knew that he was very anxious that I should go with him. He wanted to do his duty towards my mother’s daughter, because he had cared so deeply for her. His desire to look after me was as earnest as Charlie’s had been.

This time I must be more careful. I must know what I was going to do. At least Robert did not have a wife who would have resented his friendship with my mother. I would sway in my intentions. I would ask myself whether it would not, after all, be better to stay here. To look for some work to do.

“Robert,” I said. “Tell me about your home.”

“I do have a place in Paris,” he said. “But my home is about five or six miles outside the city.”

“In the country?”

He nodded. “It is a pleasant old place. It survived the Revolution … miraculously … and the family have been there for centuries.”

“A stately home, I suppose?”

“Well, La Maison Grise might just qualify for that description.”

“La Maison Grise? The Grey House.”

“It is so. Built of that grey stone which stays where it was put … no matter wind or weather.”

“And your family?”

“There are not so many of us now. There is my sister, Angele. She has always lived there. Daughters often stay on, even after they are married. When Angele married her husband, Henri du Carron, he helped with the estate. It worked out well. I had business in Paris and he was there to look after things.”

“And he died?”

“Yes. Quite young. He had a heart attack. It was sad. Gerard was only seventeen when it happened.”

“Gerard?”

“He is my sister’s son … my nephew. He will inherit La Maison Grise when I die.”

“You have no children?”

“No, alas.”

“You have not mentioned your wife.”

“It is eight years since I lost her. She had been an invalid for some years.”

“So at La Maison Grise there is just your sister and her son.”

“Gerard is there rarely. He has a studio in Paris. He is an artist. Angele runs the house, and there is Marie-Christine.”

“You have mentioned a … great-niece, is it?”

“Yes. She is my great-niece and Gerard’s daughter.”

“So Gerard is married.”

“He is widowed. It was a tragedy. It is three years since she died. Marie-Christine is now … well, twelve, I suppose.”

“So your household consists of your sister, Angele, who is Madame du Carron, and her granddaughter, Marie-Christine? Is she there all the time, or does she live with her father?”

“She visits him now and then, but La Maison Grise is really her home. My sister naturally looks after her.”

“So it is a small household. Do you think they would mind my visiting you?”

“I am sure they would be delighted.”

I was thinking seriously about going. There did not seem to be any complications.

So I made up my mind to visit La Maison Grise; and it was comforting to discover that the decision lifted my spirits considerably.

Robert and I had had a smooth sea crossing and on landing had taken the train to Paris, where the family coach had been waiting for us. It was a somewhat cumbersome vehicle with the Bouchere arms emblazoned on its side. I was introduced to Jacques, the coachman, and after our luggage had been put into the carriage we set out.

Robert made light conversation and, as we drove through Paris, he pointed out certain landmarks. I was bewildered by my first glimpse of that city of which I had heard so much. I caught glimpses of wide boulevards, bridges and gardens. I listened to Robert’s explanations, but I think I was too concerned with what I should find at La Maison Grise to be greatly influenced by the city just then. That was something I could discover later.

“Prepare for a longish drive,” said Robert as we left the city behind us. “We are going south. This is the road to Nice and Cannes, but they are a long way off. France is a big country.”

I sat back, listening to the clop-clop of the horses’ hoofs.

“It seems almost as though they know the way,” I commented.

“Oh, they do. They have done it so many times, and it is usually these two who make the journey. Castor and Pollux—the Heavenly Twins. They are, I regret to tell you, not really apt names. They are far from heavenly, those two! But they can always be trusted to get us home. You will see how they prick up their ears and make an extra spurt when we are within a mile of home.”

I wondered whether Robert was a little nervous. He seemed to be trying hard to make cosy conversation.

It was late afternoon when we reached the house. We had come through an avenue of trees and had gone about half a mile before it came into view. It was appropriately named, for it was indeed grey, but the green foliage around it robbed it of the sombre aspect it might otherwise have had. At either end were the cylindrical towers, aptly named “pepper pot,” which are characteristic of French architecture. In front of the house were several stone steps leading to a terrace, and this gave a delightful touch of homeliness and softened the effect of the harsh grey stone.

We had pulled up, and two grooms appeared. Robert alighted and helped me down.

One of the grooms asked if we had had a good journey.

“Yes, thank you,” said Robert. “This is Mademoiselle Tremaston. We shall have to find a horse for her to ride while she is here.”

The groom spoke in rapid French.

“He says he will be there to help you choose. I’ll take you to the stables tomorrow and we shall fit you up.”

A terrible sense of loss crept over me, as I remembered my lessons with Roderick. I was longing with great intensity to be back at Leverson. I knew I should never forget. Why had I thought I might, merely by coming away?

Robert was saying: “I want to show you some of our villages. You’ll find them interesting. They are different from those in England.”

“I shall look forward to that,” I said.

He took my arm and we mounted the terrace steps. I noticed that the shrubs in the white tubs were very well cared for.

I commented on them and Robert said: “That is Angele’s doing. She said the house had an unwelcoming look, and they help to dispel that. Perhaps she is right.”

“I can imagine that would be so.”

We were facing an iron-studded door. It opened suddenly and a manservant stood there.

“Ah, good day, Georges,” said Robert. “We’re here. This is Mademoiselle Tremaston.”

Georges was a small man with dark hair and bright, alert eyes. He studied me and bowed. I sensed this was a somewhat formal household.

I stepped into a hall, at the end of which was a staircase, and at the foot of this was a woman. She came forward to greet me and I knew at once that she was Madame du Carron, Angele, for she was sufficiently like Robert for me to guess that she was his sister.

“Welcome, Mademoiselle Tremaston.” She spoke English with a pronounced French accent. “I am happy that you have come.”

She took my hands and I immediately thought: How different from Lady Constance. I reprimanded myself. I must stop continually harking back.

“I am happy to be here,” I said.

“And you have had a good journey?” She looked from me to Robert. “Welcome to La Maison Grise. It is good to see you, Robert. It is trying, is it not … that journey? La Manche … what you call the Channel … it can be a monster.”

“It was quite a benevolent monster this time,” I replied lightly, “which was fortunate for us.”

“But it is a long journey. What would you wish? To your room … or perhaps some refreshment … some coffee … a glass of wine?”

I said I should like to go to my room first and wash.

“That will be best. Berthe!” she called.

Berthe must have been hovering near, for she came at once.

“This is Berthe. She will look after you. Berthe … hot water for Mademoiselle.”

“Certainement, madame. ” Berthe gave a quick smile in my direction, accompanied by a brief curtsy.

“Come this way,” said Angele. “When you are ready, we can have a long talk. We can get to know each other, is that not so? That is … if my English will let us. Perhaps you have some French?”

“A little. I think perhaps your English might be more reliable.”

She laughed, and I felt we had made a good start.

I was taken to my room. It seemed dark until Angele opened the shutters: then the light flooded in and showed me how pleasant it was. The carpet and curtains were in a shade of pale pink; the furniture was delicate, and I felt I had stepped back a hundred years, for there was an elegant eighteenth-century atmosphere about the place. On one of the walls was a delicate tapestry—a charming reproduction of Fragonard’s “Girl on a Swing.”

I gave an exclamation of pleasure.

“You like it?” asked Angele.

“I think it is enchanting.”

“Then I am content. Robert says it is very important that you feel … how is it? … comme chez vous.”

“At home! You are so kind,” I said.

“Robert tells me of your great sorrow. We wish to help.”

“I am grateful to you.”

“Let me show you this.” She crossed to one corner of the room and drew back a curtain, disclosing an alcove in which was a large cupboard and a table on which stood a ewer and washbasin. On the floor was a hip bath.

“We call it the ruelle.”

“How very convenient,” I said. “Thank you so much.”

She took my hand and pressed it. Then she withdrew hers and seemed a little ashamed to have shown such emotion.

She said briskly: “Berthe will bring along the hot water. Your bags are here. Perhaps you would like to come down in an hour, say? I will come for you then. Is that too long?”

“I think it will be just right, thank you.”

At that moment, Berthe came in with the hot water.

“Do you need help to unpack?”

“Thank you, no. I can manage.”

“In an hour, then?”

“Yes, please.”

I was alone.

How different from the welcome I had received at Leverson Manor! I must stop thinking of Leverson. It was far away … out of my life. It must be. It would have been better if I had never seen it … never known Roderick.

I tried to concentrate on my new surroundings. They were extremely interesting. I wanted to know more about Robert’s life here, his widowed sister, and, of course, there was the great-niece and her father.

I was beginning to think I was right to have come.

I unpacked, and by the time I had had a bath and changed into a blue silk dress, the hour was nearly up. I sat by the window looking out over the lawn to what seemed like a small copse. I could see that the grounds were extensive.

There was a knock on the door. It was Angele.

“Am I too soon?”

“No, no. I am ready.”

“Then, please come.”

Robert was waiting for us and with him was a young girl who I guessed was Marie-Christine.

Robert said: “I hope you liked your room.”

“It is charming,” I told him, and turned towards the girl.

“This is Marie-Christine,” said Robert.

“How do you do?” she said in English, while making a little curtsy, which I thought charming.

“I am so pleased to meet you,” I said.

She regarded me steadily.

“I believe,” said Robert, “that Marie-Christine has been practising her English so that she could greet you in your own language.”

“How very nice of you,” I said.

She continued to watch me, and I could not help feeling vaguely uncomfortable under such scrutiny.

“Dinner is served,” said Robert. “I am sure you are hungry. I am.”

I was not really so, being completely absorbed in my surroundings.

“We are eating in the small dining room today,” said Angele. “As there are only four of us, that is more suitable.”

It was not really small, and was furnished in the same elegant manner as what I had seen of the rest of the house. Robert sat at one end of the table, Angele at the other. I was on Robert’s right, Marie-Christine on his left. There were two servants to attend to us —a kind of butler supervising and a parlourmaid to hand round the dishes. Robert had said it was a small household, but there seemed to be numerous servants.

As we ate, Angele asked about my home in London. I told her that I had no home in London now and Robert looked at me a little reproachfully.

“You know the house is for your use,” he said.

“That is kind of you, Robert,” I said. I turned to Angele. “In fact, I have been staying with friends in the country. I am really not sure what I am going to do.”

“Your bereavement, of course,” said Angele. “I am sorry.”

There was a brief silence. I broke it by saying to Marie-Christine: “Do you have a governess?”

“Oh yes, Mademoiselle Dupont.” She grimaced slightly, to indicate that Mademoiselle Dupont was a little severe.

I smiled. “Does she teach you English?”

“Oh yes. But she does not speak it as well as you do.”

Everybody laughed.

“Well, perhaps you will learn a little from me while I am here.”

“Oh yes, please. I want to.”

“Marie-Christine cannot bear not to know everything,” said Angele indulgently. “She does not like to be …” She paused. “Outside any matter. Is that not so, Marie-Christine?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, it is the right idea, if one wants to learn,” I said.

“Do you like riding?” she asked me.

“Yes, I do. I learned to ride not long ago. When I lived in London, there was little opportunity.”

“I’ll take you with me,” she promised. “I am a very experienced rider.”

“My dear child,” protested Angele.

“Well, I am good. Jacques said so. And we have to tell the truth, don’t we? You will be safe with me, Mademoiselle Tremaston.”

“I am sure I shall, and I shall look forward to riding with you.”

“Tomorrow, then,” she said. “It has to be afternoon. Mademoiselle Dupont will not release me in the morning.”

“I shall look forward to it.”

Robert was looking on benignly. He was obviously delighted that I was getting on well with his family. And I felt comforted because they all seemed determined to make me happy here; and that night, when I retired to the elegance of my eighteenth-century bedroom, my feeling was that I had been wise to come.

The next morning, Berthe brought my hot water at seven-thirty and told me she would be back with my petit dejeuner.

I guessed that everyone took their breakfast in their bedrooms. Breakfasts here were not the meal they were at home, with a sideboard full of delicacies like devilled kidneys, eggs, bacon and kedgeree.

My French was adequate enough to enable me to deal with Berthe, and I told myself it would improve during my stay in France.

In due course, Berthe arrived with a tray, on which was hot crusty bread, a pot of coffee and a jug of hot milk.

I was surprised not only that was I able to consume it with relish but that I was also looking forward to the day’s experiences.

I found my way down to the hall and to the garden. The air was fresh and the scent of flowers was everywhere. I made my way to the pond in the centre of the lawn, in which two nymphs stood, their arms entwined. I could look back at the house now. I studied the towers, the grey walls and the shuttered windows. The sun glinting on the stones picked out little brilliants here and there. Grey, menacing in a way … but there was the terrace with the white tubs of flowering shrubs, and the green climbing plant, the tentacles of which clung in places to the grey stone as though determined to soften it.

“Good morning.” Robert was coming towards me.

How kind he was! How eager to make me happy. Charlie had been the same, and his kindness had led me to that acute unhappiness. How I yearned to be back in the old days, which I had believed would never end.

“I trust you slept well,” said Robert.

“Very well indeed. My room is lovely. I feel like Madame de Pompadour.”

“Oh … nothing so grand as that! But we do want you to be comfortable here.”

“I can see that. If I am not, it will be no fault of yours or your sister’s.”

He put his hand over mine. “Dear Noelle,” he said. “I understand how it is. We are going to try to make you put all that behind you. It is the only way.”

“I know. If only it were as easy as it sounds.”

“It will come in time. Angele was saying she was going to show you the house this morning.”

“That will be interesting.”

“And this afternoon, you have promised to go riding with Marie-Christine.”

“She seems to be a nice girl.”

“She’s a little difficult at times, I understand. Angele makes excuses for her. She lost her mother … and being brought up with older people … Mademoiselle is something of a dragon, I believe. However, come to the stables. I want to choose a suitable mount for you.”

“Now?” I asked.

“Why not?”

We walked across the garden to the stables. Jacques was there.

He said: “Bonjour, ” and Robert spoke to him about the horse. Jacques was ready. He produced a small chestnut mare. Her name was appropriately Marron. She was docile and not one for tricks, said Jacques. She liked a nice steady rider, and she could be trusted.

“It seems we have the right horse for you, Noelle,” said Robert. “For a beginning, at least.”

He explained to Jacques that I should be riding with Mademoiselle Marie-Christine that afternoon and Marron should be prepared. Jacques asked at what time. Well, dejeuner was at one o’clock. What about two-thirty? He was sure that would be all right.

When we left the stables we met Angele, who was looking for me.

“I wish to show Noelle the house,” she said. “These old houses can be a little … unexpected … you lose your way … but you quickly learn. It is only at first that it is a little … baffling.”

Robert passed me over to Angele and we began our tour of the house. She explained that, like many old houses, it had been repaired over the years. There had been additions and embellishments which make a house change its character. It must be different now from when it was first built.

“That is what makes it so interesting,” I said.

“Well … perhaps, in a way. In this hall, you see …there used to be a fireplace in the centre of the room … a sensible place to have a fireplace, for people could sit round it.”

“But dangerous,” I said.

“As all fires are, I suppose. You see, the smoke used to go up through a hole in the ceiling. Well, the roof has been repaired so many times that you can’t see it now. But you can see the outline on the floor.”

“Yes, I see.”

“Then there are the weapons that were used in battles. These are relics of the Hundred Years’ War, when your country was fighting mine. And here are the weapons from the Napoleonic Wars, when we were enemies once more.”

“I hope we never are again.”

“Let us hope. Our Emperor is eager for friendly relations with England. We have commercial treaties and that sort of thing. Then there are our interests in the Suez Canal. So let us hope that we never go to war with each other again.”

“The Emperor, I believe, is very popular here in France.”

“Oh yes … but he has his enemies. What ruler has not? The Empress Eugenie is beautiful and charming. There is a son and heir. So … all seems well. They are gracious and handsome, and wherever they go the people cheer them. Robert and I are sometimes invited to certain functions and we have been received with the utmost graciousness.”

“It seems that all is well, then.”

“Who can say when all is well? We remember that it is not so very long ago that we were in revolution. That is something a country does not very easily forget.”

“There would be no reason now.”

“People find reasons,” she said soberly. “But what a dismal conversation! It is all those weapons. I shall suggest to Robert that they be removed and we put up tapestries in their place. They are far more attractive. Well, this is the great hall and, apart from the removal of the central fireplace, it is almost the same as it has been through the ages.”

“It is very impressive.”

“Now, through there are the kitchens. We’ll leave those. The servants will be there.”

We went up a staircase and she took me through several rooms. They were all furnished in a style similar to that of the room I was occupying. Most of them were shuttered.

We mounted more steps and I was taken through a gallery in which several portraits hung. We paused to look at them and she pointed out members of the family, among them Robert and herself.

“This is my husband,” she said. “And here is Gerard.”

I paused before Gerard. He was more interesting to me because he was living and I should probably meet him.

He wore a dark coat with a white cravat; his hair looked almost black against his white skin. He had dark blue eyes and he reminded me of Marie-Christine. It was natural that there should be a likeness. Was she not his daughter? There was the same restlessness in his eyes which I had detected in hers; it was as though they were burdened by something … one might say haunted.

Angele said: “You find my son, Gerard, interesting?”

“Yes. He looks unhappy.”

“It was a mistake to have it painted at that time. But it was all arranged, you see. It was painted by Aristide Longere. Do you know his name?”

“No.”

“He is one of our fashionable painters. Oh yes, it was a mistake to have it painted so soon after …”

“After … ?”

“He had just lost his young wife. It was a terrible time.”

“I see.”

We moved away. “This is our father … mine and Robert’s.”

I could not stop wondering about Gerard as we went on through the gallery.

“This leads to the north tower,” she said when we were confronted by a spiral staircase. “Gerard’s quarters are here when he comes to La Maison. It is the north light you get here. He likes that. It’s ideal for his work.”

“May we go in?”

“But certainly.”

We came to a door at the top of the staircase. She opened it and we were in a large room with several windows. There was an easel at one end and canvasses stacked against the wall.

“Gerard works mostly in Paris,” said Angele. “So he is not here for much of the time. Then he has this tower. He has his bedroom and other rooms up here, so we call the north tower his studio.”

“You must miss him when he is so often in Paris.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “It is best for him. There he has his artistic friends. Here … he remembers …”

“His wife must have been very young when she died.”

She nodded. “They were young when they married. Gerard is now thirty-two. It was three years ago when she died. Marie-Christine was nine then, so Gerard must have been twenty when she was born. It was far too young. Neither Henri, my husband, nor I wanted it, but …”

She lifted her shoulders in a familiar gesture. “Now he has his work. He has his life in Paris. It is better so. Down here … oh … no … it all happened here.”

I nodded. I knew all about memories.

I saw the portrait then. I guessed who it was before I asked. She was very beautiful in a wild, gypsy kind of way. Her hair was reddish brown and she had light tawny eyes. There was a wilful, wayward look about her mouth, and her eyes were mischievous. She was very attractive.

“That is Marianne,” said Angele.

“Marianne … ?”

“Gerard’s wife. Marie-Christine’s mother.”

“She’s very beautiful.”

“Yes,” said Angele quietly.

I wondered how she had died. I felt there might be some mystery and therefore it was something I could not ask just yet. I sensed that Angele was wishing she had not brought me up to the north tower.

The tour of the house continued. In the west tower was the schoolroom.

“We had better not interrupt Marie-Christine at her lessons,” said Angele, though doubtless Marie-Christine would not mind that.

She did mention Gerard again during the tour. She said: “I suppose one day he might come and live here. He’ll inherit it in due course. Perhaps he’ll marry again. I always hope he will.”

I told her how interesting I had found the house. “Although,” I added, “I don’t yet feel capable of finding my way about.”

“That will come,” she said, smiling.

That afternoon’s ride with Marie-Christine marked the beginning of our friendship. I think her interest in me was as great as mine in her. We were both frustrated by the language difficulties, and her determination to overcome this was as strong as mine.

I did manage to gather a little information. She told me that she had been riding since she was two and had her first pony.

I replied that I had lived in London and did not start until I went to stay in the country, and that was not very long ago.

“Did someone teach you?”

There was that terrible desolation sweeping over me again. I could see Roderick so clearly, holding the leading rein, urging me on.

Marie-Christine was quick to observe my change of mood.

“Who taught you?” she asked.

“A friend at the house where I was staying.”

“Was it fun?”

“Oh yes … yes.”

“Do you ride with your friend when you are at home?”

“No … not now.”

She was thoughtful, looking for words.

“What’s London like?”

“It’s a very big city.”

“Like Paris?”

“There is a similarity about all big cities.”

“Little ones are nice. Villemere is not far from here. Only a mile or so. There is a cafe where they sell the most wonderful gateaux. You sit under the trees and drink coffee and eat it. You can watch the people if you like.”

“I should like that.”

“I wish we could talk more easily. When you have to hunt for words all the time, you can’t say all the things that matter. I know, I’ll teach you French and you can teach me English. This is too slow.”

“That seems a good idea.”

“All right. Let’s begin.”

“We can do that by talking. We could read together, too. That would be a help.”

Her eyes shone. “Let’s do it. Let’s start today.”

“As soon as we can.”

“I hate waiting. Start now.”

So we spent the afternoon giving each other little tests, correcting where necessary. It was amusing and stimulating.

It was one of the most pleasant hours I had spent since Charlie had said those words which had shattered my happiness.

I was with Marie-Christine every day. She was amazingly quick to learn when she wanted to, and even in a week she was grasping a fair command of the English language. I think my French progressed at a slightly lower rate; but communication between us was growing.

I had made the acquaintance of Mademoiselle Dupont. She was middle-aged, completely absorbed in her profession, respectful to me and pleased that I was helping to improve Marie-Christine’s English. So there was no trouble from that quarter. Moreover, both Robert and Angele were delighted by the friendship between us and I think Robert was congratulating himself that he had done the right thing by bringing me to France.

It was true my sadness had lifted a little. I still thought of Roderick every day and knew in my heart that I would never forget him, never cease to hanker for what I had lost; but at least I was finding some small consolation and I was grateful to Robert for bringing me here, to Angele for being so understanding and perhaps most of all to Marie-Christine, who had provided me with an interest.

I was amazed at how quickly time was passing. Marie-Christine had decided to become, as she said, my patronne. She showed me the little town of Villemere; we sat outside the cafe and sampled the excellent gateaux and coffee. She introduced me to Madame Lebrun, who owned the cafe—a large, rather formidable lady who sat in the cash desk and counted the francs with an avid interest— to her small, mild husband, who did the baking, and to Lillie, the waitress, whose lover was at sea. I found I could laugh again when we wandered round the stalls on market day, which was every Thursday in Villemere. I was hunting for bargains and feeling triumphant when I secured one. Marie-Christine knew a great many people. “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” they would call as we passed. Marie-Christine told me they were all very interested in la mademoiselle anglaise.

I was surprised that I could take the interest I did in the life around me, but when I saw wives and husbands laughing together my deep melancholy would return. That close companionship was something I should never know; but at least there were times when I could feel pleasure … however fleeting.

I owed that mostly to Marie-Christine. Reading together, talking, our outings, her obvious interest in me, were the greatest help I could have.

She talked continuously. She was constantly asking questions. She wanted to know about my life and was very interested in theatrical circles.

“Mademoiselle Dupont says it is good for me to learn about the English theatre. She says your Shakespeare is the greatest poet that ever lived. He must be very good, for Dupont usually thinks the French must be better than anyone else. I wonder it wasn’t Racine or Moliere or someone like that.”

“The theatrical world in which I moved is not quite the sort to win Mademoiselle Dupont’s approval.”

“Tell me about it.”

So I told her about Countess Maud and Lavender Lady, the songs, the dances, the clothes, the first nights, the tussles with Dolly; and she was entranced.

“I love your mother!” she cried. “And she died!”

“Yes.”

“She was young to die, wasn’t she?”

“Oh yes.”

“Why do beautiful people have to die young?” She was thoughtful for a moment. “Well, I suppose if they were old, they wouldn’t be beautiful anymore. So that’s why beautiful people die young.”

I had a picture of my mother which I carried with me. I showed it to her.

“She’s lovely,” she said. “You’re not like her.”

I laughed. “Thank you,” I said. “As a matter of fact there couldn’t be anyone like her.”

“We both had beautiful mothers … you and I … not just ordinary beautiful but beautifully beautiful.”

I was silent, thinking about Desiree, radiant after a first night, talking all the time … the mishaps which had nearly resulted in disaster … the man in the front stalls who had been waiting at the stage door while she slipped out at the back. Memories … memories … I could never escape.

“It makes you sad, thinking of your mother, doesn’t it?” said Marie-Christine.

“Yes … but she is gone.”

“I know. So has mine. Tell me, how did your mother die? She was young, wasn’t she? Well … not old. My mother wasn’t old either.”

“She had been ill. It was nothing much … just something she had eaten. The doctors thought it was a plant which grew in our garden.”

“A poison plant!”

“Yes. It was called caper spurge. It grows wild. If you get the juice on your hands and taste it … it can make you ill.”

“How terrible!”

“It’s nothing much. It just upsets you. It makes you sick and giddy. Well, she was feeling sick and giddy. She got out of bed and fell over. She struck her head against a piece of furniture and that killed her.”

“How strange … because my mother died … not by falling against a table but by falling off a horse. It is a bit like your mother, is it not? They both fell. They were both young. They were both beautiful. Perhaps that is why we are friends.”

“I think it is more than that, Marie-Christine.”

“You still think a lot about your mother, do you not?”

“Yes.”

“I do of mine. I think about her a lot and the way she died.”

“Marie-Christine, we have to try to forget.”

“How can you make yourself forget?”

“I suppose by looking ahead and trying to put what is past behind you. Stop thinking about it.”

“Yes. But how?”

It was a reasonable question. How did one forget?

I had been at La Maison Grise for four weeks and I had no desire to leave it. I had come no nearer to making a decision as to what I should do with my life; and I was now beginning to remind myself that I could not be a permanent guest, however hospitable my hosts.

Robert went to Paris fairly frequently on banking business. He had a small house there and would stay for several days at a time. Both he and Angele said I must certainly pay a visit to the capital. I could shop and see some of the sights.

I asked Robert if he would see much of his nephew while he was there.

“I doubt it,” he said. “He seems to be working all the time and I imagine does not want interruptions. I don’t think he’s aware of anything else at such times, so I shall wait for him to invite me to the studio. Then he may come and stay here for a week or two. He does that now and then. It gets him away from Paris for a while.”

“Then he works in the north tower?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Robert, do you realize I have been here for a month?”

“Well?”

“I can’t go on taking your hospitality.”

“That sort of talk makes me angry. You are taking nothing that we do not want to give you. You are very welcome. Angele says Marie-Christine is so fond of you. She has been far less difficult since you have been here. Mademoiselle Dupont says you have done excellent work on her English … something she never could have done. So please, don’t talk like that anymore. You are feeling better, are you not?”

“Yes, I am. I forget … for periods … then it all comes rushing back. But there are moments when I am happy.”

“That’s good. I knew it was right for you to come here. You should have come in the first place.”

“You are good to me, Robert. I know how you felt about my mother, but that does not mean you have to extend that devotion to me.”

“I beg of you to stop talking nonsense, Noelle, or I shall be really angry, and I do not like to be angry. Tell me about Marie-Christine. How have you managed to change her?”

“I think we got off to a good start with the language.”

“And now you are together riding or something every day?”

“She takes pleasure in introducing me to the life here … and I tell her about my childhood.” I paused and he nodded, realizing there must be omissions. “It makes an interest for her.”

“Then please do not talk of leaving.”

“I don’t want to go, Robert.”

“That is the best news I could hear.”

So I was lulled into a sense of security. There need be no decisions yet.

I was beginning to realize that it was not easy to know Marie-Christine. She had her moods and could be full of high spirits one moment and fall into near melancholy the next. It was this trait in her character which intrigued me. From the beginning of our acquaintance I sensed there was some secret matter which troubled her—but only at times.

Once I said to her: “Marie-Christine, is there something on your mind?”

She pretended not to understand, as she did now and then when I asked a question which she was not eager to answer.

Now she said: “On the mind? What is that?”

“I mean, is something troubling you?”

“Troubling me? Oh yes, Mademoiselle Dupont says my mathematics are terrible.” She pronounced the word in the French manner, drawing it out to make it sound horrific.

I laughed at her. “I think it is something more important than mathematics.”

“Mathematics are of the utmost importance, Mademoiselle Dupont says.”

“What I mean is, Marie-Christine, is something worrying you … something that you might like to talk about?”

“Nothing is worrying me,” she said firmly. “As for those silly old mathematics, who cares?”

But still I wondered. But I understood. Had I not secret sorrows of my own which I could not bring myself to discuss with anyone?

One day she said: “I am going to take you to see my Aunt Candice.”

I was surprised, because I had never heard Robert or Angele mention such a person.

“She’s my mother’s sister,” Marie-Christine told me as we walked our horses out of the drive.

“She lives near here?”

“Not far. It takes about half an hour. She and my mother were twins.”

“She doesn’t visit La Maison very often, does she?”

“No, she doesn’t. Grand-mere Angele has asked her. So has Grand-oncle Robert. At least they used to. They don’t anymore. She doesn’t really want to come. I suppose it brings it all back … and she wants to forget. In any case, she does not come.”

“But you see her often?”

“Not often. I go there, though … sometimes. I think I remind Tante Candice of my mother too much and she doesn’t like to be reminded.”

“You’ve never told me about your aunt before.”

“Well, I can’t tell you everything … yet. There has to be time.”

We rode on and very soon were taking a direction which was new to me.

We came to a stream.

“The mill is not far from here,” said Marie-Christine.

“The mill?”

“Moulin Carrefour. That’s the name of the house. It’s on the crossroads, really. That’s where it gets its name. It’s not a mill anymore. It was my great-grandfather who was the miller.”

“I’m finding all this a little hard to follow. It might be helpful if you explained a little to me about the place and the people you are taking me to.”

“I told you, I was taking you to see my Aunt Candice, and she lives at Moulin Carrefour, which was once a mill on the crossroads.”

“I have already gathered that, but …”

“Well, my great-grandfather was the miller, but my grandfather made a lot of money gambling or something, and he said he wasn’t going to be a miller all his life. So he closed the mill down and became one of the nobility. But he disgraced himself by marrying a gypsy girl from nowhere. She had two daughters, Candice and Marianne. Marianne was the most beautiful woman who ever lived. She went to Paris and became an artist’s model. She married my father and I was born … and when I was nine years old she died. Tante Candice lived on at Carrefour with Nounou.”

“With whom?”

“Their old nurse, of course. Nounou would never leave Candice. She will be there, too.”

“And Candice … she did not marry?”

“No. She and old Nounou just live together. I don’t think they will ever forget Marianne.”

“It is strange that they don’t visit the house.”

“It’s not strange at all … really. Not when you know them. Candice hasn’t been for three years.”

“Not since her sister died.”

“Yes, that’s right. Come on. I’ll show you the place where my mother fell. It’s an unlucky place. Someone’s horse threw him there at exactly the same spot where my mother died. It’s called the coin du diable. You know what that means?”

“Devil’s Corner. There must be a reason for these accidents.”

“They say it is because people come galloping across the field and forget they come out suddenly at the crossroads and have to pull up sharply. Look. It’s just here.”

She had drawn up suddenly. I did the same. We were looking across a stretch of grass. There were the crossroads by a stream which could have been the tributary of a river flowing nearby. And there was the mill house. The windmill dominated it, and behind the house were what I presumed to be barns.

On the gate opening onto a path which led to the house were the words “Moulin Carrefour.”

“Is your aunt expecting us?” I asked.

“Oh no. We are just paying a call.”

“She might not wish to see me.”

“Oh, she will. And she likes to see me. So does Nounou.”

She dismounted and I did the same. We tied our horses to the gatepost and went up the overgrown path.

Marie-Christine took the knocker and let it fall with a resounding bang. There was silence. I felt a little uneasy. We were unexpected. What had suddenly put the idea of visiting her aunt into Marie-Christine’s head?

I was thinking with relief that no one could be at home when the door opened and a face was peering round the edge of it. It belonged to a grey-haired woman who must have been in her late sixties.

“Oh, Nounou,” said Marie-Christine. “I’ve come to see you. And this is Mademoiselle Tremaston, who has come from England.”

“England?” The old woman was peering at me suspiciously, and Marie-Christine went on: “Grand-oncle Robert was a friend of her mother and she was a very famous actress.”

The door was opened wide and Marie-Christine and I stepped into a darkish hall.

“Is Tante Candice home?” asked Marie-Christine.

“No, she is out.”

“When will she be back?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

“Then we’ll talk to you, Nounou. How are you?”

“My rheumatism is troubling me. I think you’d better come up to my room.”

“Yes, let’s do that. Perhaps Tante Candice will not be long.”

We went up some stairs and along a corridor until we came to a door which Nounou opened. We entered the room and Nounou signed to us to sit down.

“Well, Marie-Christine,” she said. “It is a long time since you have come to see us. You should come more often. You know Mademoiselle Candice does not care to go up to La Maison Grise.”

“She would come if she wanted to see me.”

“She knows you’ll come here if you want to see her. Are you comfortable, Mademoiselle … ?”

“Tremaston,” said Marie-Christine.

I said I was very comfortable, thanks.

“I am showing Mademoiselle Tremaston our countryside … interesting places and people and all that. And you and Tante Candice are part of that.”

“How do you like it here, mademoiselle?”

“I am finding it all very interesting.”

“It’s a long way to come … from England. I haven’t been away from this place since before Marianne and Candice were born. That’s going back a bit.”

“Nounou came here when they were born, didn’t you, Nounou?”

“Their mother died having them, you see, and someone had to look after them.”

“They were like your own, weren’t they, Nounou?”

“Yes, like my own.” She was sitting there, staring into space, seeing herself, I imagined, arriving at this house all those years ago, come to look after the motherless twins.

She saw my eyes on her and said almost apologetically: “You get caught up with the children you care for. I was nurse to their father. He was a bright one, he was. I looked on him as mine. His mother didn’t care all that much for him. He was a good lad. He had a magic way of making money. It wasn’t going to be the mill for him. He always looked after me. ‘You’ll never want while I live,’ he used to say. Then he got married to that gypsy girl. Him, who’d been such a clever boy all his life … to go and do that! Then he was left with two baby girls. She wasn’t meant to bear children. Some are, some are not. He said to me, ‘Nounou, you’ve got to come back.’ So there I was.”

I said: “I expect that was where you wanted to be.”

Marie-Christine was smiling blandly. I could see she was rather pleased by the turn the conversation was taking. She was looking at me with pride because, I imagine, Nounou was finding me a sympathetic listener.

“Everything was left to me,” she was saying. “They were my girls. Marianne … she was a beauty right from the start. Born that way, she was. I said to myself, ‘We’ve got a handful here.’ Everyone was after her when she grew up a bit. If you’d seen her, you would have understood why. Mademoiselle Candice … she had looks, too, but there was no way she could hold a candle to Marianne. And then … she died like that.”

She was silent for a few moments and I saw the tears on her cheeks.

“How did you get me talking like this?” she asked. “Would you like a glass of wine? Marie-Christine, you know where I keep it. Pour out a glass for Mademoiselle. I’m not sure about you. Perhaps watered down.”

“I don’t want it watered down, Nounou. I will take it as it is,” said Marie-Christine with dignity.

She poured the wine into glasses and handed it round, taking one herself.

Nounou lifted her glass to me. “Welcome to France, mademoiselle,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“I hope you will come again to see us.” She wiped her eyes, in which there were still tears. “You must forgive me,” she went on. “Sometimes I get carried away. It is sad to lose those who have meant so much to us.”

“I know,” I told her.

“One forgets it is only important to oneself. That girl was my life. She was so beautiful … and to think of her carried off. Sometimes it is more than I can bear.”

“I do understand,” I said.

“Now tell me about yourself.”

“I am staying here for a while.”

“Monsieur Bouchere was a great friend of your mother, Marie-Christine tells me.”

“Yes,” put in Marie-Christine. “When her mother died, Mademoiselle Tremaston came to us … to get away from the place where it happened. She is planning what she will do.”

“I hope all will go well with you, my dear. Do you like this wine? I make it myself. France is the country of the best wines.”

Nounou was clearly regretting her outburst and, having betrayed her emotions over the death of Marianne, was now trying to lead the conversation along more conventional lines. We chatted for a while about the neighbourhood and the difference between the French and English way of life—and in the midst of this, Candice arrived.

We heard her coming and Marie-Christine leaped to her feet.

“Tante Candice, Tante Candice … I am here with Nounou! I’ve brought Mademoiselle Tremaston to see you.”

Candice came into the room. She was tall, slim and good-looking, and she reminded me faintly of the picture I had seen of her twin sister, Marianne. Her colouring was similar to that of the girl in the picture, but more subdued; her eyes were more solemn and she completely lacked the expression of mischief which had made the other so arresting. She was a pale shadow of her sister.

She seemed very self-contained and quickly recovered from the surprise of seeing Marie-Christine with a visitor.

I was introduced to her.

“I heard you were at La Maison Grise,” she said. “It’s hard to keep secrets in a village. Marie-Christine is looking after you, I see.”

“We are great friends,” announced Marie-Christine. “I am teaching Mademoiselle Tremaston French and she is teaching me English.”

“That seems a very good arrangement. You knew Monsieur Bouchere in London, I believe.”

“Yes, he was a friend of my mother.”

“Her mother was a famous actress,” said Marie-Christine.

“I have heard that,” said Candice. “Tell me, how are you liking France? It is different, I suppose.”

“Yes, it is, and I am enjoying it.”

“And La Maison Grise is an interesting house, is it not?”

“Very.”

“Have you been to Paris yet?”

“No … not yet.”

“You will go, of course.”

“I hope to … soon. We have talked of it. We shall shop … and I hope to see Marie-Christine’s father’s studio.”

Her face hardened perceptibly. I thought immediately: She has strong feelings about him, and she cannot hide them at the mention of his name.

She said: “Paris is a very interesting city.”

“I very much look forward to a visit.”

“Do you intend to stay long in France?”

“She is going to stay for a long time,” said Marie-Christine. “Great-uncle Robert says she must regard La Maison as her home.”

I said: “My plans are undecided.”

“Because her mother … the famous actress … is dead,” put in Marie-Christine.

“I am sorry,” said Candice. “Death can be … devastating.”

I thought: The memory of Marianne haunts this place. Candice feels it no less than Nounou.

Candice said lightly: “This house was an old mill. I must show you round while you are here. It has just been an ordinary residence since my grandfather’s day, but it still retains some of the old characteristics.”

“I should love to see it,” I said.

“Then let us go now. We’ll come back to you later, Nounou.”

Nounou nodded and we left her.

“It has been my home always,” said Candice. “One gets attached to such places. Of course, I never knew it when the mill was working.”

She showed me the house. It seemed small after La Maison Grise, but then most houses would be. It was comfortable and cosy.

“The Grillons live on the top floor,” she told me. “They look after everything. Jean does the garden and looks after the horse and carriage. He is a very useful man to have about the house. Louise cooks and does the housework. There are just the two of us, and they are adequate. Nounou used to do quite a bit, but she is getting past it now. I’m afraid she meanders on about the past. I hope she wasn’t boring you.”

“She was telling Mademoiselle Tremaston about my mother,” said Marie-Christine.

I noticed an expression of faint annoyance cross Candice’s face.

“Oh yes,” she said. “It’s an obsession with her. She never got over my sister’s death. She brings up the subject continually … even with people who can’t possibly be interested. Sudden death is such a shock.”

“I know that well,” I told her. “My mother died unexpectedly when she was young.”

“Then you will understand and forgive poor Nounou. This was our room … the nursery. Nounou cleans and polishes here herself. It’s her domain, really. I think she sits here and remembers little incidents from the past. I don’t know whether it is good for her or not.”

“I expect she gets some satisfaction from it. People do from memories.”

I saw the two little beds … the dressing table … the window that looked out on the stream and the windmill.

“It’s very picturesque,” I said.

She took me out of doors and we walked through the garden to the stream.

“We used to play in the mill when we were children,” said Candice. “Nounou was terrified. She was always afraid there would be some accident.”

We walked back across the garden to the house. Nounou was waiting for us in the salon. I thanked them both for their hospitality and told them how much I had enjoyed the visit.

“You must come again,” said Candice.

Marie-Christine was smiling with satisfaction as we mounted our horses and rode away.

“There!” she said. “You’ve met Tante Candice and Nounou.”

“It was very interesting, and they were very kind.”

“Why shouldn’t they be?”

“Sometimes unexpected callers are not welcome.”

“Tante Candice is my mother’s sister and I am her niece. Nounou was their nurse. That means they should always be glad to see me.”

“She does not seem very anxious to see the family into which her sister married, and you are part of that.”

“That’s because she blames my father for my mother’s death.”

“Blames your father! I thought it was a riding accident.”

“All the same, she blames him. I know she does. That’s why she doesn’t come to La Maison.”

“Who told you this?”

“No one. I just know.”

“You have a vivid imagination, Marie-Christine.”

“You disappoint me. You sound just like old Dupont.”

“Tell me …” I began. But Marie-Christine had set her face in stubborn lines and rode on ahead of me, and in due course we reached La Maison Grise.

It had been an interesting and unusual afternoon.

I mentioned the visit to Angele. She was somewhat taken aback. “Marie-Christine took you there! Really, she can be quite mischievous at times. We don’t have very much contact with Candice.

It’s due to her. She never seems to want to see us. It may be that memories are too painful. We were never on very friendly terms … although Marianne was constantly at the mill with her sister and the old nurse.”

“It must have been a terrible blow to them both.”

“You met the nurse, did you? She doted on the two girls. I think the shock was rather much for her. One of the servants here is friendly with Louise Grillon, and occasionally a little gossip seeps through. The old nurse was particularly devoted to Marianne, and she hasn’t been the same since she died. That’s according to Louise Grillon. Gerard was a fool to marry the girl. It was not exactly a manage de convenance. We were all disappointed, but he was quite besotted about her. An artist’s model! Well, she was supposed to be very attractive.”

“She seems to be, from her picture.”

“She was painted by several artists. They saw her and wanted to paint her. She is in several galleries. The most famous one of them all was done by a Norwegian … or he might be Swedish … Scandinavian anyway. Lars Petersen. Poor Gerard. I think he was a bit put out. Naturally he thought he was more qualified to do the picture.”

“She must have been outstanding to arouse such attention.”

“She was reckoned to be exceptionally beautiful.”

“You must have known her well.”

“I can’t say that. She and Gerard were in Paris most of the time.”

“And Marie-Christine was here?”

“Yes. That seemed the best place for a child to be. I’ve looked after her all her life. Marianne was not much of a mother. Overaffectionate at times and then forgetting all about the child.”

“I see.”

“It was really quite unsatisfactory from the start. Even when Marianne was here, she was at the mill more often than in this house. She was very close to her sister and, of course, the nurse encouraged her to go there.” Angele shrugged her shoulders. “Well, it is all over now.”

“And your son was in Paris most of the time.”

“He always was. His art is his life. I’ve always known that. We wish he had been more conventional. He could have gone into banking with Robert, or law with his father … and then of course, there is the estate … not large, but it demands a certain amount of time. But he knew what he wanted to do even when he was a child … and that was paint. Marie-Christine should not have taken you to visit them like that.”

“I think the idea came to her on the spur of the moment.” “So many of Marie-Christine’s ideas come like that.” “Well, they were very affable and have invited us to go again.” Angele lifted her shoulders in that familiar gesture of resignation, and I think she must have been only mildly displeased that I had met them.

A few days later she suggested that we should at last make the visit to Paris.

“Robert has a small house there in the Rue des Merles,” she told me. “There is a concierge and his wife who live in the basement. They guard the place during his long absences and look after him when he is there.”

I was excited and immediately made preparations for the visit.

The Portrait

I was enchanted by Paris—that city of gardens and bridges, dark alleyways and wide boulevards, whose turbulent history seemed to be encapsulated in its ancient buildings and monuments.

I wanted to see everything, and both Robert and Angele were delighted and proud to show me.

I was overwhelmed by the majesty of Notre Dame. It exuded the past. Robert said what a tragedy it had been that during the Revolution the mob had sought to destroy it.

“Fortunately Napoleon came to power just in time to prevent its being broken up and sold,” he added with satisfaction. “And then Louis Philippe, before his abdication twenty years or so ago, he did much to restore the old magnificence and necessary work has been done.”

I could have spent hours there, absorbing the ancient ambience, dreaming of the past, of St. Denis, its first bishop, who had become the patron saint of France, or Peter Abelard and his love for Heloise.

We walked a great deal. One must walk to see Paris. We visited the Louvre; we sat in the Tuileries; we spent hours in Les Halles; we crossed the Pont Neuf, the oldest of all the bridges, and I was both fascinated and repelled by the decorations on the parapets. Those grotesque masks would remain in my memory forever.

Robert was very interested in the work of Haussmann, which he said had changed the face of Paris in the last few years; the work had been necessary after the vandalism of the people during the Revolution. Robert was quite clearly proud of his city, and he enjoyed showing it to me. I noticed how he delighted in my admiration, which I did not have to assume. I had always been intrigued by big cities. I suppose it was because I had been born and bred in one of the largest. I had loved London, but my desire to be back there was smothered by persistent memories. Paris I could enjoy without reservation, from Montmartre to the Rue de Rivoli, from Montparnasse to the Latin Quarter. I could revel in it all.

I would return to the house exhilarated.

“You are incapable of fatigue,” said Robert.

“It is because everything I see stimulates me.”

“I knew you should come to Paris,” commented Angele. “We waited too long.”

Marie-Christine was at my side most of the time. She was developing a new interest in the city.

She said: “I’ve already seen most of this before, but with you it’s like seeing it afresh.”

There came the day when we called on Gerard.

As I expected, he lived in the Latin Quarter. I was in a state of high expectation when we set out. I had been hoping for some time to pay this visit, and wondered why it had already been postponed on two occasions.

We were to arrive at three o’clock.

I noticed a certain tension in both Robert and Angele. Marie-Christine had changed, too. She seemed a little remote. I wondered why the prospect of a visit to Gerard should have this effect on them all.

We made our way along the Boulevard St. Germain, past the church of that name. I knew it had been built here on the site of a Benedictine abbey as long ago as the eighth century, but the present church, which now replaced it, dated back only to the thirteenth.

The studio was at the top of a tall building. We had to climb a great many stairs to reach it. The last flight brought us up to a door on which was a card bearing the name “Gerard du Carron.”

Robert knocked and the door was opened by a man—Gerard himself. I recognized him at once from the picture I had seen in the gallery.

He cried: “Ma mere, mon oncle et ma fille!” He turned to me, smiling, and went on in English: “And you must be Mademoiselle Tremaston. Welcome to my studio.”

We were ushered into a big room. There were several large windows and a fanlight in the sloping roof. The room contained a couch, which was probably a bed by night, some chairs, a table on which stood an array of tubes and brushes, and there were two easels, and canvasses stacked against the wall. It was the room of an artist. Glass doors opened onto the roof, which was flat, and the view across Paris was spectacular.

“How good of you to call on me,” said G6rard.

“We wanted to come before,” Angele told him. “We thought you might be busy. How are you, Gerard?”

“I am well, and there is no need to ask you. You look radiant. How is my daughter?”

“Learning English,” Marie-Christine told him. “And I can speak it very well.”

“That’s excellent.”

“Noelle … Mademoiselle Tremaston, is teaching me. I’m teaching her French. We’re both a lot better than we were.”

“That is indeed good news,” he said. “Thank you, Mademoiselle Tremaston, for being so instructive to my daughter.”

I smiled. “The benefits are mutual.”

“I can hear you have succeeded very well already. Your French is charming.”

“Unmistakably English,” I said.

“Well, therein lies its charm. Now, my dear family, refreshments, I think. I shall give you coffee.”

“And I shall make it,” said Angele.

“Chere Martian, I am not really so helpless as you imagine me to be, but perhaps I should not leave my guests. So if you would be so good.”

Angele went through a door to what I presumed to be a kitchen. Robert and I were given chairs, while Marie-Christine sat on the couch.

“This is a real artist’s studio,” said Marie-Christine to me. “There are lots like it in Paris.”

“Not lots, chere enfant,” said Gerard. “Some, it is true. I like to think I was lucky in acquiring this.” He had turned to me. “It’s ideal, really. The light is magnificent, and don’t you think the view is inspiring, Mademoiselle Tremaston?”

“I certainly do,” I assured him.

“You look over Paris without effort. I can tell you, there are numerous artists in this city who would give a great deal to have such quarters.”

“There are other artists here in this place,” Marie-Christine told me.

“Artists abound,” said Gerard. “This is the Latin Quarter and Paris is the centre of the arts, you know. And it is here where artists forgather. Day and night they congregate in the cafes, talking of the great things they are going to do … always, alas, going to do.”

“One day they will talk about the great things they have done,” I said.

“Then they will be too grand to live here, or to frequent such cafes. They will do that elsewhere. So you see, there will always be talk of what they are going to do.”

Angele called: “Gerard, I can’t find enough cups.”

He smiled in my direction. “You will excuse me.” He went into the kitchen. I heard their voices.

“Chere Maman, you always think I am starving.”

“This chicken will last you a little while. It’s all ready to be eaten; and I have brought a gateau to go with the coffee.”

“Maman, you spoil me.”

“You know it worries me to think of you … living like this. I wish you would come home. You could paint in the north tower.”

“Oh … it is not the same. Here I am with my own kind.

There is only one place for a struggling painter to be, and that is Paris. Are we ready? I will carry the tray. You bring that magnificent gateau. “

He set the tray on the table, pushing aside the tubes and brushes. Angele cut the cake and handed it round.

Gerard said to me: “My mother thinks I am on the verge of starvation. In fact, I live very well.”

“You can’t live on art,” said Angele.

“That, alas, appears to be true, and I can’t think of anyone here who would not agree with you. Tell me, what have you been doing in Paris?”

We talked about our sightseeing.

“It is all so fresh to Noelle,” said Robert. “It has been a delight to show her round.”

“It has been wonderful,” I said.

Marie-Christine put in: “This gateau is delicious.”

“And your home was in London?” asked Gerard of me. “We have an Englishman in our community here. You see, we live a sort of communal life. We all get to know each other. We meet in cafes and in each other’s apartments. Almost every night we are fraternizing somewhere.”

“Talking about the wonderful pictures you are going to paint,” said Marie-Christine.

“How did you guess?”

“Because you just told us. All you are going to do. That is what you talk about in cafes.”

“It stimulates us. Yes … they all must come to Paris.”

“I hope you will show Noelle some of your work,” said Robert. “I am sure she would like to see it.”

“Really?” he asked, looking at me.

“But of course I should like to.”

“Don’t expect anything wonderful, something like Leonardo, Rembrandt, Reynolds, Fragonard or Boucher.”

“I should imagine you have a style of your own.”

“Thank you. But is it your natural politeness which makes you show such eagerness to see my work? I would not wish to take advantage of your gracious manners and bore you … which might well be the case.”

“How can I know how I shall feel until I see it?”

“I tell you what I will do. I will show you a few, and if I detect signs of boredom, I will desist. How is that?”

“It sounds a good idea.”

“First tell me how long you intend to stay in France.”

“I am not sure.”

“We hope for a long time,” said Angele.

“I am going to insist that she stay,” said Marie-Christine.

“It would be a tragedy to miss your English lessons.”

“Is that Madame Gamier still looking after you?” asked Angele.

“Oh yes, she is.”

“The kitchen floor needs cleaning. What does she do here?”

“Dear old Garnier. She has a wonderful face.”

“Have you been painting her?”

“Of course.”

“I think she is quite repulsive.”

“You do not see the inner woman.”

“So, instead of cleaning … she has been sitting for you?”

He turned to me. “You were saying that you wished to see some of my pictures. I will begin with Madame Garnier.”

He took one of the canvasses and set it on an easel. It was the portrait of a woman—plump, merry, with a certain shrewdness about her mouth and more than a touch of cupidity in her eyes.

“It’s certainly like her,” said Angele.

“It’s very interesting,” I said. Gerard was watching me intently. “One feels one knows something about her.”

“Tell me what,” said Gerard.

“She likes a joke. She laughs a great deal. She knows what she wants and she is going to get it. She is somewhat cunning and is going to make sure she gets more than she gives.”

He was smiling at me, nodding his head.

“Thank you,” he said. “You have paid me a very nice compliment.”

“Well,” said Angele, “I have no doubt it suits Madame Gamier very well to sit in a chair smirking instead of getting on with her work.”

“And it suits me very well, Maman. “

I said: “You promised to show us more of your pictures.”

“I feel less reluctant after your verdict on this one.”

“Surely you have no doubts of your work,” I said. “I should have thought an artist must have complete belief in himself. If he does not, will anyone else?”

“What words of wisdom!” he said with a touch of mockery. “Well, here we are. This is the concierge. And here is a model whom we use sometimes. A little conventional, eh? Here is Madame la concierge. Too accustomed to sitting … not quite natural.”

I thought his work very interesting. He showed us some scenes of Paris. There was one of the Louvre and another of the Tuileries, a street scene and one of La Maison Grise, including the lawn and the nymphs in the pond. I was slightly startled when, turning over the canvasses, he revealed a picture of Moulin Carrefour.

“That’s the mill,” I said.

“It’s an old one … painted some years ago. You recognized it.”

“Marie-Christine took me there.”

He turned it against the wall and showed me another picture, of a woman at a stall in the market. She was selling cheese.

“Do you sit in the street and paint?” I asked.

“No. I make sketches and come back and work on them. It is not really satisfactory, but necessary of course.”

“You specialize in portraits?”

“Yes. The human face interests me. There is so much there … if one can find it. So many people try to conceal that which would be most interesting.”

“So when you paint a portrait, you are trying to discover what is hidden?”

“One should know something about the subject if one is going to do a really good portrait.”

“And all the people you have painted are subjected to this … scrutiny.”

“It makes you sound like a detective,” said Robert. “You must have lots of information about people you paint.”

“Not really,” said Gerard, laughing. “What I discover is for me alone … and it is only with me when I am working on the picture. I want to do something which is true.”

“Don’t you find that people don’t really want to look so much what they are but what they would like to be?” I asked.

“The fashionable painter is usually the one who does just that. I am not a fashionable painter.”

“But if a flattering picture gives pleasure, what harm is there?”

“No harm at all. It is just not what I want to do.”

“I should like to be flattered,” said Marie-Christine.

“I daresay most people would,” added Angele.

“Do you think you really discover what secrets people are trying to hide?” I asked.

“Perhaps now and then. But the portrait painter often has a vivid imagination, and what he does not discover, he will imagine.”

“And does not always come up with the right answer.”

“What he likes to do is come up with some answer.”

“If it is the wrong one, his endeavours might seem to have been wasted.”

“Oh, but he has greatly enjoyed the experience.”

“It seems to me,” said Robert, “that one should be wary of having one’s portrait painted, if in the process one must submit to an analysis of one’s character.”

“I can see I have given a false impression,” said Gerard lightly. “I am really talking of an exercise practised for the artist’s pleasure. It is completely harmless.”

A shadow fell across the glass door which opened onto a roof, and I saw a figure there. A very tall man was looking into the room.

“Hello,” he said, in deeply accented French.

“Come in,” said Gerard unnecessarily, for the visitor was already stepping into the room.

“Oh … I’m intruding,” he said, surveying us. He smiled on us all. He was very blond, and in his late twenties, I imagined. His eyes were startlingly blue, and there was something overpowering about him—not only because of his size. His forceful personality was immediately apparent.

“This is Lars Petersen, my neighbour,” said Gerard.

I had heard the name before. He was the man who had painted Marianne.

Gerard introduced me. The newcomer obviously knew the others.

“It is delightful to see you all,” said Lars Petersen. “You must forgive my calling in such a manner. I came to borrow some milk. Have you any, Gerard? If I had known you were entertaining, I would have drunk my coffee without milk.”

“We have some coffee here,” said Angele. “It might be a little cold …”

“I’d like it however it comes.”

“We have milk here, too.”

“How kind you are to me.”

“Do sit down,” said Angele, and he took his place on the couch beside Marie-Christine.

“You’re a painter, too, are you not?” she said.

“I try to be.”

“And you live in the next studio … and you have come across the roof.”

“Well, it is not so hazardous as you might think. We can walk about on that roof, and there is actually a path from studio to studio. My studio is exactly like this one. They are a pair.”

Angele gave him the coffee, for which he thanked her profusely.

I thought Gerard looked mildly annoyed and was wishing his neighbour had not joined the party. The big man certainly had an effect. He was soon dominating the conversation … talking a great deal about himself: how he had been a student in Oslo and had suddenly had the idea that he must be a painter.

“It was like St. Paul on the road to Damascus,” he told us. He had suddenly seen the light. So he packed his bags and came to Paris … the Mecca of artists. Such friendly people. So like himself. “There we are, in our garrets … poor but happy. All artists should be happy.” He was looking rather mischievously at Gerard, who would, of course, not be exactly poor, coming from such a family. And was he happy? I did not think he was, which might have something to do with the death of his young wife.

“To starve in a garret is an essential part of the flowering of great art, so they say,” went on Lars Petersen. “So we are all living from day to day, knowing that we are on the road to fame and fortune, and the hardships of the present are the price to pay for the glories of the future. One day the name of Lars Petersen … and Gerard du Carron … will stand with that of Leonardo da Vinci. Never doubt it. That’s what we believe, anyway. And it is a nice comfortable belief.”

He told us how he had come to Paris. He had struggled for a few years … going from lodging to lodging. And then he had sold a few pictures. One of those pictures was a success. People talked of it.

I was perceptive on that day. I was immediately aware of the expression on Gerard’s face. It was fleeting, but it was there. He was thinking of Lars Petersen’s portrait of Marianne which had attracted so much attention.

“If you have one success, people get interested,” went on Lars Petersen. “I began to sell pictures. It was a step up. That’s what everyone needs. Now I have a fine apartment … just like this one. It’s an exact replica. And where could you find anything more suitable to our needs?”

He talked on, and I had to admit he was amusing. Though his French was fluent, he would often search for a word, throwing up his head and clicking his fingers, as though summoning someone to supply it. Someone—Marie-Christine, for instance—usually did. She was greatly amused by him, and I could see that she was enjoying the visit more since Lars Petersen had appeared.

He described his own country, the magnificence of the fjords. “Fine scenery. Paintable, but”—he lifted his shoulders and shook his head—”people would rather have the Louvre or Notre Dame … than all the wild scenery of Norway. Yes, yes, if you want to succeed, you must serve your apprenticeship in Paris. Paris is the magic word. You cannot be great without Paris.”

“So Gerard assures us,” said Robert. He glanced at Angele. “I think, my dear, that it is time we left.”

“It has been such fun,” cried Marie-Christine.

“You are not far away in the country,” said Lars Petersen. “Just a few miles from Paris, is it not?”

“Yes,” replied Gerard, “you should come to Paris more often.”

“We will,” cried Marie-Christine.

“It has been good to see you, Gerard,” said Angele. “Do come home soon.”

“I will.”

Gerard had taken my hand.

“I have so much enjoyed meeting you. I am glad you are in France. I should like to do a portrait of you.”

I laughed. “After all your warnings?”

“There are some people one sees and wants to paint. I feel that about you.”

“Well, I’m flattered, but I should be a little wary, shouldn’t I?”

“I promise you, the process would be painless.”

“We are going back the day after tomorrow.”

“As we were saying, you are not far away. Would you agree? It would give me great pleasure.”

“May I think about it?”

“Please do.”

“Would you come to La Maison Grise?”

“I would rather do it here. The light is so good. And I have everything I need here.”

“It would mean my staying in Paris.”

“For a week or so. Why not? You are here now. You could stay at the house. It is only a short way from there to the studio.”

I felt quite excited. It had certainly been a stimulating afternoon.

Later that day Angele came to my room.

She said: “I wanted to hear what you thought about the visit to Gerard.”

“I enjoyed it. It was very interesting.”

“He worries me, really. I wish he would come home.”

“But you know how he feels about his painting.”

“He could do it at home.”

“It wouldn’t be the same. Here he is with those people. Imagine the cafe society … the talks … the aspirations and the rivalries … all his friends who understand what he is talking about. Naturally he is happier here.”

“It was different when his wife was alive. She could look after him.”

“He seems to manage very well with Madame Garnier.”

Angele made a contemptuous gesture.

“And there is that man living close.”

“He is certainly a character.”

“I suppose you know him quite well.”

“He has been a neighbour of Gerard’s for some time. He’s always been very garrulous when I have seen him … talking about himself most of the time.”

“Gerard has asked to paint me.”

“I know. I heard him. That would be nice.”

“Do you think so?”

“I am sure it would.”

“I said that, after all these revelations, I was put on my guard.”

“Oh, that was just idle talk. Besides, you have no dark secrets.”

“Still …”

“I think he could do a good portrait of you. Some of his are really quite beautiful.”

“He did a great many of his wife, I suppose.”

“Oh yes. She was his chief model. There are some lovely ones. It was a pity there was all that fuss about the one Lars Petersen did. I think some of Gerard’s were as good. It’s just a matter of what takes the critic’s fancy.”

“He did not show us any that he had painted of her.”

“No … I think he doesn’t want to look back on all that. It seems to be too recent … even now. But you must let him paint you.”

“I think it would be rather amusing.”

“We’ll arrange it. We have to come to Paris again. I can’t really leave the household much longer now, so we must get back. But we can come again … in a few weeks’ time. I’d come with you and you could go off to the studio every day. I expect he’d want to work in the mornings. The light is best then. Oh yes, certainly, we’ll arrange it. Say in about three weeks’ time.”

I began to feel quite excited by the prospect. I was really rather intrigued by the bohemian life. I found Gerard’s conversation interesting; and I was sure he had many friends as amusing as Lars Petersen.

When we arrived back at La Maison Grise, there was a letter waiting for me. It was from Lisa Fennell.

I felt uneasy when I saw her handwriting. I realized that the visit to Paris had helped me take a few steps away from the past. I had certainly been stimulated—especially by my meeting with Gerard and the glimpse I had had into his way of life.

I felt a sympathy for him. He had lost his young wife as I had lost the husband I had never had, so I felt there was a bond of a kind between us.

And now I was brought back with a jolt to that other world from which, such a short time before, I had escaped.

I took the letter to my room so that I might read it without interruptions.

My dear Noelle,

I have been wondering a great deal about you. In fact, I have never ceased to think of you since you left. How are you? I am sure you are feeling better. Robert is the kindest man I know, and you did right to go with him.

The show finished and it will be some weeks before we open with the new one. There is a place for me in it, Dolly has promised. Only in the chorus, though. I think Lottie Langdon is going to take the lead. I’m hoping to get the understudy. But at the moment I am resting.

What do you think? I went down to Leverson. I wanted you to know that I had been.

You see, there was a good deal in the papers about that discovery of the Neptune temple. Apparently it’s a great find and all that about how the landslide had revealed it made good news. I was quite fascinated, and I wrote to Roderick, saying how I should like to see it.

He came up to London. I was still working then and he came to the show. We had dinner afterwards. He seemed very sad. He wouldn’t talk about you, so we discussed this temple and he asked me down for a weekend, so that I could see it. I went. It was fascinating. I loved it all. I met that nice Fiona Vance, and she showed me some of the work she was doing. I had a most interesting weekend. Lady Constance was very cool towards me. Clearly she didn’t approve. I understand how you must have felt.

Apart from that, I enjoyed it very much. I became so interested in what Fiona was doing. She showed me how to brush off the earth and stuff from some of the drinking vessels, and I was ever so sorry when I had to go.

Fiona said it was a pity I didn’t live nearer. Charlie was there. He is very unhappy, too. I am sure you are never far from their thoughts.

Both Charlie and Roderick said I must come again. Lady Constance did not add her invitation to theirs!

Well, perhaps I shall go again. I do find all those Roman relics quite fascinating.

I am still at the house. Please tell Robert I feel ashamed about keeping on there, but I am so comfortable and the Crimps don’t really want me to go. They don’t like caretaking, as they say. They’ve been used to a household where things are going on. I know I don’t make much difference, but I’m there, and they are always interested in what’s happening at the theatre. So I just linger on.

Try to find out from Robert whether he really thinks I ought to go. But really, it does seem rather unnecessary and it means a lot to me to be able to stay here.

I expect I shall soon be working again. I hope so. I shan’t see any more weekends at Leverson in that case.

Well, I thought I ought to let you know that I had been there and seen them. Perhaps I’ll see you sometime. Are you making plans?

Oh, dear Noelle, I do hope that things will go right for you …

The letter fell from my hands.

So, she had been there. She had seen Roderick and Charlie and Lady Constance. They had been sad, she said.

Dear Roderick. What was he thinking of now? Would he forget me in time? I knew I should never forget him.

I found peace and a certain amount of contentment sitting in that studio, gazing across the city while Gerard du Carron worked on my portrait.

I seemed farther away from the past than I had been since tragedy had first struck me. It seemed as though once again a way of escape was opening out before me.

I was seated on a chair with the light falling full on my face while Gerard stood at his easel. Sometimes he talked while he worked; at others he lapsed into silence.

He told me about his childhood at La Maison Grise, how he had always loved to be in the north tower. He had sketched from an early age; he had been deeply interested in pictures.

“I used to study those in the picture gallery. I would be up there for hours at a time. They always knew where to find me. They thought I was a strange child. And then suddenly I knew I wanted to paint.

“Life was smooth and comfortable. My father was a quiet man… a fine man. I wonder what would have happened if he had lived. If … one is always saying if. Do you say it, Noelle?”

“Constantly.”

“Why are you so sad?”

“How do you know I am sad?”

“You try to hide it, but it is there.”

“You know about my mother?”

“Yes. I know of her sudden death. Robert was very fond of her, and that is why you are here. He promised her he would look after you. It is for that … and of course because he is very fond of you. Does it hurt to speak of her?”

“I am not sure.”

“Try it, then.”

So I talked of her. I told him about our life, of the productions, the dramas and Dolly. I kept recalling incidents and found that I could laugh at some, as I had at the time.

He laughed with me.

He said: “It was a tragedy … a great tragedy.”

Madame Gamier would come, and the kitchen was full of noise. I fancied she thought the noise was necessary to show how hard she was working. She was a little resentful of me at first, but after a few days she was more amicable. We had both had our pictures painted, and that made a bond between us.

She told me that hers was going into some exhibition. People would come and look at it and perhaps buy it.

“Who would want me hanging in their salons, mademoiselle?”

“Who would want me?”

She had a habit of nudging me and bursting into laughter. She brought in bread, milk and such things, for which I discovered she overcharged outrageously. I had suspected this because of the cupidity I had seen in her eyes in the portrait. I had put it to the test and found it to be true. I was impressed by Gerard’s perspicacity.

I said to him one day: “Do you know Madame Gamier cheats you over the food?”

“But of course,” he said.

“And you don’t tell her so?”

“No, it’s a small matter. I need her to bring the food. So let her have her little triumphs. It brings her satisfaction. She thinks how clever she is. If she thought I knew, she would lose that satisfaction. Is there not a saying in English, ‘Let sleeping dogs lie’?”

I laughed at him.

I used to go into the kitchen when the morning sitting was over and prepare a meal, which we would share. Angele sometimes called and we would go back together. She was staying in Paris with me. Robert had had to go back to La Maison Grise to deal with some business on the estate. I knew Marie-Christine was put out because we had gone away without her. She would have liked to accompany us, but Mademoiselle Dupont had said lessons must not be further interrupted.

I sometimes stayed at the studio for the afternoons. Often when we were lunching together, people would call. I was beginning to know some of Gerard’s friends. There was Gaston du Pre, a young man from the Dordogne country. He was very poor and was fed mainly by the others. He often appeared at mealtimes and shared what was being eaten. Then there was Richard Hart, son of a country squire from Staffordshire, whose lifelong ambition had been to paint. There were several others, chief among them Lars Petersen, the most successful of them all, since he had achieved some fame through his portrait of Marianne.

He dominated the company on all occasions, partly because he was more successful than the others and partly because of his ebullient personality.

It was a lighthearted life and, after a few days, I felt myself caught up in it. I awoke every morning with a feeling of pleasure. I was enjoying the experience as I had not expected to enjoy anything again.

I looked forward to my little skirmishes with Madame Garnier. I had refused to allow her to continue to overcharge on her purchases, and pointed out the discrepancies to her. She would look at me, her little eyes screwed up to make them even smaller. But she respected me. I imagined her theory was that if people were stupid enough to allow themselves to be cheated, they deserved what they got. So there were no real hard feelings.

I liked to make the meal and often brought in the food. She did not object to this, for there was no profit to be made now, and it enabled her to do less work and to leave earlier. So even though I had spoilt her profitable enterprise, I had made life easier for her in other ways.

Gerard was very amused when I told him of this, and I found I was laughing a good deal.

Most of all, I enjoyed the sitting periods when we talked.

Our friendship grew fast, as it does in such circumstances, and I began to think that life would be dull when the portrait was finished.

One day, when he was working, he said: “There is something else which makes you unhappy.”

I was silent for a few moments, and he stood watching me, his brush poised in his hand. “Is it … a lover?” he asked.

Still I hesitated. I could not bear to talk of Roderick. He was quick to interpret my feelings.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I am inquisitive. Forget I asked.”

He returned to the canvas, but after a short while, he said: “It is not good today. I can work no more. Let us go out and I will show you more of the Latin Quarter. I am sure there is still much you do not know.”

I understood. My mood had changed. It seemed that Roderick was close to me. I had lost my serenity.

As we came out into the street, the atmosphere enveloped me and raised my spirits a little. There was a smell of hot baking bread in the air, and from one of the houses came the sound of a concertina.

We went into the Church of St. Sulpice, and walked through the little streets with their shops containing rosaries and images of the saints.

“We call it St. Sulpicerie,” he told me.

He showed me the house in which Racine had died. Then he took me to the Place Furstenberg, where Delacroix had had his studio.

“He’s only recently died,” he said, “but his studio has become a shrine. Do you think one day people will come along to my studio and say: ‘Gerard du Carron lived and worked here’?”

“I am sure it will be, if you are determined to make it so.”

“You believe, then, that we have the power to do what we want with our lives?”

“We have circumstances to contend with. Who of us knows what tomorrow will bring? But I do believe we have the power in us to overcome adversity.”

“I am glad you feel like that. It is a wonderful creed … but not always easy to follow.”

We came to a cafe with gaily coloured awnings, under which tables were set.

“Do you need refreshment?” he asked. “Perhaps not. But it would be pleasant to sit here. I find it soothing to the spirit to watch the world pass by.”

So we sat and drank coffee and watched the people while Gerard amused himself—and me—by speculating about their lives.

There was an old man walking painfully with the help of a stick. “He has led a merry life,” said Gerard. “And, now he is coming to the end of it, is wondering what it was all about. Ah! The matron with the shopping bag full of goods; she is congratulating herself that she has beaten down the prices of the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker, little knowing that, being aware of her methods, they have put the prices up before she arrived.”

Two young girls came along, arm in arm, giggling. “Dreaming of the lovers they will have,” said Gerard. “And there are the lovers. No Paris street can be complete without them. They are unaware of anything but each other. And there is the young girl with her governess, dreaming of freedom when she will no longer need a governess. The governess knows that time is not far off and her heart is heavy with apprehension. Where will she find her next post?”

“I can see what you mean about knowing your subjects. Would you like to paint some of these people?”

“Most of them. Though some show too obviously what they are. I look for those with a touch of mystery.”

We bought some pate and took it back to the studio. Gerard produced a bottle of white wine and we sat on the couch and drank it with the pate.

“I believe,” said Gerard, “that you are getting a taste for la vie boheme.”

“Perhaps I was born into it.”

“I think that may be so. That is why you have taken to it. My mother is a little shocked by the way I live. She cannot understand why I do not return to La Maison and live what she calls the life of a country gentleman.”

“That would not suit you in the least,” I said.

After a short pause, he said: “You are less sad now.”

“You have cheered me up.”

“So our little jaunt was just what you needed?”

“Yes. And I can’t think why I should want to hide the truth from you.”

“I should like to know, of course.”

“It was like this: Your Uncle Robert and a man called Charlie were two of my mother’s greatest friends. She was always surrounded by people. They came and went. But there were three of them who were always around: Robert, Charlie and the producer Dolly. When my mother died, Charlie insisted on taking me to his home. He had a son, Roderick. I had met Roderick and knew him quite well before my mother’s death. She did not know of our meetings. They were not exactly secret, but I had not mentioned them. Charlie had promised my mother that he would always look after me if need be, and he took me to his home. Roderick and I fell in love. We were going to be married. Then Charlie told me that I was his daughter and so Roderick and I were brother and sister.”

He was looking at me in amazed horror.

“And so,” he said, “that was the end …”

I nodded. “That is why I am sad. After the shock of my mother’s death, I wanted to start again. I know I could have done so … with Roderick. You see, my mother and I were so close. We had always been together. I could not imagine a life without her … and then … with Roderick, it seemed there was a chance.”

He moved closer to me and put an arm round me.

“My poor, poor Noelle, how you have suffered!” he said.

“We were saying we have to accept the blows life gives us … but we do have the power to rise above them … if only we can find it.”

“You are right. We have to do this. And we can … I am sure we can.”

“I did not want to talk of this to anyone.”

“But you were right to talk to me. I understand. You see, I have lost my wife.”

He stood up suddenly and went to the window.

Then he turned and said: “The light is still good. I could work for a while. It will make up for playing truant this morning.”

Then came the day when the portrait was finished. I was sad to think that period was over. There would be no more sittings, no more intimate conversation, no longer an excuse for me to go to the studio every day. There was no doubt that it had been a stimulating experience.

I studied the portrait while Gerard watched me with a certain apprehension.

I knew it was good. I was not the beauty Marianne had been, but there was a haunting quality about it. The likeness was there— and something else. It was the face of a young woman, innocent to a certain extent, and in a way unmarked by life, but there was in the eyes an expression of something which told of a secret sorrow.

I said: “It is very clever.”

“But do you like it?”

“I think it betrays something.”

“Something you would rather was not there?”

“Perhaps.”

“It is you,” he said. “Whenever I see it, I shall feel that you are here.”

“Well, I suppose that is what a portrait should be.”

Lars Petersen came in.

“I am all agog,” he said. “Where is the masterpiece?”

He came and stood before the easel, legs apart. He always seemed to fill a room when he was in it.

“It’s good,” he announced. “You’ve done it this time, Gerard.”

“You think so?”

“We’ll see. It’s got depth. It’s the picture of a beautiful girl, too. There is nothing that pleases like a beautiful girl.”

“It’s not really beautiful,” I said. “But it is interesting.”

“My dear Mademoiselle Tremaston, I venture to say an artist knows best. It is the picture of a beautiful girl. Come on. Where is the champagne? We must drink to the success of our genius. Excuse me one moment.”

He disappeared through the door and across the roof.

“He likes it,” said Gerard. “I could see he liked it. He really thinks it is good.”

Lars Petersen came back with a bottle of champagne.

“Glasses!” he demanded imperiously.

I brought them out and he opened the bottle and poured out the wine.

“It’s good … good,” he cried. “It’s almost as good as my creation. Gerard … success! Noelle is going to launch you as Marianne did me. Not quite so well … but almost.”

He was laughing. I wondered how the reference to Marianne would affect Gerard; but he just drank the wine and his eyes were shining.

Lars had convinced him that the portrait was good.

Angele and Robert agreed with the verdict and there was talk of an exhibition. Gerard had now gathered together enough pictures which he considered to be worthy and there was a great deal of discussion about the arrangements.

We stayed on in Paris, and I was frequently at the studio. I helped Gerard to decide which pictures he would exhibit. Lars Petersen was often present to give his judgement. Others came, too, but as Lars was such a near neighbour, he was constantly in and out.

Madame Garnier grew in importance because her portrait was to be one of the exhibits. We chose some scenes of the country, but mainly of Paris; portraits, however, were really Gerard’s forte, and they predominated.

Angele and Robert shared in the excitement of preparation for the exhibition. Angele did say that Marie-Christine was continually asking when I was coming back.

“We shall all be up for the exhibition, of course,” said Angele, and I knew that soon we should have to leave Paris. But there would be other visits. I should look forward to them.

The exhibition was fixed for September and I realized it was nearly six months since I had come to France.

I returned with Angele to La Maison Grise, where I was met by a reproachful Marie-Christine.

“What a long time you’ve been away!” she said. “Does it take so long to paint a portrait? My English is getting awful. One needs constant practice. I bet your French is pretty awful, too.”

“I have been getting a lot of practice.”

“Which I don’t with my English. It was mean of you to stay so long. Did you like sitting?”

“It was interesting.”

“I expect I’ll have my portrait painted someday. That’s what happens if you have an artist in the family. You get painted. Are you going to the exhibition?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll be famous.”

“I? What have I done?”

“When my mother’s portrait was painted, everyone was talking about her. Everyone knows who Marianne was.”

“They won’t be wondering about me.”

“Why not?”

“Your mother was very beautiful.”

She looked at me critically. “Yes,” she said slowly, “she was. So it must have been because of that.”

She seemed mollified. / was not going to be famous, so perhaps I would settle down, return to La Maison Grise and continue teaching her English.

I received another letter from Lisa.

I had written in answer to hers and told her that I was feeling better. Robert and his family were so kind to me, and he was the sort of man from whom it was easy to accept hospitality, as she had found. I was feeling cut off from the old life. Here everything seemed so different. I had done the right thing in coming, of course, but I could not stay here indefinitely, though everyone seemed not to want me to go … so here I was.

Dear Noelle [she had written],

Dolly’s Cherry Ripe got off to a wonderful start. Everyone said Lottie was splendid. It was just her piece … less song and dance than usual, and you know she was always shaky on her top notes.

There’s a trapdoor in some of the scenes. The hero comes climbing through it in the first act. He’s pretending to be a workman, but of course he is a millionaire in disguise.

Dolly had made me understudy, which I thought was good for me. I was longing for a chance to show them what I can do. I was really every bit as good as Lottie.

Well, my chance came. My chance! There was an accident! The trapdoor gave way and I fell. It was quite a long way down and I’ve done something to my back. Dancing is out of the question for the time being. I’ve got to rest. I have been to two doctors, and they can’t make up their minds what I’ve done. Dolly is furious. It’>> such a bore. I know I could have had a real chance with Cherry.

/ expect I shall be resting for a few weeks. Well, it has given me a chance to catch up with my correspondence.

I think of you so much, and wonder how you are getting on. It is quite a long time since you went away.

I saw Robert when he came to London. What a dear he is! He insists on my staying in the house, and the Crimps would hate me to go. He said he thought France was doing you a lot of good, and he was going to do his utmost to keep you there. He said his great-niece had taken a fancy to you! It sounds cosy.

By the way, I went to Leverson again. There is such a lot of activity about that Neptune temple. Do write and tell me your news.

My love,

Lisa

Time was speeding by. There was all the activity concerning the exhibition. I went to Paris again with Angele and was at the studio frequently. I enjoyed preparing a meal and then we would eat together, very often joined by one of Gerard’s friends, when conversation would be mainly about art.

Lars Petersen was at that time using a model called Clothilde. It occurred to me that they might be lovers. When I asked Gerard, he laughed and said that Lars often indulged in romantic adventures. It was a way of life with him.

I was becoming more and more drawn into the circle, and I very much missed these occasions when we went back to the country. All the same, I could never escape from my longing for Roderick. I even toyed with the idea of writing to him. But I knew that would be folly. There was nothing either of us could do to alter the situation. It was safer for us to be separated. To see him again would only intensify the pain. I had to cut him right out of my life. There could never be a brother-and-sister relationship between us. If we could not be together as lovers, we must remain apart.

I was glad to find that, in spite of everything, I could still be interested in other people. I was always telling myself that perhaps in time I should feel differently.

It was strange to see my face encased in a rather magnificent brass frame looking down on me from a wall. It certainly was an arresting picture. It was because of the subtle hint of tragedy which Gerard had brought into an otherwise young and innocent face. He had done it with remarkable skill. Had I really looked like that? I wondered.

I walked along the line. Some of the views of Paris were enchanting, but it was the portraits which would attract attention. Madame Garnier looked down at me. I could see her calculating how much she was going to make on her purchases, and I was reminded of her sly smile when I confronted her with her misdeeds and her calmness in brushing them aside. There she was, with all her failings and her virtues. I was beginning to think that Gerard was a very clever artist.

They were exciting days. I was often at the exhibition. I found it difficult to keep away. Gerard was delighted by my enthusiasm.

My picture was talked of, and in the notices which were given of the exhibition, I was mentioned at length.

“Noelle is the pick of the bunch.” “Noelle takes the palm.” “Study of a young girl who has a secret to hide. Deserted by her lover?” “What is Noelle trying to tell us? It is an arresting portrait.”

Madame Garnier was commented on, too. “A fine study.” “Full of character.” “Gerard du Carron has come far in the last years and should go farther.”

I was pleased when someone wanted to buy my portrait and Gerard refused to sell it.

“It’s mine,” he said. “I shall always keep it.”

After the exhibition, we went back to La Maison Grise. I had written to Lisa telling her about my stay in Paris. I did not hear from her for some time, so I presumed she was back at work and busy.

When I first returned, Marie-Christine was inclined to be aloof, but I soon realized that was because she had been hurt by my long absence.

One day, when we were riding together and walking our horses side by side through a narrow lane, she said: “I believe you liked being in Paris better than you do here.”

“I did enjoy being in Paris,” I said, “but I enjoy it here, too.”

“You won’t stay here always, though, will you? You’ll go away.”

“I know you have all made me very welcome, but I am really only a guest. This isn’t my home.”

“It feels like it to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“It feels as though you are part of my home … more than anyone else.”

“Oh … Marie-Christine!”

“I’ve never had anyone like you before. You’re like my sister. I always wanted a sister.”

I was deeply touched. “That’s a lovely thing you have said.”

“It’s true. Grand-mere is kind, but she is old, and she never really liked my mother, and when she looks at me, she thinks of her. My mother noticed me sometimes, and then she seemed to forget. My father didn’t notice me much either. My mother always wanted to be in Paris. My father was always there as well. Uncle Robert is kind … but he’s old, too. I’m just ‘the child’ to him. They’ve got to look after me. It’s not really that they want to. It’s a duty. What I want is a family … people to laugh with and quarrel with. People you can say anything to … and you feel they’re there, however horrid you are to them … they can’t get away because they are family.”

“I did not realize you felt like that, Marie-Christine.”

“You, too. You’ll go away, I know you will. Look how you went to Paris. We used to have fun doing English and French. Your French was very funny.”

“So was your English.”

“Your French was a lot funnier than my English.”

“Impossible!”

She was laughing. “You see? That’s what I mean. We can be rude to each other and we still like each other. That’s what I want, and then you go off to Paris. I reckon you’ll be going there again soon.”

“Well, if I do, I don’t see why you shouldn’t come, too. There’s room in the house there.”

“And what about Mademoiselle Dupont?”

“She could come, too. You could do your lessons there and learn something about the history of the city … right on the spot.”

“My father wouldn’t want to see me, though.”

“Of course he would.”

She shook her head. “I remind him of my mother, and he doesn’t want to be reminded.”

For a few seconds we rode in silence. We came to the end of the lane and she broke into a canter. I followed her. I was a little shaken by our conversation, during which she had revealed the intensity of her feelings for me.

She called over her shoulder: “I want to show you something.”

She pulled up sharply. We had come to a lych-gate. She leaped from her saddle and tethered her horse to a post at the side of the gate. I dismounted. There was a similar post on the other side of the gate, so I tied my horse to this.

She opened the gate and we went through.

We were in a graveyard, and she led the way along a path. All around us were the graves with their elaborate statues and an abundance of flowers.

She paused before one which was presided over by an elaborate carving of the Virgin and Child.

I read the inscription on the stone: “Marianne du Carron. Aged 27 years. Departed this life, January 3, 1866.”

“That,” said Marie-Christine, “is where my mother is buried.”

“It’s beautifully tended.”

“We never come here.”

“Who looks after it?”

“Nounou mostly. Tante Candice perhaps. But Nounou is here every week. She comes on Sundays. I’ve seen her often. She kneels down and prays to God to care for her child. She calls my mother her child. I’ve been close to her and heard. I never let her see me, though.”

I felt a great tenderness towards her. I wanted to protect her, to help to make her happy.

I took her hand and pressed it, and we stood in silence for a few seconds.

Then she said: “Come on, let’s go. I just wanted to show you, that’s all.”

Not long after my return, Gerard came to La Maison Grise. He had been very busy, he told us. Following the exhibition, he had several commissions.

“It was due to your portrait,” he said. “It attracted so much attention, so I have you to thank.”

“It was you who did the work. I only sat there.”

“I could not have done it without the sitter.” He went on: “I shall be busy here. I’ve brought some work with me. I can do it just as well here as in Paris, and it will be a change to be in a different environment.”

He spent a lot of time in the north tower. Angele was delighted to have him home. I knew that she worried about him. She confided to me that she thought his rather disorganized way of living had many disadvantages. She was sure he did not have regular meals, nor did he get enough to eat.

“And,” she added, “he has never got over the shock of Marianne’s death. I am sure that is one of the reasons why he likes to be in Paris. It brings it back too vividly here.”

“Yes, Marie-Christine has shown me where it happened.”

“So close to her old home. It was terrible. The old nurse came out of the house and found her lying there. It was a terrible shock for her. She was devoted to Marianne.”

“It must have been terrible for her.”

“Well, he is home for a while, and I am glad of that.”

So was I.

I could talk to him about his work and his friends, of whom by now I had met so many. Sometimes he would ride with Marie-Christine and me in the afternoons. I noticed he always avoided the road that led to Carrefour.

Robert was pleased that he was there. He would become quite animated over the dinner table. They discussed politics, and I acquired a certain insight into affairs of which I had known nothing before.

I discovered that Robert admired their Emperor Napoleon III, nephew of the notorious Napoleon, who had married the glamorous Empress Eugenie. Gerard was slightly less enthusiastic.

“He understands what the people need,” insisted Robert.

“He is obsessed by making France great,” retaliated G6rard. “He wants power. He is his uncle all over again.”

“His uncle made France a great power,” Robert insisted.

“And finally ended up in Elba and St. Helena.”

“That was ill luck.”

“It’s always ill luck,” said Gerard.

“You must admit the Emperor has promoted public works. He has brought in good things. For another thing, he has lowered the price of bread.”

“Oh yes, he cares for France. I don’t dispute that.” He turned to me. “Are we boring you with our politics?”

“Far from it,” I assured him. “I am discovering my ignorance and am delighted to learn something.”

“It is just that some of us are a little uneasy. I don’t like what is happening with Prussia. I think the Emperor is inclined to underestimate their strength.”

“Nonsense,” said Robert. “A petty German state! To think it can stand up to France!”

“The Emperor is well aware of the humiliations heaped on us by the Congress of Vienna.” Gerard turned to me. “That was just after the defeat of Napoleon I. We were at our lowest ebb at that time.”

“That is so,” added Robert. “And the Emperor wants to make France great again. He wants to change the European balance of power.”

“He was pleased to have an alliance with your country after the Crimean War,” said Gerard to me. “And after that, there followed war with Austria, in an attempt to expel that country from Italy.”

“He proved himself a great military commander at Solferino,” Robert reminded Gerard.

“I am afraid he will go too far.”

“He has brought prestige to our country,” insisted Robert.

“Don’t forget, Louis Philippe fell because he let France slip into becoming a minor power in Europe.”

“The present Napoleon is determined not to do that, but I am afraid his attitude with Prussia may get us involved in trouble.”

“Prussia!” said Robert contemptuously.

“To be reckoned with. Aren’t they trying to put a Hohenzollern on the throne of Spain?”

“This is something the Emperor will certainly not allow.”

“If he can stop it,” said Gerard. “Well, let us hope it will all blow over. We don’t want trouble with Prussia. This wine is good, Uncle Robert.”

“I am glad you appreciate it. How is the work going?”

“Not too badly. I shall have to go back to Paris soon. By the way, Noelle, Petersen is really serious about doing your portrait.”

“Why don’t you agree?” said Angele. “You enjoyed sitting for Gerard. It would be interesting to see what he did.”

“He can’t bear that my portrait of you has brought me some credit,” said Gerard. “He wants to show that he can do better.”

“Give him a chance to prove that he is wrong,” said Angele.

I said I should like to. “I wonder whether Marie-Christine could come to Paris with me. Mademoiselle Dupont could come, too, so that Marie-Christine could have her lessons. She was very put out about being left behind.”

“She has taken a great fancy to you,” said Angele. “I am glad of that. I can’t see why she shouldn’t go.”

“I shall look forward to it very much,” I said.

“Then,” said Angele, “that’s settled. When do you want to leave, Gerard?”

“At the beginning of next week, I think. Does that suit you?”

I said that it did.

When I saw Marie-Christine and told her that I was going to Paris the following week, her face fell. I quickly added: “Would you care to come? Mademoiselle would of course accompany us, and I am sure you would find it very educational.”

She threw her arms round me and hugged me.

“I suggested it,” I said, “and they all agreed that it would be a good idea.”

Lars Petersen was delighted that I had agreed to sit for him.

“From the moment I saw you, I wanted to paint you,” he said. “That is how it happens. I knew at once.”

“Well, I suppose I should be flattered.”

“You know you have an interesting face.”

“I didn’t, but it occurs to me that you noticed it after Gerard’s success.”

He looked at me roguishly. “I cannot allow him to steal a march on me, now can I? He painted a good picture. I must paint a better one.”

“I see there is a great deal of rivalry.”

“But of course. There is more rivalry in art than in anything else. We are watching those around us. Each of us wants to be the great artist who will live forever, whose name is known to millions. That is the great achievement. So naturally we are watchful of our rivals.”

His conversation was racy and amusing. I learned a good deal about Lars Petersen. He was without doubt extremely attractive and lived a merry life. He was not serious about anything but his art; he was immensely ambitious, determined to make a name for himself and to enjoy himself on the way to success. It was impossible not to like him.

I watched the progress of the portrait. It was good but it lacked that subtle quality which Gerard had brought to his. Perhaps that was because I had not opened my heart to him as I had to Gerard. There was not the same rapport between us.

Gerard used to come in at the end of the morning sittings, and the three of us would eat together. After that, I would go back to the house and spend the rest of the day with Marie-Christine. We went sightseeing with Mademoiselle Dupont. I learned a great deal of French history, for Mademoiselle Dupont had a habit of turning every jaunt into a history lesson. Marie-Christine and I exchanged secret glances, and sometimes we found it hard to restrain our laughter.

We frequently visited Gerard’s studio, and on these occasions usually managed to elude Mademoiselle Dupont. Gerard came to the house, too, so we saw a good deal of him during the visit.

There was one disconcerting incident which baffled me.

I was in Lars Petersen’s studio when he needed some special paint of which he had not sufficient. He knew Gerard had some and said he would go and get it from him. So I was left alone in his studio.

As I sat idly there, waiting for his return, I noticed that a piece of cloth had been caught in the door of a cupboard and was partially protruding. It was probably a duster, I thought. I had made a habit in Lars’s studio, as in Gerard’s, of putting things in their place, for they were both inclined to be untidy. So I rose, went to the cupboard, and opened the door with the intention of putting the duster right inside; but as I did so, a stack of canvasses fell out. I was putting them back when I saw a sketchbook among them. Picking up the canvasses, to my amazement I saw that one of them was a picture of a nude woman in a pose which could only be called provocative. It was, without doubt, Marianne.

I felt myself flushing. I was obviously not meant to see what was in this cupboard. I hastily put the canvas back and stacked in the others. The sketchbook was lying on the floor. I picked it up and glanced through it. It was full of pictures—all of Marianne in various stages of nudity.

I threw the sketchbook into the cupboard, shut the door, and went back to my seat.

The painting and the sketches were the work of Lars Petersen. She must have posed for him thus.

I felt deeply shocked, for I felt there was something behind this.

Lars had come back into the room.

“All is well. This is just what I needed.”

He went on working, but I could not stop thinking of those pictures. Marianne must have posed for him in such a way.

She was an artist’s model. Was this the manner in which she posed? I could not help thinking that there must have been some special relationship between Marianne and Lars Petersen.

Marianne

It was a week after I had returned from Paris when I received the letter from Lisa. When I read it, I was so profoundly shocked that I had to read it several times before I could believe it was true. She wrote from Leverson Manor.

My dear Noelle,

There is so much to tell you, and I want you to hear it from me. I could not bear that you should hear it from any other source.

I wrote to you about my accident. I thought it was nothing much at first, but how wrong I was! After three weeks resting, the doctor gave me a terrible shock. He said I had injured my back permanently and, far from getting better, it was getting worse. Imagine my feeling! I had gone on that night, ready to show everyone that I was every bit as good as Lottie Langdon … and I would have done it, too. It was really my great chance … and then … this happened.

Dolly was kind in his way, but all he really thinks about is the production. I knew there was no hope of getting a place in anything else. I was finished.

I was so wretched. I just wanted to die. My life … all my ambitions … had come to nothing.

Then Roderick came to town and saw me. He was horrified by the change in me. Oh, he was so good to me, Noelle. You know he would be. He has always been good and kind to people in trouble. He understood as nobody else did what I felt like. I was frantic, really. I could not think what I should do now I could no longer work.

He took me down to Leverson Manor. Lady Constance was none too pleased, but Fiona was very good to me. She made me interested in helping her, which I was able to do. She was getting married to a young man she had met some time before through her work. He had come down to Leverson because there was a lot of work over this Neptune temple. He was now helping her and they will live in Fiona’s house, now that her grandmother is away in the hospital.

I don’t know why I’m going on like this. I suppose it is because I am trying to bring myself to tell you.

I am not at all sure how you’ll take it, after what happened between you two. I was so desperate. I was in despair. I even thought of killing myself. I might have done so if it had not been for Roderick. He knew what was in my mind. Nobody understood as he did. I had not only lost the work which meant so much to me … but a means of livelihood. You can imagine how I felt.

Well, we both had to make something of our lives, and then suddenly he said he would look after me. He would marry me.

And that is what has happened, Noelle.

I feel so different now. Charlie is very good to me. He is such a kind, good man, and so is Roderick.

Lady Constance is very angry, but you know how calm and cool she can be … at the same time letting you know how much she resents you.

I didn’t care. I had a reason to go on living.

Noelle, forgive me. I know just how you must be feeling. But it wasn’t to be, was it?

Roderick says we have to make something of our lives, and that is what we are doing.

I do hope something very good will turn up for you as it has for me. Sometimes we can’t have what we want in life, can we? We just have to take what is there.

My loving thoughts are with you.

God bless you and bring you some hope of happiness … as Roderick and I have found.

Lisa

I was stunned. Roderick and Lisa … married! I kept remembering scenes from the past. That first meeting in the park; that night she had taken my mother’s place; Roderick had been there; she had asked him to come and see her performance. Of course, right from the beginning, she had been in love with him.

Somewhere at the back of my mind, I had hoped that a miracle might happen, that everything would come right. How foolish I had been! How could it ever come right? And now … this was the end. He was married to Lisa.

I had to forget. I had to stop thinking of him.

I put the letter into a drawer, but I could not forget it. Again and again, I took it out and read it.

I had told Robert. He was deeply touched.

“Robert,” I said. “I feel adrift … floating aimlessly with no destination in sight. I am just being carried where the tide takes me. I can see it all clearly. Lisa … her career in ruins … lost as I am now. I know that he loved me, but he would understand Lisa’s plight so absolutely. He was always understanding and thoughtful of other people. She was helpless, I believe on the verge of suicide, and he saw one way of helping her … giving her a home … security … helping her to fight back.”

“It is a terrible tragedy, Noelle. I wish I could help more. I think you are happier here than you can be anywhere else.”

“I can’t stay here indefinitely, Robert.”

“Why not? Regard it as your home.”

“But it is not my home. I am doing nothing with my life.”

“You do a great deal. Marie-Christine is a different girl since you came. We have always been worried about her. Poor child, she has not had much of a life. And we are so fond of you … Angele as well as myself. So is Gerard. Don’t think of leaving us, please.”

“I don’t want to go,” I said. “I can’t think what I should do.”

“Then stay. You should go more to Paris.”

So I stayed.

The weeks were slipping away. It was nearly two months since I had received Lisa’s letter. I had replied briefly, thanking her for letting me know, and wished her and Roderick a happy future. I had heard nothing since. And it was better so.

Lars Petersen had an exhibition, and I was caught up in that. He showed my portrait, which was bought for some national collection. He was delighted. Gerard had the painting of me hanging in his studio.

“I like to see it,” he said. “It inspires me every day.”

Marie-Christine and I, with the ubiquitous Mademoiselle Dupont, were more frequently in Paris than in the country.

While they were at their lessons, I would go to the studio. I had taken to shopping in the markets, which was always an exhilarating experience, and I would take in something tasty for dejeuner. It was becoming a habit. Gerard and I would sit together, often joined by Lars Petersen or some impecunious artist looking for a free meal.

Robert was right when he said that the bohemian life was good for me.

G6rard had noticed the change in me, and one day, when we were alone, he asked me what had happened.

I could not resist telling him. I said: “Roderick is married. I shouldn’t mind, but I do. It is the best thing for him. He has married Lisa Fennell, who was understudy to my mother. She had an accident and that was the end of her theatrical career as a dancer, which was what she did best. I think he was sorry for her. He liked her, too. He was always interested in her career. On occasions I had a twinge of jealousy. And now … she is married to him. She will spend her life with him as I had intended to spend mine.”

“My poor Noelle. Life is cruel. Troubles do not come like single spies but in battalions. Does not your Shakespeare say that?”

“I believe he did, and it is true in my case.”

“But there must be a turnabout. Things will change and then everything will go right. It is a law of nature.”

“I shall never forget Roderick.”

“I know.”

“He will always be there, and always there will be the knowledge of what I have lost.”

“I understand.”

“Because of Marianne …”

“I shall never be able to forget Marianne,” he said.

A shadow fell across the door. Lars Petersen looked in.

“Something smells good,” he said. “Is there a little to spare for a poor hungry man?”

I seemed to have become haunted by Marianne. I knew exactly what she had looked like. I could not get out of my mind those sketches I had come across in Lars Petersen’s cupboard.

I asked questions about her. I talked to Marie-Christine. I tried to talk to Angele. All they would say was: “She was very beautiful.” “The most beautiful woman in the world,” said Marie-Christine. “She had the sort of looks people could not help noticing,” said Angele. “She found the country life dull. She could not have been much more than fifteen when one of the artists who had come down to see Gerard caught a glimpse of her. He wanted to paint her, and that was the beginning of her modelling career. She went to Paris. But she came back fairly frequently to see her sister and the nurse.”

There was very little I could discover which I did not already know. Yet I continued to think of her, because she had bewitched Gerard as well as others.

I suggested to Marie-Christine that we visit her aunt again.

“I think they were rather pleased to see you when you called last time,” I said.

“All right,” said Marie-Christine, “although / don’t think they care much whether I go or not.”

“Well, you are Marianne’s daughter, so let us go.”

We went and were received warmly enough. Polite questions were asked about my impressions.

“You are almost one of us now,” said Candice.

“I have certainly been here quite a long time.”

“And you have no desire to leave us?”

“It is very pleasant here, and I have not made any plans to do so.”

“We won’t let her go,” said Marie-Christine. “Every time she mentions going, we tell her she is not to.”

“I can understand that,” said Candice, smiling.

She wanted to show us the garden, and while we were all walking round together, I had an opportunity of being a little apart with Nounou.

I said: “I wanted to talk to you about … Marianne.”

Her face lit up.

“I’d like to hear more about her,” I went on. “She sounds so interesting, and you know more of her than anyone, I imagine.”

“Interesting! We were never dull with that one around! Candice doesn’t talk of her much … especially before Marie-Christine.”

“You must have lots of pictures of her.”

“I look at them all the time. It brings her back. I’d like to show you, but …”

“It’s a pity. I should love to see them.”

“Why don’t you come one day … alone? In the morning, say. Candice would be out. She goes out in the morning … shopping in Villemere. She takes the trap. She visits friends there, too. In the morning … come alone.”

“That would be very interesting.”

“I’ll show you my pictures of her. Then we can talk in comfort.”

Candice was saying: “I was showing Marie-Christine this holly bush. There are lots of berries forming on it. They say that means a hard winter.”

That was the beginning of my visits to Nounou.

It was easy to call during the mornings when Marie-Christine was at her lessons and Candice was out. There was a conspiratorial air about the visits which suited our moods—mine as well as Nounou’s. They took my mind off my obsessive wondering about what was happening at Leverson Manor. I imagined their riding over to the site, marvelling at the discoveries, drinking coffee with Fiona … and perhaps her new husband … a cosy little quartet. I would torture myself with these imaginings, and it was a mild relief to ride over to Carrefour and chat with Nounou. I asked myself what I should say if Candice returned unexpectedly, or even happened to be there when I called. “Oh, I was passing and I just looked in.” I supposed perhaps she would accept that, but I doubted it.

Nounou revelled in our meetings. There was nothing she liked so much as to talk about her adored Marianne.

She showed me pictures of her. There was Marianne as a child, showing signs of that great beauty, and as a young woman, proving how that early promise was justified.

“She was a sorceress,” said Nounou. “All the men wanted her. She was restless here in this place. It was too quiet for her. Candice was the serious one. She tried to hold her back. She wanted her to marry well and settle down.”

“Candice didn’t marry.”

“Well … she lived under the shadow of her twin sister. It was always Marianne whom people noticed. Without her sister, she would have seemed a very nice-looking girl. She ought to have married some nice young man. But there was always Marianne. And then this artist came down to see Monsieur Gerard, and he took one look at her and wanted to paint her. That was the start for her, and when Marianne wanted something, there was no stopping her. So she went to Paris. First one wanted to paint her and then another. She was famous. They were all talking about Marianne. Then she married Monsieur Gerard.”

“You were pleased about that?”

“It was a good match, of course. The Boucheres were always the big people round here. Well, there it was … what you’d expect of our beauty. He was always painting her.”

“So it was a happy marriage?”

“Monsieur Gerard … well, he was as proud as proud could be. He’d got the prize, hadn’t he?”

“And they lived mainly in Paris?”

“Oh, they were here now and then. She was always coming over here. Couldn’t desert her old Nounou. She was always my girl. She’d tell me things.”

“So you knew a great deal about what was happening?”

Nounou nodded sagely. “I could see there were things going on, and she was only going to tell me half of them. Oh, she was a wild one. Then, for that to happen to her … to see her there, dead at my feet! I felt I would die … I wished I had before I’d seen that. I just can’t bear to think of it … even now.”

We were silent for a while. I could hear the clock on the mantelpiece ticking away the seconds … reminding me that time was passing. I must leave before Candice returned and Marie-Christine finished her lessons.

“Come again whenever you feel like it, my dear,” said Nounou. “It’s good to talk to you … though it brings it all back. Still, it makes me feel she is close to me … like she used to be.”

I said I would come again to see her soon.

We were in Paris again. Marie-Christine was always excited by these visits, and Robert and Angele thought it was good for us to make them; and as the house was there, they said why not use it. I always felt an upsurge of my spirits when I came into the city. When I was away from it, I missed the free and easy way of life lived by Gerard and his friends. The studio had become part of my life, and I believed that there I was more able to put thoughts of Roderick out of my mind.

I looked forward to our lunches, particularly when they were uninterrupted. Gerard was becoming one of my best friends. There was a bond between us: I had lost Roderick; he had lost Marianne. That made for a deep understanding which no one else could quite give.

I talked to him about Roderick. I told him about the Roman remains and the fearful adventure when Lady Constance and I had come near to being buried alive, and how Mrs. Carling had removed the warning notice.

He listened with the utmost interest.

“You have been through a great deal,” he said. “It seems that it all began with the death of your mother. My poor Noelle, how you have suffered!”

“You, too,” I said.

“Differently. Do you think you could ever forget Roderick?”

“I think I shall always remember.”

“Always with regret? Even if … there were someone else?”

“I think Roderick would always be there.”

He was silent for a moment, and I said: “And you … and your marriage?”

“I shall never forget Marianne,” he answered.

“I understand. She was so beautiful. She was unique. No one else could take her place. You loved her … absolutely. I understand, Gerard.”

“Noelle,” he said slowly, “I have been on the point of telling you several times. I have to talk to someone. It is like a great burden on my mind. I hated Marianne. I killed her.”

I gasped. I could not believe I had heard him correctly.

“You … killed her?”

“Yes.”

“But she was thrown from her horse!”

“Indirectly … I killed her. It will haunt me all my life. In my heart, I know I was responsible for her death. I killed her.”

“How? Her nurse told me she found her in the field near Carrefour. She had been thrown from her horse. Her neck was broken.”

“That’s true. Let me explain. I quickly learned how foolish I’d been. She never cared for me. I came from a rich family. All she wanted was flattery, admiration and money. There was plenty of the first two.”

“How can you say you killed her?”

“We were at La Maison. We quarrelled. There was nothing strange about that. She taunted me. She repeated that she had never cared for me. She had married me because I was a good match for an artist’s model. She hated me, she said. She was mocking … taunting me in every way. I said to her: ‘Get out of this house! Get out of my life! I never want to see you again!’ She was taken aback. She thought she was so desirable that she could act as she pleased and still be irresistible. She changed immediately. She said she had not meant what she said. She did not want to leave me. We were married and we must be together. We must make the best of things. I said to her: ‘Go! Go! Get out of my life! I never want to see you again.’ She started to cry. ‘You don’t mean that,’ she said. Then she went on: ‘Forgive me. I’ll be different.’ She knelt and clutched at me. I did not believe in her tears. She wanted to stay with me because life was easy and comfortable … but at the same time she wanted to go her own way. I had had enough. I could endure no more. I saw her beauty as evil. I knew my only chance of a peaceful life was to be rid of her. I wanted to forget I had married her.”

His face was distorted with grief and pain.

He went on: “I said: ‘Get out of here. Go … go anywhere … but keep away from me.’ She said: ‘Where could I go?’ ‘I don’t care,’ I told her. ‘Only get out before I do you some harm.’ She was crying, begging me to forgive her. Then suddenly she ran out. She ran down to the stables. She took her horse and was gone. The next thing I heard was that she was dead.”

“She had had an accident.”

“She had an accident because she was in such a state of despair. She was galloping madly and she came suddenly to the crossroads. She was not caring where she went because she was so upset … I had upset her … turned her out … and she was thrown. You see, I killed her. It haunts me and I know it will throughout my life.”

“So … you did not love Marianne.”

“I hated her. And I am responsible for her death.”

“That’s not true, Gerard. You did not plan to kill her.”

“I told her to get out … out of my life, and she was so distraught that she lost hers in doing it.”

“You are wrong to blame yourself.”

“I do blame myself, Noelle. I should not have been so harsh with her. I should have said we would try again. I had married her … made my vows. I drove her away because I was tired of her … and because of her state of mind, she died. Nothing will convince me that I am not responsible for her death.”

“Gerard,” I said, “you have to forget this. You must stop blaming yourself.”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you.”

“I’m glad you did. I understand more now. It was not your fault. You must see that. Lots of people quarrel. You have explained it to me, and I must tell you that, as a looker-on, I think it is ridiculous to blame yourself.”

“No, Noelle, I was there. I saw her stricken face. I know she was superficial, heartless … but her position meant everything to her. She liked being secure. And when she was in danger of losing that, she went off … riding recklessly. She could have wild moods, she could be fiercely unreasoning and angry. She was killed because of what I had done to her. That is murder, as surely as taking a gun and shooting someone.”

“It is not the same. It’s not deliberate, for one thing.”

“You will never make me see that, Noelle.”

“Gerard,” I said. “I have made up my mind, and that is exactly what I am going to do.”

He smiled at me, and I said: “I am glad you told me.”

Gerard’s revelation had amazed me. It astounded me that the melancholy brooding I had seen at times was not a longing for Marianne but due to a sense of guilt.

It was two days after his confession that he said to me: “I have felt different since I told you. I feel as though I have shed the burden to some extent. You are the only one I have told. I could not bring myself to talk of it to anyone else. With you, it seemed natural to do so.”

“You did right to tell me, Gerard. I think I can make you see that you must not blame yourself.”

“I cannot stop doing it. I never shall. She was so distraught when she left. Not that she cared for me. She saw the comfortable life disappearing. Of course, she could have gone back to Carrefour, but that was what she had escaped from, and was the last thing she wanted. She could have gone back to Paris and become a full-time model. But she was at times lazy and extravagant. It was rather an unexpected trait in her character that she wanted the security of marriage.”

“Gerard,” I said, “it is over. She is gone. You must forget her, stop blaming yourself. Put her out of your mind.”

“As you should Roderick.”

I was silent, and he said: “You see, it is easy to tell others what they should do.”

“I know. Other people’s troubles always seem to have a solution. It is only one’s own that do not.”

“I must forget Marianne. You must forget Roderick. Noelle, could we perhaps do that together?”

I looked at him in surprise. “Together … ?” I murmured.

“Yes. I have grown very fond of you. These days when we have been together have been wonderful for me. Why shouldn’t we stay together?”

“You mean … ?”

“I mean, why don’t you marry me? I have felt different since you came … different about everything. I know you will go on thinking about Roderick. But he has gone out of your life. He can never come back. You can’t go on grieving for him forever. You have to start afresh. There is a chance for us both together.”

He was looking at me appealingly. It was true that our friendship had grown; we understood each other. I could find a certain relief from my memories when I was with him.

But there had only been one man whom I had wanted to marry, and though I could not marry him, that did not mean that I could easily turn to someone else.

And yet I was fond of Gerard. The most enjoyable times since I had lost Roderick had been spent with him.

I was bewildered, and he knew it.

He took my hand and kissed it. “You are uncertain,” he said. “But at least you do not give a definite no. So the idea is not entirely repulsive to you.”

“No. Of course not. I am fond of you, Gerard. I look forward to being in the studio more than anything else, but I am so unsure. I think it would not be fair to you. You see, I loved Roderick. I still love him.”

“Yet he has realized he has a life to lead. He is now married.”

“I think he did it because he was sorry for Lisa. It was pity.”

“No matter what, he has married. Think about what I have said. You might come to realize that it is best … for both of us. Think about it, will you?”

“Yes, Gerard,” I said. “I will.”

I did think about it. It was never out of my mind. I was very fond of Gerard. I was drawn to the life of the studio. It had given me great pleasure to prepare meals for him; and now I was overwhelmed by a desire to comfort and care for him. I wanted to banish from his mind forever that notion that he had been responsible for Marianne’s death.

In a way I loved him. Perhaps if I had never known Roderick, that would have been enough. But Roderick was there. The memory of him would never go away. I knew that for the rest of my life I would dream of him.

And yet I was fond of Gerard.

And so my thoughts went on.

I would go to the studio as usual. There was always a great deal of coming and going, with the usual talk; but something else was cropping up. It had gradually seeped into the atmosphere for some time now. I sensed a general uneasiness; there were differences in opinions, and the young men were fierce in their arguments.

“Where is the Emperor leading us?” demanded Roger Lamont one day. “He thinks he is his uncle. He will end up at St. Helena if he is not careful.”

Roger Lamont was an ardent anti-royalist. He was young, dogmatic and fiery in his views.

“You’d have another revolution on our hands if you had your way,” said Gerard.

“I’d rid France of this Bonaparte,” retorted Roger.

“And set up another Danton … another Robespierre?”

“I’d have the people in command.”

“We did once before, remember? And look how that turned out.”

“The Emperor is a sick man with grandiose ideas.”

“Oh, it will work out all right,” said Lars Petersen. “You French get too excited. Let them get on with their business and we’ll get on with ours.”

“Alas,” Gerard reminded him. “We are involved, and their business is ours. We live in this country and its fortunes are ours. We’re in trouble financially. The press is not free. And I think the Emperor should restrain himself in his quarrels with the Prussians.”

They would go on arguing for hours. Lars Petersen was clearly not particularly interested. He interrupted them to talk about a certain Madame de Vermont, who had given him a commission to paint her portrait.

“She is in court circles. I’ll wager that before long I’ll have the Empress sitting for me.”

Roger Lamont jeered, and Lars turned to me. “Madame de Vermont saw your portrait and asked the name of the artist. She immediately engaged me to paint her. So you see, my dear Noelle, that it is to you I owe my success.”

I said how delighted I was to have been some use to him. And I was thinking how pleasant it was, sitting here and listening to their talk. I felt I was one of them.

It was a pleasant way of life. Was it possible that I could truly be part of it for the rest of mine? At times I believed I could, and then the memories would come back. I would dream of Roderick, and in those dreams he was urging me not to marry anyone else: and when I awoke the dreams seemed so real.

But he had married Lisa Fennell. That was the final gesture. He had accepted our fate as irrevocable. Surely I must do the same?

It was impossible. I could not do it, I told myself. Then I would shop in the markets, buy some delicacy, take it to the studio and cook it. And I would say to myself: This might be the way for me. But later … there would come the doubts.

Dear Gerard! I wanted so much to make him happy. I thought a great deal about Marianne. I could not believe that she was the kind of girl who would ride recklessly because she was so upset. I thought she was too superficial to have cared very deeply.

I wished that I could put an end to his terrible feelings of guilt. Perhaps I could discover something from Nounou.

I was obsessed by Marianne, and when our stay in Paris came to an end, I was almost eager to return to La Maison Grise, because I had a belief that from Nounou I might glean some useful information.

When Gerard said goodbye, he asked me to come back soon, and I promised I would.

“I know it is not what you hoped for,” he said. “But sometimes in life one has to compromise … and the result can be good. Noelle, I shall understand. I shall not reproach you for remembering him. I am prepared to take what you can give. The past hangs over me as it does over you. We can neither of us expect to escape entirely. But we should be good for each other. Let us take what life has to offer.”

“I think you may be right, Gerard, but as yet I am not sure.”

“When you are, come to me … come at once. Do not delay.”

I promised I would.

When I returned to La Maison Grise, I lost no time in calling on Nounou.

She was very pleased to see me.

“I’ve missed your visits,” she said. “I can see that Paris fascinated you as it did Marianne. It is that sort of city, is it not?”

I agreed that it was.

I was not sure how I could get round to asking her what I wanted to know. When I was in Paris, I had felt it would not be difficult.

We talked about Marianne, as we always did. She found more pictures. She talked of her hosts of admirers. “She could have married the highest in the land.”

“Perhaps she realized that after she had married Monsieur Gerard, and regretted the marriage.”

“Oh, that family has always been highly thought of. She did very well for herself. There’s none that could deny that.”

“Apart from the prestige the marriage brought, was she happy in it?”

“She was happy enough. She was greedy, my girl. As a child she would stretch out her little hands and say ‘Want it’ whenever she saw something that took her fancy. I used to laugh at her. ‘Mademoiselle Want It,’ that’s what I called her. I’m just going to put some flowers on her grave. Would you like to walk over to the cemetery with me?”

I was wondering what I could say to Nounou. I kept forming phrases in my mind. “If she had quarrelled with her husband, and he had told her to go, how would she have felt about that?” She would ask me how I could possibly have got such an idea into my head. I must not betray what Gerard had told me.

I watched her tend the grave. She knelt and prayed for a few moments. And as I stared at the gravestone, with her name and the date of her death, I could picture her beautiful face mocking me.

I am dead. I am buried. I shall haunt him for the rest of his life.

No, I thought, you shall not. I will find some way of freeing him from you.

Which sounded as though I had made up my mind to marry him. But later on I felt I could never marry anyone now. Roderick had gone out of my life, taking all my hopes of a happy marriage with him.

Robert had gone to Paris. He said, before he left, that the situation was getting somewhat grim. The Emperor was losing patience with Bismarck. He saw in him the enemy of all his plans for the greatness of France.

“It is a good thing,” Robert had said, “that Prussia is only a small state. Bismarck won’t want trouble with France, though he is as arrogant and ambitious for Prussia as the Emperor is for France.”

He thought he would be in Paris for some little time.

“When you feel like coming to the house, you’ll be welcome. Gerard will be delighted, too.”

I would go, I promised myself. But first I wanted more talks with Nounou.

Before I could do so, there was devastating news. It was a hot July day. Marie-Christine and I were in the garden when Robert unexpectedly returned from Paris. He was very excited.

We saw him go into the house and hurried after him. Angele was in the hall.

Robert announced: “France has declared war on Prussia!”

We were all astounded. I had heard the discussions in the studio, but had not taken them very seriously. This, of course, was what they had feared.

“What will it mean?” asked Angele.

“One good thing is that it can’t last long,” said Robert. “A little state like Prussia against the might of France. The Emperor would never have gone into this if he had not been certain of a quick victory.”

Over dinner, Robert said he would have to go back to Paris almost immediately. There would be precautions he would have to take, just in case the war was not over in a few weeks. He supposed he would be kept in Paris for a while.

“You should stay here in the country until we see what is going to happen,” he went on. “Paris is in a turmoil. The Emperor, as you know, has for some time been losing the sympathy of the people.”

The next day Robert went back to Paris. Angele accompanied him. She wanted to make sure that Gerard was looking after himself.

I was wondering what was happening at the studio. We were avid for news.

Several weeks passed. It was early August when we heard that the Prussians had been driven out of Saarbrucken, and there was great rejoicing. Everyone was saying that this would be a lesson to the Germans. However, within a few days the news was less good. It was only a small detachment which had been driven out of Saarbrucken, and the French had failed to take advantage of their small success. They were, therefore, routed and had retreated in confusion into the Vosges Mountains.

There were grim faces everywhere; there was murmuring against the Emperor. He had plunged France into war on the flimsiest pretext, because he wanted to show the world that he was another such as his uncle. But the French people did not want conquest and vainglorious military success. They wanted peace. And this was certainly not success. It was humiliating failure.

Through those hot August days we waited for news of the war. Not much seeped through to us, and I guessed that was a bad sign.

Robert came back for a brief visit. He advised us to stay in the country, though he must go back. Things were getting very difficult in Paris. The people were very restive. Students were gathering in the streets. The cafes and restaurants were crowded with people who wanted to arouse others to action.

The days of revolution were not far enough in the past to be readily forgotten.

I was seeing Nounou now and then. She had little interest in the progress of the war. I had not up to that time found an opportunity to bring up the matter which was very much in my mind. I wondered a great deal about Gerard. He was serious-minded and would, I knew, be deeply perturbed by the war.

Opportunity came suddenly. I was with Nounou one day and she was talking about Marianne. She had found a picture of her which she had forgotten existed. She had not seen it for years.

“It was at the back of one of the albums, tucked away under another picture. She must have hidden it. She never liked that one.”

“May I see it?” I asked.

“Come up,” said Nounou.

She took me to that room which I thought of as Marianne’s room. There were pictures of her on the wall, and on the table were those albums which were for Nounou a record of her darling’s life.

She showed me the picture.

“She looks a little bit saucy here, does she not? Up to tricks. Well, that was like her—but it shows more on that one.”

“And she wanted it to be hidden?”

“She said it was too revealing. It would put people on their guard.”

I studied it. Yes, I thought, there was something about it … something almost evil.

“I’m glad I’ve got her pictures,” said Nounou. “In my young days, there wouldn’t have been all these pictures. That Monsieur Daguerre brought them in. I don’t know what I’d do without my pictures.”

“If she didn’t like the picture, I wonder she did not destroy it.”

“Oh no … she’d never destroy any of her pictures. She’d look at them as often as I did.”

“It sounds as though she was in love with herself.”

“Well, why shouldn’t she be? Everyone else was in love with her.”

“She was happily married, wasn’t she?”

There was a slight pause. “Well, he was madly in love with her.”

“Was he?”

“Oh yes. Everybody was. He was jealous.” She laughed. “Well, you could understand that. Every man was after her.”

“Did she quarrel with her husband?”

Nounou was thoughtful and a smile curved her lips.

“She was a clever girl. She liked things to go the way she wanted them to.”

“Most people do, don’t they?”

“They want them, but with her—she thought they ought to, because she was so beautiful. If they didn’t go the way she wanted, she’d make them.”

“That must have been trying for him.”

“Well, she was a handful. Didn’t I know it? There were times when she drove me to distraction. But it didn’t change my feelings for her … one little jot. She was mine … and there was no one like her. She told me everything … or most things. I was always there—old Nounou—to help sort out her troubles.”

“Did she tell you about her quarrels with her husband?”

“There was very little she held back from me.”

I took a chance and said: “I am not sure that he was as besotted about her as you think.”

“Why do you say that?”

I decided that I could be on the verge of discovery, and for Gerard’s sake I was going to do everything I could to find out what I wanted to know, even if it meant distorting the truth a little.

I began: “The day she died …”

“Yes?” said Nounou eagerly.

“One of the servants heard them. There was a quarrel. He told her to go. He had had enough of her. It doesn’t sound as though he were so desperately in love with her.”

She was silent for a second, and a slow smile crossed her face.

“It’s true,” she said. “But that was what she wanted. Here.” She rose and went to a cupboard. “Look at this.”

She opened a door and disclosed a travelling bag.

“That’s her bag,” she said. “Can you guess what’s in it? Her jewellery … some special clothes. I tell you, she was clever. He did tell her to go. But that was what she meant him to. She led him to it.”

“Then why was she so upset?”

“Upset? She wasn’t upset. She had it all worked out. I knew. I was in on the secret. She played on him. He was meant to say what he did. She provoked him into it. It was all working out as she’d planned. Don’t you think I knew? She told me everything. I knew what was in her mind.”

“Why did she want him to tell her to go?”

“Because she was the one who wanted to go. She wanted to be free … but she wanted it to come from him. She’d been bringing things over to me and I was keeping them for her. She wanted him to turn her out. She didn’t want it to be said that she’d left him for another man. But that was what she was going to do. I can see her now, her eyes alight with mischief. She said, ‘Nounou, I’m going to make him turn me out. I can do it. Then I shall go to Lars. Lars wants it that way. He doesn’t want it to seem as though he’d come between us. He wants it to be that I go to him after Gerard has turned me out. Lars doesn’t want trouble. And this is the way.’ I’ve seen this Lars. A fine, upstanding young man. More her sort than Monsieur Gerard. Of course, Monsieur Gerard had the family … the standing … but he was too serious for a girl like her. She’d have been better off with Lars. But let me tell you, it was her arranging. She wanted Monsieur Gerard to turn her out, and she got her way, I reckon. She and Lars worked it out between them. Lars could say, ‘Well, you let her go … and so no hard feelings.’ You see, they were friends … living close to each other. Oh, it would have been a good way … and then that to happen.”

“So the quarrel was arranged by her,” I mused.

“I’m sure of that. She told me, didn’t she? I reckon he cursed himself for saying it after. But she was a siren. She could get anyone to say anything she wanted them to.”

“And she was going off to her lover?”

“All the things she wanted to make sure of keeping were here, waiting for her. In a day or so, he was coming down to fetch her.”

“But … she died. It wasn’t because she was so worried about being turned out that she was reckless.”

“Not her. She wasn’t worried. She was full of joy. I could picture her, laughing and singing to herself … galloping along. At least she died in triumph.”

“So it was excitement at the thought of the future that made her careless. She was thinking of being with her lover … of her lucky escape from her husband …”

“There’s not a doubt of it! I knew her. She’d do reckless things. She’d have been so pleased by the turn things were taking. She could be reckless at times. I know. Who knows better? She thought she had a charmed life. Everything had gone her way … and there she was, on the threshold, you might say, of the life she wanted. She’d always had a fancy for that Lars. And then … right when she was ready to start the life she’d been wanting for a long time … death came.” The tears were on her cheeks. “I’ll never forget her … my bright and beautiful girl.”

I was elated. I thought: I will go to Gerard tomorrow. I will tell him that he was mistaken. She had been planning to go to Lars Petersen. They had been lovers for some time. I would tell him about the sketches and the picture I had seen in Lars’s studio.

Surely now I could wipe out his guilt.

I did not go to Paris, for the next day the news came to us.

The Emperor with his army had surrendered to the enemy at Sedan, and he was a prisoner of the Prussians.

The days now seemed like a hazy dream, for we had only vague ideas of what was happening. Fragments of news did reach us now and then, but we were very much in the dark.

Before the end of the month, Strasbourg, one of the last hopes of the French, had surrendered, and we knew that sooner or later there would be an onslaught on Paris. We were very worried about Gerard and Robert and Angele.

The Germans were advancing across France, fighting pockets of resistance as they went. They were all over the North of France, and Paris was under siege. Each day we expected the invading forces to come our way.

Mademoiselle Dupont feared for her mother in Champigny and went to join her; we waited in trepidation for what each day would bring.

Marie-Christine and I had grown even closer during that period. She was now fourteen years old and mature for her age. I tried to make life as normal as I could and gave her a few lessons every day. It kept our minds from wondering what was happening in Paris and when we would be drawn more closely into the war. Sometimes we heard gunfire in the distance, and we were rarely apart.

During those months, I began to realize how much my life here had meant to me.

A hundred times a day I assured myself that I would marry Gerard if we came out of this alive. I would make him see that he was in no way responsible for Marianne’s death. Nounou had made that clear enough. I would try to forget Roderick. I would make a new life for myself. Marie-Christine would be very pleased if I married her father, and she had become very dear to me.

At least the terrible catastrophe which had struck France had made me see which way I must go.

Each day I wondered how long this situation could continue. We heard that Paris had been bombarded, and I could not stop thinking of the studio and wondering what would happen there. Would the friends congregate there now? They would not be talking of art now … but of war. They would be thinking of food, for we heard that hunger was stalking the streets of the capital.

We were lucky to escape the army. We were surrounded by Prussian units, though we did not see them, but we knew they were there. We could not stray far from the house and we lived in expectation of death every hour of the day; but we survived.

Then we heard that the Prussians were in Versailles. It was January when Paris, threatened by famine, surrendered.

It was a bitterly cold day when Marie-Christine and I drove into Paris.

One of the coachmen took us. He had a daughter living there and was eager to find her.

That was a day of bitter sadness.

We went to the house first. It was no longer there. There was just a gap and a pile of broken bricks and rubble where the house had been. There were a few people in the street. No one could tell us what had become of those living in the house. It seemed there was nothing very unusual about such a house. There were many in a similar condition.

“Let us go to the studio,” I said.

To my relief, I saw that the building was still standing. I had been terrified that that, too, might have been destroyed.

I mounted the stairs. I knocked at the door. There was no answer. I went across to that other door. To my immense relief Lars Petersen answered my knock.

“Noelle!” he cried. “Marie-Christine!”

“We came as soon as we could,” I said. “What has happened? The house is gone. Where is Gerard?”

I had never seen him solemn before. He seemed like a different person.

“Come in,” he said.

He took us into the familiar studio, with its easels, the tubes of paint, the cupboard in which were the portrait and sketches of Marianne.

“Is Gerard not here?” I asked.

He did not speak.

“Lars,” I said. “Tell me, please.”

“He would have been all right if he had stayed here.”

I stared at him blankly.

“But … nowhere in Paris was safe. It was just bad luck.”

“What?” I stammered. “Where?”

“He was at his uncle’s house. He was worried about his mother and his uncle. He wanted them to get back to the country somehow. But it wasn’t possible. Not that there was any safety anywhere in France. War is terrible. It destroys everything. Life was good … and then the Emperor quarrels with Bismarck. What is that to do with people like us?” he finished angrily.

“Tell me about Gerard.”

“He was there. He never came back. The house was destroyed with everyone in it.”

“Dead … ?” I whispered.

Lars looked away. “When he did not come back for two days, I went there. I found out. Everyone in it was killed. There were nine people, they said.”

“Gerard, Robert, Angele … all the servants. It can’t be.”

“It was happening all round us. Whole families … that is war.”

I turned to Marie-Christine. She was looking at me blankly. I thought: This child has lost her family.

I took her into my arms and we clung together.

“You should go back,” said Lars. “Don’t stay here. It’s quiet now, but Paris is not a good place to be.”

I can’t remember much of the drive back to La Maison Grise. The driver had been jubilant when he arrived to take us back. He had found his daughter and her family. They had all survived the bombardment of Paris; but when he heard what had happened, horror took the place of his delighted relief.

As for myself, I could only think that I should never see Gerard again; I could not stop thinking of my good friends Robert and Angele … gone forever.

I felt an extreme bitterness towards fate, which had dealt me one blow after another. My childhood had been made up of fun and laughter and so soon I had been brought face to face with tragedy … not once, but three times. Those whom I had loved had been taken from me.

I felt desperately lonely, and then I reproached myself when I considered Marie-Christine. She was robbed of her family; she was alone in a world of which, because of her tender years, she could know very little.

She became in a way my salvation—as I think I did hers. We needed each other.

She said to me: “You will never go away from me, will you? We’ll always be together.”

I replied: “We shall be together as long as you want it.”

“I want it,” she said. “I shall always want it.”

And the weeks began to pass.

It was March when peace was ratified at Bordeaux. The terms were harsh. France had been utterly humiliated, and there was a great deal of uneasiness and resentment. Alsace and part of Lorraine were to be ceded to the German Empire, and France was to pay an indemnity of five billion francs, and there would be a German occupation until the money was paid. The Emperor had been released and, as there was no longer a welcome for him in France, he had gone to join the Empress in exile in England.

France was in turmoil. In April there was a communist uprising in Paris and a great deal of damage was done to the city before the rising was suppressed in May.

Things were beginning to settle.

We heard that a cousin of Robert’s had inherited the house and estate. It did not pass to Marie-Christine, as the old Salic law, which ordained that female members of the family could not inherit, seemed to apply to the families of the nobility.

However, Marie-Christine would be comfortably off financially. Robert had left me some money and the house in London, which he had always intended should be reverted to me.

Lars Petersen came to see me.

He had changed a good deal; he had lost some of that old exuberance and was more serious.

He was going home, he told us. Paris had lost its charm for him. It was no longer the lighthearted city, refuge of artists. He had had enough of Paris, and there were too many memories for him to be contented there.

I told him that Marie-Christine and I would be leaving. La Maison Grise was passing into the hands of Robert’s cousin and Robert had left my old home in London to me.

“Who would have thought things would have turned out like this?” said Lars. “Gerard … dear old Gerard … I was fond of him, you know.”

He shook his head sadly. I fancied he might be feeling a little guilt and remorse, remembering perhaps that once he had intended to take Gerard’s wife to live with him.

Marie-Christine and I sadly watched him drive away.

It was a few days later when the cousin came to La Maison Grise. He was very pleasant and delighted with the house, which he had never thought would come to him.

I explained that we were preparing to leave for London, which we should do very soon, to which he replied graciously that we must not feel we had to hurry.

He stayed a night, and when he had gone, I said to Marie-Christine: “It has been decided for us. I wonder what you will think of London.”

“I shall like it if we are together,” said Marie-Christine. “And it will be different, won’t it?”

“Different, yes.”

I was thinking of the people at home … the house of memories. My mother’s room … I could see her clearly … reclining in her bed, her beautiful hair spread out on her pillow; ranting against Dolly … and most of all, I could not forget the nightmare of seeing her lying dead on the floor.

The French episode was over. I could ask myself: If Gerard had lived, should I have married him? Should I have been able to build a new life … a life when memories might have ceased to fill me with regrets?

I should never know.