The King of the Castle

Eleven

When the Comte returned to the chateau a few days later, he seemed preoccupied and did not seek me out. As for myself I was so horrified by what Claude had told me that I was anxious to avoid him. I told myself that had I truly loved him I should not have believed Claude, but the fact was that I felt there was a possibility of her story being true; and oddly enough it made no difference to my feelings for the Comte. I did not love him for his virtues. I had seen him for the man he was in fact I had believed ill of him which had proved to be wrong as in the case of Gabrielle and Mademoiselle Dubois and knowing all this I had blindly allowed myself to be fascinated.

The fact was, I could not understand my feelings. All I knew was that he dominated my life, that without him life would be flat, dull, meaningless. I could not even ask him now if Claude’s story was true.

There was too big a barrier between us. The man was an enigma to me and yet it seemed to me that my whole world would be devoid of hope for happiness if he went out of it.

It was not sensible; it was not what I should have expected of myself; and yet I had done it.

I could only call that being recklessly and hopelessly involved.

Involved! How typical of me to try to find another word for being in love because, I admonished myself scornfully, I was afraid to face up to the fact that I loved a man irrevocably.

There was a rising tension during those days. There was only one thing I was certain of. This situation could not remain static. It was explosive; we were working towards some crisis and when it came my future would be decided.

There was always, I imagined, this atmosphere of excitement as the harvest approached. But this was my personal crisis. I was coming to the end of the work; I could not stay on indefinitely at the chateau.

I should have to talk of my future and I experienced complete desolation when I considered that I might tell the Comte that I was going and he would let me go.

I had strayed into this feudal life and I with my strict English upbringing had tried to become a part of it. How wrong I might have been! I clung to that word ‘might’. It was the only hope I had.

Into this strange period of waiting there came suddenly the sense of danger . danger of a different sort from that in which a foolish woman allows herself to dream of an impossible romance. Imminent danger. It was because of an uneasy feeling that I was being watched.

Little sounds-unmistakable yet unidentifiable-as I walked through the corridors to my room. The extra sense that comes unexpectedly and which sets one turning sharply, to look over the shoulder. This had suddenly crept upon me and it persisted.

I was very conscious of the key which I carried about with me in my petticoat pocket. I had promised that I would show it to the Comte and that together we should search for the lock which it would fit. But since Claude had talked to me I felt unable to face him.

I had promised myself a few more days of exploration; secretly I pictured myself going to him and telling him I had discovered his emeralds, for I was growing more and more certain that that was what I should find. Perhaps, I thought in my heart, he would be so overwhelmed, so delighted, that even if he had not thought seriously of me before, he would do so then.

What stupid ideas women in love will get! I reminded myself. They live in a world of romance which has little connection with reality. They make charming pictures and then convince themselves that they are true.

Surely I was beyond that sort of behaviour.

He had not been to see how the wall-painting was progressing, which surprised me. At times I wondered whether Claude talked of me to him and they smiled together at my innocence. If it were true that she was to have his child then they would be very intimate, I couldn’t believe it but that was the romantic woman in me. Looking at the situation from a practical point of view it seemed logical enough and weren’t the French noted for their logic? What to my my English reasoning would seem an immoral situation, to their French logic would seem satisfactory. The Comte, having no desire for marriage yet wishing to see his son inherit the name, fortune, estates and everything that was important to him; Philippe as his reward would inherit before the boy if the Comte should die, and the chateau was his home; Claude could enjoy her relationship with her lover without suffering any loss of dignity. Of course it was reasonable; of course it was logical.

But to me it was horrible and I hated it, and I did not try to see him for I feared I should betray my feelings. In the meantime I was watchful.

One afternoon I walked over to see Gabrielle, now very obviously pregnant and contented. I enjoyed my visit, for we talked of the Comte and Gabrielle was one of the people who had a high regard for him.

When I left her I took the short cut through the woods and it was while I was there that the feeling of being followed came upon me more strongly than before. On this occasion I was truly alarmed. Here was I alone in the woods those very woods in which the Comte had received his injury. The fear had come suddenly upon me, with the crackle of undergrowth, the snapping of a twig.

I stopped and listened. All was silent; and yet I was conscious of danger.

An impulse came to me to run and I did so. Such panic possessed me that I almost screamed aloud when my skirt was caught by a bramble. I snatched it away leaving a little of the stuff behind, but I did not stop.

I was certain I heard the sound of hurrying steps behind me, and when the trees thinned out I looked behind me, but there was no one.

I came out of the copse. There was no sign of anyone emerging from the woods, but I did not pause long. I started the long walk back to the chateau.

Near the vineyards I met Philippe on horseback.

He rode up to me and as soon as he saw me exclaimed:

“Why Mademoiselle Lawson, is anything wrong?”

I guessed I still looked a little distraught so there was no point in hiding it.

“I had rather an unpleasant experience in the woods. I thought I was being followed.”

“You shouldn’t go into the woods alone, you know.”

“No, I suppose not. But I didn’t think of it.”

“Fancy, I dare say, but I can understand it. Perhaps you were remembering how you found my cousin there when he was shot, and that made you imagine someone was following you. It might have been someone after a hare.”

“Probably.”

He dismounted and stood still to look at the vineyards.

“We’re going to have a record harvest,” he said.

“Have you ever seen the gathering of the grapes?”

“No.”

“You’ll enjoy it. It won’t be long now. They’re almost ready. Would you care to take a look into the sheds? You’ll see them preparing the baskets. The excitement is growing.”

“Should we disturb them?”

“Indeed not. They like to think that everyone is as excited as they are.”

He led me along a path towards the sheds and talked to me about the grapes. He admitted that he had not attended a harvest for years. I felt embarrassed in his company. I saw him now as the weak third party in a distasteful compact. But I could not gracefully make my escape.

“In the past,” he was saying, “I used to stay at the chateau for long periods in the summer, and I always remembered the grape harvest. It seemed to go on far into the night and I would get out of bed and listen to them singing as they trod the grapes. It was a most fascinating sight.”

“It must have been.”

“Oh, yes, Mademoiselle Lawson. I never forgot the sight of men and women stepping into the trough and dancing on the grapes. And there were musicians who played the songs they knew and they danced and sang. I remembered watching them sink lower and lower into the purple juice.”

“So you are looking forward to this harvest.”

“Yes, but perhaps everything seems more colourful when we are young.

But I think it was the grape harvest which decided me that I’d rather live at Chateau Gaillard than anywhere else on earth. “

“Well, now you have that wish.”

He was silent and I noticed the grim Jines about his mouth. I wondered what he felt about the relationship between the Comte and his wife.

There was an air of effeminacy about him which made more plausible Claude’s account, and the fact that his features did in some way resemble those of his cousin made this complete difference in their characters the more apparent. I could believe that he wanted more than anything to live at the chateau, to own the chateau, to be known as the Comte de la Talle, and for all this he had bartered his honour, and married the Comte’s mistress and would accept the Comte’s illegitimate son as his . all for the sake of one day, if the Comte should die, being King of the Castle, for I was sure that if he had refused to accept the terms laid down by the Comte, he would not have been allowed to inherit.

We talked of the grapes and the harvests he remembered from his childhood and when we came to the sheds I was shown the baskets which were being prepared and I listened while Philippe talked to the workers.

He walked his horse back to the chateau and I thought him friendly, reserved, a little deprecating, and found myself making excuses for him.

I went up to my room and as soon as I entered it I was aware that someone had been there during my absence.

I looked about me; then I saw what it was. The book I had left on my bedside table was on the dressing-table. I knew I had not left it there.

I hurried to it and picked it up. I opened the drawer. Everything appeared to be in order. I opened another and another. Everything was tidy.

But I was sure that the book had been moved.

Perhaps, I thought, one of the servants had been in. Why? No one usually came in during that time of day.

And then on the air I caught the faint smell of scent. A musk-rose scent which I had smelt before. It was feminine and pleasant. I had smelt it when Claude was near.

I was certain then that while I was out Claude had been in my room.

Why? Could it be that she knew I had the key and had she come to see if I had hidden it somewhere in my room?

I stood still and my hands touched the pocket of my petticoat through my skirt. There was the key safe on my person. The scent had gone.

Then again there it was faint, elusive, but significant.

It was the next day when the maid brought a letter to my room from Jean Pierre, who said he must see me without delay. He wanted to speak to me alone so would I come to the vineyards as soon as possible where we could talk without being interrupted. He begged me to come.

I went out into the hot sunshine, across the drawbridge and towards the vineyards. The whole countryside seemed to be sleeping in the hot afternoon; and as I walked along the path through the vines now laden with their rich ripe fruit Jean Pierre came to meet me.

“It’s difficult to talk here,” he said.

“Let’s go inside.” He took me into the building and to the first of the cellars.

It was cool there and seemed dark after the glare of the sun; here the light came through small apertures and I remembered hearing how it was necessary to regulate the temperature by the shutters.

And there among the casks Jean Pierre said: “I am to go away.”

“Go away,” I repeated stupidly. And then: “But when?”

“Immediately after the harvest.”

He took me by the shoulders.

“You know why, Dallas.”

I shook my head.

“Because Monsieur Ie Comte wants me out of the way.”

“Why?”

He laughed bitterly.

“He does not give his reasons. He merely gives his orders. It no longer pleases him that I should be here so, although I have been here all my life, I am now to move on.”

“But surely if you explain …”

“Explain what? That this is my home … as the chateau is his? We, my dear Dallas, are not supposed to have such absurd sentiments. We are serfs … born to obey. Did you not know that?”

“This is absurd, Jean Pierre.”

“But no. I have my orders.”

“Go to him … tell him … I am sure he will listen.”

He smiled at me.

“Do you know why he wants me to go away? Can you guess? It is because he knows of my friendship with you. He does not like that.”

“What should it mean to him?” I hoped Jean Pierre did not notice the excited note in my voice.

“It means that he is interested in you … in his way.”

“But this is ridiculous.”

“You know it is not. There have always been women … and you are different from any he has ever known. He wants your undivided attention … for a time.”

“How can you know?”

“How can I know? Because I know him. I have lived here all my life and although he is frequently away, this is his home too. Here he lives as he can’t live in Paris. Here he is lord of us all. Here we have stood still in time and he wants to keep it like that.”

“You hate him, Jean Pierre.”

“Once the people of France rose against such as he is.”

“You’ve forgotten how he helped Gabrielle and Jacques.”

He laughed bitterly.

“Gabrielle like all women has a fondness for him.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“That I don’t believe in this goodness of his. There’s always a motive behind it. To him we are not people with lives of our own. We are his slaves, I tell you. If he wants a woman then anyone who stands in his way is removed and when she is no longer required, well… You know what happened to the Comtesse.”

“Don’t dare say such things.”

“Dallas! What’s happened to you?”

“I want to know what you were doing in the gun-room at the chateau.”

“I?”

“Yes, I found your grape scissors there. Your mother said you had missed them and that they were yours.”

He was taken aback a little. Then he said: “I had to go to the chateau to see the Comte on business . that was just before he went away. “

“And he took you to the gun-room?”

“No.”

“But that’s where I found them.”

“The Comte wasn’t at home so I thought I’d have a look round the chateau. You’re surprised. It’s a very interesting place. I couldn’t resist looking round. That was the room, you know, where an ancestor of mine last saw the light of day.”

“Jean Pierre,” I said, ‘you shouldn’t hate anyone so much. “

“Why should it all be his? Do you know that he and I are blood relations? A great-great-grandfather of mine was half-brother to a Comte the only difference was that his mother was not a Comtesse.”

“Please don’t talk like this.” A terrible thought struck me and I said: “I believe you would kill him.”

Jean Pierre did not answer and I went on: “That day in the woods…”

“I didn’t fire that shot. Do you imagine I’m the only one who hates him?”

“You have no reason to hate him. He has never harmed you. You hate him because he is what he is and you want what he has.”

“It’s a good reason for hating.” He laughed suddenly.

“It’s just that I’m furious with him now because he wants to send me away. Wouldn’t you hate anyone who wanted to send you away from your home and the one you loved? I did not come here to talk of hating the Comte but of loving you. I shall go to Mermoz when the harvest is over and I want you to come with me, Dallas. You belong here among us. After all we are your mother’s people. Let us be married and we will laugh at him then. He has no power over you.”

No power over me! I thought: but you are wrong, Jean Pierre. No one has ever before had this power to regulate my happiness, to excite and depress me.

Jean Pierre had seized my hands; he drew me towards him, his eyes shining.

“Dallas, marry me. Think how happy that you will make us all-you, me, my family. You are fond of us, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I said, “I am fond of you all.”

“And do you want to go away… back to England? What will you do there, Dallas, my darling? Have you friends there? Then why have you been content to leave them so long? You want to be here, don’t you?

You feel that you belong here? “

I was silent. I thought of it. The life Jean Pierre was offering me. I imagined myself being caught up in the excitement of the vineyards, taking my easel out and developing that little talent I had for painting. Visiting the family at the Maison Bastide . But no, then I should see the chateau; I should never be able to look at it without a pain in my heart; and there would be times when I should see the Comte perhaps. He would look at me and bow courteously. And perhaps he would say to himself:

Who is that woman? I have seen her somewhere. Oh, she is that Mademoiselle Lawson who came to do the pictures and married Jean Pierre Bastide over at Mermoz.

Better to go right away than that better to take the opportunity which Claude had offered and which was still open although it would probably not remain so much longer.

“You hesitate,” said Jeanne Pierre.

“No. It can’t be.”

“You do not love me?”

“I don’t really know you, Jean Pierre.” The words had escaped me, and I had not meant to say them.

“But we are old friends, I thought.”

“There is so much that we don’t know about each other.”

“All I have to know of you is that I love you.”

Love? I thought. Yet you do not speak of it as vehemently as you do of hate.

His hatred of the Comte was stronger than his love for me; and it occurred to me then that one had grown out of the other. Was Jean Pierre eager to marry me because he thought that the Comte was attracted by me? As that thought came to me I was conscious of a great revulsion against him and he no longer seemed like the old friend in whose home I had spent so many hours. He was a sinister stranger.

“Come, Dallas,” he said, ‘say we’ll be married. And I’ll go to the Comte and tell him that I shall be taking a bride with me to Mermoz. ”

There it was! He would go to the Comte in triumph.

“I’m sorry, Jean Pierre,” I said, ‘but this is not the way. “

“You mean you will not marry me?”

“No, Jean Pierre, I can’t marry you.”

He dropped my hands and a look of baffled rage crossed his features.

Then he lifted his shoulders, “But,” he said, “I shall continue to hope.”

I had a great desire to escape from the cellar. Such hatred of one man towards another was terrifying; and I, who had felt so self-sufficient in the past, so able to take care of myself, had now begun to learn the meaning of fear.

I was glad to come out into the hot light of day.

I went straight to my room and thought about Jean Pierre’s proposal.

He had not the manner of a man in love. He i’ had shown me how deeply he could feel when he talked of the Comte. To spite the Comte he would marry me. This horrifying thought brought with it its elation. He had noticed, then, the Comte’s interest in me. Yet since his return from Paris he had scarcely seemed aware of me.

The next morning I was working on the wall-painting to which I was putting the finishing touches when Nounou came to me in great distress.

“It’s Genevieve,” she said.

“She’s come in and gone straight to her room. She’s half crying, half laughing and I can’t get out of her what’s wrong. I wish you’d come and help me.”

I went with her to Genevieve’s room. The girl was certainly in a wild mood. She had thrown her riding-hat and crop into a corner of the room and when I entered was sitting on her bed glowering into space.

“What’s wrong, Genevieve?” I asked.

“I might be able to help.”

“Help! How can you help? Unless you go and ask my father …” She looked at me speculatively.

I said coldly: “Ask what?”

She didn’t answer; she clenched her fists and beat them on the bed.

“I’m not a baby!” she cried.

“I’m grown up. I won’t stay here if I don’t want to. I’ll run away.”

Nounou caught her breath in fear but asked: “Where to?”

“Anywhere I like and you won’t find me.”

“I don’t think I should be eager to if you remain in your present mood.”

She burst out laughing but was sober almost at once.

“I tell you, miss, I won’t be treated like a child.”

“What has happened to upset you? How have you been treated like a child?”

She stared at the tips of her riding-boots.

“If I want friends, I shall have them.”

“Who said you shouldn’t?”

“I don’t think people should be sent away just because …” She stopped and glared at me.

“It’s no business of yours. Nor yours, Nounou. Go away. Don’t stand staring at me as though I’m a baby.”

Nounou looked ready to burst into tears and I thought I could handle this better if she were not there, continually to remind Genevieve that she was her nurse. So I signed to her to leave us. She went readily.

I sat on the bed and waited. Genevieve said sullenly, “My father is sending Jean Pierre away because he’s my friend.”

“Who said so?”

“No one has to say so. I know.”

“But why should he be sent away for that reason?”

“Because I’m Papa’s daughter and Jean Pierre is one of the wine growers

“I don’t see the point.”

“Because I’m growing up, that’s why. Because …” She looked at me and her lips quivered. Then she threw herself on to the bed and burst into loud sobs which shook her body.

I leaned over her.

“Genevieve,” I said gently, ‘do you mean that they’re afraid you’ll fall in love with him? “

“Now you laugh!” she cried, turning a hot face to glare at me.

“I tell you I’m old enough. I’m not a child.”

“I didn’t say you were. Genevieve, are you in love with Jean Pierre?”

She didn’t answer, so I went on: “And Jean Pierre?”

She nodded.

“He told me that was why Papa is sending him away.”

“I see,” I said slowly.

She laughed bitterly.

“It’s only to Mermoz. I shall run away with him.

I shan’t stay here if he goes. “

“Did Jean Pierre suggest this?”

“Don’t keep questioning me. You’re not on my side.”

“I am, Genevieve. I am on your side.”

She raised herself and looked at me.

“Are you?”

I nodded.

“I thought you weren’t because… because I thought you liked him too.

I was jealous of you,” she admitted naively.

“There’s no need to be jealous of me, Genevieve. But you have to be reasonable, you know. When I was young I fell in love.”

The thought made her smile.

“Oh, no, miss, yowl”

“Yes,” I said tartly, ‘even I. “

“That must have been funny.”

“It seemed tragic rather.”

“Why? Did your father send him away?”

“He couldn’t do that. But he made me see how impossible it would have been.”

“And would it have been?”

“It usually is when one is very young.”

“Now you’re trying to influence me. I tell you I won’t listen. I’ll tell you this, though, that when Jean Pierre goes to Mermoz I am going with him.”

“He’ll go after the harvest.”

“And so shall I,” she said with determination.

I could see that it was no use talking to her when she was in this mood.

I was worried, asking myself what this meant. Had she imagined that Jean Pierre was in love with her, or had he told her so? Could he have done this at the same time that he was asking me to marry him?

I thought of Jean Pierre in the cellar, his eyes brilliant with hatred.

It seemed to me that the ruling passion of his life was hatred of the Comte, and because he thought that the Comte was interested in me he had asked me to marry him. Because Genevieve was the Comte’s daughter could it be that he was attempting to seduce her?

I was very uneasy.

The following day had been fixed for the gathering of the grapes. All day long the sky overhead had been a cloudless blue; the sun was hot and the abundant grapes were ripe for picking. I was not thinking of the next day. I was thinking of

Jean Pierre and his desire for revenge on the Comte. I was watching Genevieve, for in her present mood I could not guess what she would do next. Nor could I rid myself of that sinister feeling that I myself was being watched.

I longed for a tete-a-tete with the Comte but he seemed to ignore me and I thought perhaps it was as well since my own feelings were in such a turmoil. Claude made several significant references to my work’s growing near its termination. How she wanted to be rid of me!

On the few occasions when I encountered him Philippe was as remote yet friendly as he had ever been.

After Genevieve’s outburst I had been wondering how to act and I suddenly thought that the one person who might help me was Jean Pierre’s grandmother.

The afternoon was almost turning into evening when I went to see her.

I guessed she would be alone in the house for there was a great deal of activity in the vineyards, preparing for the next day, and even Yves and Margot were not near the house.

She welcomed me as always, and without preamble I told her how worried I was.

“Jean Pierre has asked me to marry him,” I said.

“And you do not love him?”

I shook my head.

“He does not love me, either,” I went on.

“But he hates the Comte.”

I saw how the veins in her hands stood out as she clenched them together.

“There is Genevieve,” I went on.

“He has led her to believe…” ^ “Oh, no!”

“She is excitable and vulnerable and I’m afraid for her. She’s in a state of hysteria because he is being sent away. We must do something… I’m not sure what. But I’m afraid something dreadful will happen. This hatred of his … it’s unnatural.”

“It’s born in him. Try to understand it. Every day he looks at the chateau there and he thinks: ” Why should it be the Comte’s . that and the power that goes with it! Why not. ? ” ” But this is absurd. Why should he feel this? Everyone in the neighbourhood sees the chateau but they don’t think it should be theirs. “

“It’s different. We Bastides have chateau blood in us. Bastide! Here in the south a has tide is a country house … but might it not once have been Bdtard^ That is how names come about.”

“There must be plenty of people hereabouts who, as they say, have chateau blood.”

“That’s so, but with the Bastides it was different. We were closer to the chateau. We belonged to it, and it is not so many years that we can forget. My husband’s father was the son of a Comte de la Talle.

Jean Pierre knows this; and when he looks at the chateau, when he sees the Comte, he thinks:

So might I have ridden about the land. These vineyards might have been mine . and the chateau too. “

“It’s … unhealthy to think so.”

“He has always been proud. He has always listened to the stories of the chateau which were handed down in our family. He knows how the Comtesse sheltered here in this house … how her son was born here, how he lived here until he went back to join his grandmother in the chateau. You see, the Madame Bastide who sheltered him had a son of her own; he was a year older than the little Comte but they had the same father.”

“It makes a strong link, I see, but it doesn’t explain this envy and hatred going on over years.”

Madame Bastide shook her head and I burst out: “You must make him see reason. There’ll be a tragedy if he goes on in this way. I sense it.

In the woods when the Comte was shot. “

“That was not Jean Pierre.”

“But if he hates him so much …”

“He is not a murderer.”

“Then who … ?”

“A man such as the Comte has his enemies.”

“None could hate him more than your grandson. I don’t like it. It must be stopped.”

“You must always restore people to what you think they should be, Dallas. Human beings are not pictures, you know. Nor …”

“Nor am I so perfect that I should seek to reform others. I know. But I find this alarming.”

“If you could know the secret thoughts which go on in our minds there might often be cause for alarm. But, Dallas, what of yourself? You are in love with the Comte, are you not?”

I drew away from her in dismay.

“It is as clear to me as Jean Pierre’s hatred is to you. You are alarmed not because Jean Pierre hates, but because he hates the Comte.

You fear he will do him some harm. It is necessary to Jean Pierre. It soothes his pride. You are in greater danger through your love, Dallas, than he is through his hate. “

I was silent.

“My dear, you should go home. I, an old woman, who sees far more than you think, tell you that. Could you be happy here? Would the Comte marry you? Would you live here as his mistress? I don’t think so. That would suit neither him nor you. Go home while there is still time. In your own country you will learn to forget, for you are still young and will meet someone whom you will learn to love. You will have children and they will teach you to forget.”

“Madame Bastide,” I said.

“You are worried.”

She was silent.

“You are afraid of what Jean Pierre will do.”

“He has been different lately.”

“He has asked me to marry him; he has convinced Genevieve that she is in love with him … What else?”

She hesitated.

“Perhaps I should not tell you. It has been on my mind since I knew. When the Comtesse fled from the revolutionaries and.

took refuge here she was grateful to the Bastides and she left with them a small gold casket. Inside this casket was a key. “

“A key!” I echoed.

“Yes, a small key. I have never before seen one like it. At one end was a fleur-delis.”

“Yes?” I prompted impatiently.

“The casket was for us. It is worth a great deal. It is kept locked away in case we should ever be in great need. The key was to be kept until it was asked for. It was not to be given up until then.”

“And was it never asked for?”

“No, it never was. According to the story which had been handed down we were to tell no one we had it for fear the wrong people should ask.

So we never mentioned the key . nor the casket. It was said that the Comtesse had talked of two keys. the one in our casket and the one hidden in the chateau. “

“Where is the key? May I see it?”

“It disappeared … a short time ago. I believe someone has taken it.”

“Jean Pierre!” I whispered.

“He is trying to find the lock in the chateau which fits the key.”

“That could be so.”

“And when he does?”

She gripped my hand.

“If he finds what he seeks that will be the end of his hatred.”

“You mean … the emeralds.”

“If he had the emeralds he would think he had his share. I am afraid that that is what is in his mind. I am afraid that this … obsession is like a canker in his mind. Dallas, I am afraid of where it will lead him.”

“Could you talk to him?”

She shook her head.

“It’s no use. I have tried in the past. I’m fond of you. You must not be hurt too. Everything here seems peaceful on the surface … but nothing is what it seems. We none of us show our true face to the world. You should go away. You should not be involved in this years-old strife. Go home and start again. In time this will seem like a dream to you and we will all be like puppets in a shadow show.”

“It could never be so.”

“Yes, my dear, it could be … for that is life.”

I left her and went back to the chateau.

I knew I could stand aside no longer. I had to act. How I was not sure.

Half past six in the morning and this was the call of vendange. From all over the neighbourhood men, women and children were making their ways to the vineyards where Jean Pierre and his father would give them instructions. At least, I told myself, for today there could be no concern for anything but the gathering of the grape.

In the chateau kitchens according to ancient custom food was being prepared to provide meals for all the workers, and as soon as the dew was off the grapes the gathering began.

The harvesters were working in pairs, one carefully cutting the grapes, making sure that those which were not perfect were discarded, while the other held the osier to receive them, keeping it steady so as not to bruise the 4 grapes.

From the vineyards came the sound of singing as the workers joined together in the songs of the district. This again was an old custom Madame Bastide had once told me and there was a saying that “Bouche qui mord a la . chanson ne mord pas a la grappe.”

I did not work on that morning. I went to the vineyards to watch. I did not see Jean Pierre. He would have been too busy to pay much attention to me, too busy-to pay attention to Genevieve, too busy to hate.

I felt that I was not part of all that. I had no job to do. I didn’t belong, and that was symbolic.

I went to the gallery and looked at my work which in so very short a time would be finished.

Madame Bastide, who was my good friend, advised me to go. I wondered whether by avoiding me the Comte was telling me the same. He had some regard for me, I was sure, and that thought would sustain me a little when I went away. However sad I was I should remind myself:

But he had some regard for me. Love? Perhaps I was not one to inspire a grande passion. The thought almost made me laugh. If I could see this clearly I should see how absurd the whole thing was. Here was this man: worldly, experienced, fastidious . and there was I: the unattractive woman intense about one thing only, her work, all that he was not! priding herself on her common sense, in which she had shown, by her behaviour, she was sadly lacking. But I should remind myself: He had some regard for me.

His aloofness was the measure of that regard and he, like Madame Bastide, was saying to me: Go away. It is better so.

I took the key from my pocket. I must give it to the Comte and tell him how I had found it. Then I would say to him: “The work is almost finished. I shall be leaving shortly.”

I looked at the key. Jean Pierre had one exactly like it. And he was searching for that lock even as I had.

I thought of those occasions when I had felt myself observed. Could it have been Jean Pierre? Had he seen me that day in the graveyard? Was he afraid that I should find what he was so desperately seeking?

He must not steal the emeralds, for whatever he told himself, it would be stealing, and if he were caught. It would be unbearable. I thought of the misery that would come to those people of whom I had grown so fond.

It would be no use remonstrating with him. There was only one thing to do: find the emeralds before he did. If they were here at all they must be in the dungeons because they were certainly not in the oubliette.

Here was an opportunity, for there was scarcely anyone in the chateau today. I remembered seeing a lantern near the door of the dungeon and I promised myself that this time I would light it, so that I could explore properly. I made my way to the centre of the chateau and descended the stone staircase. I reached the dungeons and as I opened the iron-studded door it creaked dismally.

I felt the chill of the place but I was determined to go on, so I lighted the lantern and held it up. It showed me the damp walls, the fungoid growth on them, the cages cut out of the wall, and here and there rings to which the chains were attached.

A gloomy place, dark, uninviting, still after all these years haunted by the sufferings of the forgotten men and women of a cruel age.

Where could there possibly be a lock here to fit the key?

I advanced into the gloom and as I did so was aware of that sense of creeping horror. I knew exactly how men and women had felt in the past when they had been brought to this place. I sensed the terror, the hopelessness.

It seemed to me then that every nerve in my body was warning me: Get away. There’s danger here. And I seemed to develop an extra sense of awareness as perhaps one does in moments of acute danger. I knew I was not alone, that I was being watched.

I remember thinking: Then if someone is lurking in wait for me why doesn’t that someone attack me now. But I knew that whoever was there was waiting. waiting for me to do something, and when I did, the danger would be upon me. Oh, Jean Pierre, I thought, you wouldn’t hurt me even for the Gaillard emeralds.

My fingers were trembling. I despised myself. I was no better than the servants who would not come here. I was afraid, even as they were, of the ghosts of the past.

“Who’s there?” I cried, in a voice which sounded bold.

It echoed in a ghostly eerie way.

I knew that I must get out at once. It was that instinct warning me.

Now! And don’t come back here alone.

“Is anyone there?” I said. Then again speaking aloud:

“There’s nothing there …”

I didn’t know why I had spoken aloud. It was some answer to the fear which possessed me. It was not a ghost who was lurking in the shadows.

But I had more to fear from the living than the dead.

I backed trying to do so slowly and deliberately to the door. I blew out the lantern and put it down. I was through the iron-studded door; I mounted the stone staircase and once at the top of it hurriedly went to my room.

I must never go there alone again, I told myself. I pictured that door shutting on me. I pictured the peril overtaking me. I was not sure in what form, but I believed that I might then have had my wish to remain at the chateau for ever more.

I had come to a decision. I was going to talk to the Comte without delay.

It was characteristic that at Gaillard the grapes were trodden in the traditional way. In other parts of the country there might be presses, but at Gaillard the old methods were retained.

There are no ways like the old ways,” Armand Bastide had said once.

“No wine tastes quite like ours.”

The warm air was filled with the sounds of revelry. The grapes were gathered and were three feet deep in the great trough.

The (readers, ready for the treading, had scrubbed their legs and feet until they shone; the musicians were tuning up. The excitement was high.

The scene touched by moonlight was fantastic to me, who had never seen anything like it before. I watched with the rest while the treaders, naked to the thighs, wearing short white breeches, stepped into the trough and began to dance.

I recognized the old song which Jean Pierre had first sung to me, and it had a special significance now:

“Qui sont-ils les gens qui sont riches? Sont-ils plus que moi quin’ ai rien …”

I watched the dancers sink deeper and deeper into the purple morass; their faces gleaming, their voices raised in song. The music seemed to grow wilder; and the musicians closed in on the trough. Armand Bastide led the players with his violin; there was an accordion, a triangle and a drum, and some of the treaders used castanets as they went methodically round and round the trough.

Brandy was passed round to the dancers and they roared their appreciation as the singing grew louder, the dance more fervent.

I caught a glimpse of Yves and Margot; they with other children were wild with excitement, dancing together, shrieking with laughter as they pretended they were treading grapes.

Genevieve was there, her hair high on her head. She ^ looked excited and secretive and I knew that her restless glances meant that she was looking for Jean Pierre.

And suddenly the Comte was beside me. He was smiling, as though he was pleased, and I felt absurdly happy because I believed that he had been looking for me.

“Dallas,” he said, and the use of my Christian name on his lips filled me with pleasure. Then: “Well, what do you think of it?”

“I have never seen anything like it.”

“I’m glad we have been able to show you something you haven’t seen before.”

He had taken my elbow in the palm of his hand.

“I must speak to you,” I said.

“And I to you. But not here. There is too much noise.”

He drew me away from the crowd. Outside, the air was fresh; I looked at the moon, gibbous, almost drunken-looking, the markings on its surface clear, so that it really did look like a face up there, laughing at us.

“It seems a long time since we have talked together,” he said.

“I could not make up my mind what to say to you. I wanted to think . about us. I did not want you to think me rash . impetuous. I did not think you would care for that. “

“No,” I replied.

We had started to walk towards the chateau.

“Tell me first what you wished to say,” he said.

“In a few weeks I shall have finished my work. The time will have come for me to go.”

“You must not go.”

“But there will be no reason for me to stay.”

“We must find a reason ..: Dallas.”

I turned to him. It was no time for banter. I must know the truth.

Even if I betrayed my feelings I must know it.

“What reason could there be?”

“That I asked you to stay because I should be unhappy if you left.”

“I think you should tell me exactly what you mean.”

“I mean that I could not let you go away. That I want you to stay here always … to make this place your home. I’m telling you that I love you.”

“Are you asking me to marry you?”

“Not yet. There are things we must talk over first.”

“But you have decided not to marry again.”

“There was one woman in the world who could make me change my mind. I didn’t even know she existed, and how was I to guess that chance should send her to me?”

“You are certain?” I asked and I heard the joy in my voice.

He stood still and took my hands in his; he looked solemnly into my face.

“Never more certain in my life.”

“And yet you do not ask me to marry you?”

“My dearest,” he said, “I would not have you waste your life.”

“Should I waste it… if I loved you?”

“Do not say if. Say you do. Let us be completely truthful with each other. Do you love me, Dallas?”

“I know so little of love. I know that if I left here, if I never saw you again, I should be more unhappy than I had ever been in my life.”

He leaned towards me and kissed me gently on the cheek.

“That will do for a start. But how can you feel so … for me?”

“I don’t know.”

“You know me for what I am … I want you to. I could not let you marry me unless you really knew me. Have you thought of that, Dallas?”

“I have tried not to think of what seemed to me quite impossible, but secretly I have thought of it.”

“And you thought it impossible?”

“I did not see myself in the role of femme fatale.”

“God forbid.”

“I saw-myself as a woman scarcely young, without any personal charm, but able to take care of herself, one who had put all foolish romantic notions behind her.”

“And you did not know yourself.”

“If I had never come here I should have become that person.”

“If you had never met me … And if I had never met you … ? But we met and what did we do? We began to wipe off the bloom … the mildew you know the terms. And now here we are.

Dallas, I’ll never let you leave me . but you must be sure . “

“I am sure.”

“Remember you have become a little foolish … a little romantic. Why do you love me?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t admire my character. You have heard rumours. What if I tell you that a great many of those rumours are true?”

“I did not expect you to be a saint.”

“I have been ruthless … often cruel… I have been unfaithful… promiscuous … selfish … arrogant. What if I should be so again?”

“That I am prepared for. I am, as you know, self-opinionated…. governessy as Genevieve will tell you …”

“Genevieve …” he murmured, and then with a laugh: “I am also prepared.”

His hands were on my shoulders; I felt a rising passion in him and I was responding with all my being. But he was seeking for control; it was as though he was holding off that moment when he would take me in his arms and we should forget all else but the joy of being together at last in reality.

“Dallas,” he said, ‘you must be sure. “

“I am … I am … never more sure …”

“You would take me then?”

“Most willingly.”

“Knowing … what you know.”

“We will start again,” I said.

“The past is done with. What you were or what I was before we met is of no importance. It is what we shall be together.”

“I am not a good man.”

“Who shall say what is goodness?”

“But I have improved since you came.”

“Then I must stay to see that you go on improving.”

“My love,” he said softly, and held me against him, but I did not see his face.

He released me and turned me towards the chateau.

It rose before us, like a fairy castle in the moonlight, the towers seeming to pierce that midnight-blue back cloth of the sky.

I felt like the Princess in a fairy story. I told him so.

“Who lived happy ever after,” I said.

“Do you believe in happy endings?” he asked.

“Not perpetual ecstasy. But I believe it is for us to make our own happiness and I am determined that we shall do that.”

“You will make sure of it for both of us. I’m content. You will always achieve what you set out to do. I think you determined to marry me months ago. Dallas, when our plans are known there will be gossip. Are you prepared for that?”

“I shall not care for gossip.”

“But I do not want you to have illusions.”

“I believe I know the worst. You brought Philippe here because you had decided not to marry. How will he feel?”

“He will go back to his estates in Burgundy and forget he was once to inherit when I died. After all, he might have had a long time to wait, and who knows, when it came to him he might have been too old to care.”

“But his son would have inherited. He might have cared for him.”

“Philippe will never have a son.”

“And his wife? What of her? I have heard that she was your mistress.

It’s true, isn’t it? “

“At one time.”

“And you married her to Philippe who you did not think would have a son so that she could bear yours?”

“I am capable of such a plan. I told you that I am a scoundrel, didn’t I? But I need you to help me overcome my vices. You must never leave me, Dallas.”

“And the child?” I asked.

“What child?”

“Her child … Claude’s child.”

“There is no child.”

“But she has told me that she is to have a child … your child.” “It is not possible,” he said.

“But if she is your mistress?”

“Was, I said, not is. You began to use your influence on me as soon as we met. Since she married Philippe there has been nothing between us.

You look dubious. Does that mean you don’t believe me? “

“I believe you,” I said.

“And … I’m glad. I can see that she wanted me to go. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now.”

“You will probably hear of other misdeeds now and then.”

“They will all be in the past. It will be the present and future which will be my affair.”

“How I long for the time when my affairs are entirely yours.”

“Could we say that they are from now on … ?”

“You delight me; you enchant me. Who would have believed I could hear such sweetness from your lips?”

“I should not have believed it myself. You have put a spell on me.”

“My darling! But we must settle this. Please… please ask me more questions. You must know the worst now. What else have you heard of me?”

“I thought you were the father of Gabrielle’s child.”

“That was Jacques.”

“I know now. I know too that you were kind to Mademoiselle Dubois. I know that you are good at heart….”

He put an arm round me and as we walked across the drawbridge he said: “There is one thing you have not mentioned. You do not ask about my marriage.”

“What do you expect me to ask?”

“You must have heard rumours.”

“Yes, I have heard them.”

“Little else was talked of in these parts at the time. I believe half the countryside believed I murdered her. They will think you are a brave woman to marry a man who, so many believed, murdered his wife.”

“Tell me how she died.”

He was silent.

“Please …” I said, ‘please tell me. “

“I can’t tell you.”

“You mean …”

“This is what you must understand, Dallas.”

“You know how she died?”

“It was an overdose of laudanum.”

“How, tell me how?”

“You must never ask me.”

“But I thought we were to be truthful with each other … always.”

“That is why I can’t tell you.”

“Is the answer so bad, then?”

“The answer is bad,” he said.

“I don’t believe you killed her. I won’t believe it.”

“Thank you … thank you, my dear. We must not talk of it again.

Promise me not to. “

“But I must know.”

“It is what I feared. Now you look at me differently. You are uncertain. That is why I did not ask you to marry me. I could not until you had asked that question … and until you had heard my reply.”

“But you have not replied.”

“You have heard all I have to say. Will you marry me?”

“Yes … it is no use anyone’s trying to tell me you’re a murderer. I don’t believe it. I’ll never believe it.”

He picked me up in his arms then.

“You’ve given your promise. May you never regret it.”

“You are afraid to tell me….”

He put his lips to mine and the passion burst forth. I was limp clinging to him, bewildered, ecstatic, in my romantic dream.

When he released me he looked sombre.

“There will be gossip to face. There will be those who whisper behind our backs. They will warn you …”

“Let them.”

“It will not be an easy life.”

“It is the life I want.”

“You will have a stepdaughter.”

“Of whom I am already fond.”

“A difficult girl who may become more so.”

“I shall try to be a mother to her.”

“You have done much for her already, but…”

“You seem determined to tell me why I should not marry you. Do you want me to say no?”

“I should never allow you to say no.”

“And what if I did?”

“I should carry you to one of the dungeons and keep you there.”

Then I remembered the key and I told him how I had discovered it.

“I was hoping to present you with your long lost emeralds,” I said.

“If this is the key to them I’ll present them to you,” he told me.

“Do you think this key really does open wherever they are?”

“We can find out.”

“When?”

“Now. The two of us. Yes, we’ll go exploring together.”

“Where do you think?”

“I think in the dungeons. There are fleursdelis in one

of the cages exactly like this. It may well be that one of them will give us the clue. You would like to go now? “

I was suddenly aware of others besides ourselves. Jean Pierre searching in the chateau for the emeralds. we must find them before he did, for if he found them, he would steal them and bring disgrace on his family.

“Yes, please,” I said.

“Now.”

He led the way to the stables, where he found a lantern; he lighted this and we made our way to the dungeons.

“I think I know where we will find the lock,” he told me.

“It’s coming back now. I remember years ago when I was a boy there was an examination of the dungeons and this cage with the fleur-delis decorations was discovered. It was noticed because it was so unusual.

A dado of fleursdelis around the cage. It seemed such a strange idea to decorate such a place. Evidently there was a purpose. “

“Didn’t they look to see if there was a locked hiding-place?”

“Evidently there was no sign of that. The theory was that some poor prisoner had somehow managed to make them no one knew how and fit them on the wall of his cage. How he worked in the gloom was a mystery.”

We reached the dungeons and he swung open the iron-studded door. How different it was entering that dark and gloomy place with him; all fear was gone. I felt in a way it was symbolic. Whatever happens, if we’re together, I can face it, I thought.

With one hand he held the lantern high; with the other he took my hand.

“The cage is somewhere here,” he said.

The smell of decay and dampness was in the close atmosphere; my foot touched one of those iron rings to which a rusting chain was attached.

Horrible! And yet I was not afraid.

He gave a sudden exclamation.

“Come and look here.”

I was beside him and here I saw theli^-‘16;115, There were twelve of them placed at intervili‘0’”” I the cage about six inches from the ground. , He gave me the lantern and crouchi10^”He the” to push aside the first of the flowers butil^011111”01 move because it was so firmly attached to tli^11,1 watchea him touch them in turn. At the sixth hif1180 , ” Just a minute,” he said.

“This one seili’ oose:

He gave an exclamation; I lifted thel^”I hlghe1’ and saw him push the flower aside. Beneadi’^,^100 The key fitted, and actually turned in^ lock-can you see a door here?” he asked. , . “There must be something,” I answtl-‘ e there. ” I tapped the wall.

“There is a cavity behind this wall,” II^”’ j He threw his weight against the sidei^ cage and ^ our excitement there was a groaning sr an so part of the wall appeared to move.

“It is a door,” I said. ‘ll1 a He tried again. A small door swung AdA and I heard him exclaim in triumph. i. r I went to stand beside him, the lanttf^ bobbing in my hand. , . I saw what was like a cupboard as^115? ^ about two feet by two and inside it a casket^” mlght have been silver.

He lifted it out and looked at me. , , “It looks,” he said, ‘as though we’ve fo^”the emeralds” Open it,” I cried. 1.1.1, Like the door, it offered some resist^’ but there mey were the rings, bracelets, girdle, nc^” and tlara which I had restored to colour on the y^B,1 , And as we stood there looking at ^ other over mat casket I realized that he was looking atl^f not the stones, , j , , (-hateau, he said. So you have restored the treasure to the” And I knew he wasn’t thinking of the

^meralds-339

That was the happiest moment I was to know for a long time. It was like reaching the top of a mountain and having done so suddenly being flung down into despair.

Was it a creak of that iron-studded door? Was it a movement in the gloom?

The thought of danger came to us both simultaneously. We knew that we were not alone.

The Comte drew me quickly to his side and put an arm about me.

“Who is there?” he shouted.

A figure loomed out of the darkness.

“So you found them?” said Philippe.

I looked into his face and was terrified, for the dim light of the lantern which I still held showed me a man I had never seen before.

Philippe’s features, yes, but gone was the lassitude, the air of delicate effeminacy. Here was a desperate man, a man with one grim purpose.

“You were looking for them too?” asked the Comte.

“You got there before me. So it was you. Mademoiselle Lawson … I was afraid you would.”

The Comte pressed my shoulder.

“Go now,” he began.

But Philippe interrupted.

“Stay where you are. Mademoiselle Lawson.”

“Have you gone mad?” demanded the Comte.

“By no means. Neither of you will leave here.”

The Comte, still gripping me, took a step forward, but stopped short when Philippe raised his hand. He was holding a gun.

“Don’t be a fool, Philippe,” said the Comte.

“You won’t escape this time. Cousin, though you did in the woods.”

“Give me the gun.”

“I need it to kill you.”

With a swift movement the Comte thrust me behind him. Philippe’s short grim laugh echoed oddly in that place.

“You won’t save her. I’m going to kill you both.”

“Listen to me, Philippe.”

“I’ve had to listen to you too often. Now it’s your turn to listen to me.”

“You propose to kill me because you want what is mine, is that it?”

“You’re right. If you’d wanted to live you shouldn’t have planned to marry Mademoiselle Lawson; you shouldn’t have found those emeralds.

You should have left something for me. Thank you, Mademoiselle Lawson, for leading me to them, but they’re mine now. Everything is mine. “

“And you think you’re going to get away with … murder?”

“Yes, I’ve thought it out. I meant to catch you together … like this. I didn’t know Mademoiselle Lawson would be so obliging as to find the emeralds for me first. So it couldn’t be better. Murder and suicide. Oh, not mine, Cousin. I want to live … live in my own right . not under your shadow, for once. Mademoiselle Lawson will have taken a gun from the gun-room, killed you and then herself. You played into my hands so beautifully your reputation being what it is.”

“Philippe, you fool.”

“I’ve done with talking. Now’s the time for action. You first. Cousin we must have it in the right order …”

I saw the gun raised. I tried to move to protect him but he held me firmly behind him. Involuntarily I shut my eyes. I heard the ear-splitting sound. Then after the explosion . silence. Faint with terror I opened my eyes.

Two men were struggling on the floor Philippe and Jean Pierre.

I was past surprise. I was scarcely aware of them. I just knew that I was not going to lose my life in the dungeons, but I was losing everything that would make that life worth living, for on the floor, bleeding from his wounds, lay the man I loved.