The King of the Castle

Two

It was my second day at the Chateau Gaillard. I had not been able to sleep during the night, mainly because the scene in the graveyard had so startled me that I could not get it out of my mind.

We had walked slowly back to the chateau and I had told her that she must not say such things of her father; she had listened to me quietly and made no comment; but I would never forget the quiet certainty in her voice when she had said: “He murdered her.”

It was gossip, of course. Where had she heard it? It must be from someone in the house. Could it be the nurse? Poor child! How terrible for her! All my animosity towards her had disappeared. I felt I wanted to know more of her life, what her mother had been like, how those terrible suspicions had been planted in her mind.

But the matter made me very uneasy.

I had eaten a lonely dinner in my room and had gone through the notes I had made; then I tried to read a novel. The evening seemed long; and I wondered whether this was the life I should be expected to lead if I was allowed to stay on. In other great houses we had had our meals with the managers of the estates and sometimes with the families themselves. I had never before felt so lonely when working. But of course I must remember that I was not yet accepted; this was necessarily a period of waiting.

I went to the gallery and spent all the morning examining the pictures, assessing darkening of pigment, failing of paint which we called ‘chalking’ and other deteriorations such as cracks in the paint which had caught the dust and grime. I tried to work out what materials I should need

beyond those which I had brought with me, and I planned to ask Philippe de la Talle if I could look at some of the other pictures in the chateau, particularly some of the murals I had noticed.

I returned to my room for lunch and afterwards went out. I had made up my mind that today I should have a look at the surrounding country and perhaps the town.

All about me lay the vineyards and I took the road through them although it led away from the town. I would look at the town tomorrow.

I imagined what activity there must be during the harvest and wished that I had been here earlier to see it. Next year. I thought, and then laughed at myself. Did I really think I should be here next year?

I had come to several buildings and beyond them I saw a house of red brick and there were the inevitable shutters at all the windows green in this case. They added a charm to the house which I realized must be about one hundred and fifty years old built, I guessed, some fifty years or so before the Revolution. I could not resist the temptation of going a little nearer to examine it. , There was a lime tree in front of the house and as I came near a high shrill voice called: “Hallo, miss.” Not ‘mademoiselle,” as might have been expected, but ‘miss,” pronounced ‘mees,” which told me of course that whoever was calling was aware of my identity.

“Hallo,” I answered, but looking over the iron gates I could see no one.

I heard a chuckle and, looking up, saw a boy swinging in the tree like a monkey. He took a sudden leap and was beside me.

“Hallo, miss. I’m Yves Bastide.”

“How do you do?”

“This is Margot. Margot, come down and don’t be silly.”

“I am not silly.”

The girl wriggled out of the branches and slid perilously down the trunk to the ground. She was slightly smaller than the boy.

“We live there,” he told me.

The girl nodded, her eyes bright and inquisitive.

“It’s a very pleasant house.”

“We all live in it… all of us.”

“That must be very nice for all of you.”

“Yves! Margot!” called a voice from the house.

“We’ve got miss, Gran’mere.”

“Then invite her to come in, and remember your manners.”

“Miss,” said Yves with a little bow, ‘will you come in to see Gran’mere? “

“I should be pleased to.” I smiled at the girl, who gave me a pretty curtsy. How different, I thought, from Genevieve.

The boy ran forward to open the wrought-iron gates and gravely bowed as he held them for me to pass through. The girl walked beside me up the path between the bushes calling: “We’re here, Gran’mere.”

I stepped into a large hall and from an open door a voice called:

“Bring the English lady in here, my children.”

In a rocking chair sat an old woman; her face was brown and wrinkled, her plentiful white hair piled high on her head; her eyes were bright and very dark; her heavy lids fell like hoods over them; her thin veined hands, smudged with brown patches which at home were called ‘the flowers of death,” gripped the arms of her rocking-chair.

She smiled at me almost eagerly as though she had been expecting my coming and welcomed it.

“You will forgive my not rising, mademoiselle,” she said.

“My limbs are so stiff some days it takes me all of the morning to get out of my chair and all of the afternoon to get back into it.”

“Please stay where you are.” I took the extended hand and shook it.

“It is kind of you to invite me in.”

The children had taken a stand on either side of her chair and were regarding me intently and proudly as though I was something rather rare which they had discovered.

I smiled.

“You seem to know me. I’m afraid you have the advantage.”

“Yves, a chair for mademoiselle.”

He sprang to get one for me and carefully set it down facing the old lady.

“You will soon hear of us, mademoiselle. Everyone knows the Bastides.”

I settled in the chair.

“How did you know meY I asked.

“Mademoiselle, news travels quickly round the neighbourhood We heard that you had arrived and hoped that you would call on us. You see we are so much a part of the chateau. This house was built for a Bastide, mademoiselle. There have been Bastides in it ever since. Before that the family lived on the estate because Bastides were always the wine growers. It is said there would have been no Gaillard wine if there had never been Bastides.”

“I see. The vines belong to you.”

The lids came down over her eyes and she laughed aloud.

“Like everything else in this place the vines belong to Monsieur Ie Comte.

This is his land. This house is his. Everything is his. We are his work-people, and although we say that without the Bastides there would be no Gail lard wine, we mean that the wine produced here would not be worthy of the name. “

“I have always thought how interesting it must be to watch the wine-growing process … I mean, to see the grapes appear and ripen and be made into wine.”

“Ah, mademoiselle, it is the most interesting thing in the world … to us Bastides.”

“I should like to see it.”

“I hope you will stay with us long enough to.” She turned to the children: “Go and find your brother, my children. And your sister and your father, too. Tell them we have a visitor. ”

“Please you mustn’t disturb them on my account.”

“They would be very disappointed if they knew you had called and they had missed you.”

The children ran away. I said how charming they were and that their manners were delightful. She nodded, well pleased; and I knew that she understood why I had made such a comment. I could only be comparing them with Genevieve.

“At this time of day,” she explained, ‘there is not so much activity out of doors. My grandson, who is in charge now, will be in the cellars; his father, who cannot work out of doors since his accident, will be helping him, and my granddaughter Gabrielle will be working in the office. “

“You have a large family, and all engaged in the wine growing business.”

She nodded.

“It is the family tradition. When they are old enough Yves and Margot will join the rest of the family.”

“How pleasant that must be, and the whole family live together in this lovely house! Please tell me about them.”

“There is my son Armand, the father of the children. Jean Pierre is the eldest of them and he is twenty-eight- he’ll be twenty-nine soon. He manages everything now. Then there is Gabrielle, who is nineteen a gap of ten years, you see, between the two. I thought Jean Pierre would be the only one all those years, and then suddenly Gabrielle was born. Then another gap and Yves came, and after that, Margot. There’s only a year between those two. It was too soon and their mother was too old for childbearing.”

“She is… ?”

She nodded.

“That was a bad time. Armand, and Jacques, one of the workers, were in the cart when the horses bolted. They were both injured. Armand’s wife, poor girl,

thought he would die, and I suppose it all seemed too much for her.

She caught the fever and died leaving little Margot. only ten days old. “

“How very sad.”

“The bad times pass, mademoiselle. It is eight years ago. My son is well enough to work; my grandson is a good boy and really head of the family now. He became a man when it was necessary to shoulder responsibilities. But that is life is it not?” She smiled at me.

“I talk too much of the Bastides. I will weary you. “

“Indeed you do not. It is all very interesting.”

“But your work must be so much more so. How do you find it at the chateau?”

“I have only been there a very short time.”

“You are going to find the work interesting?”

“I don’t know if I am going to do the work. Everything depends on .”

“On Monsieur Ie Comte. Naturally.” She looked at me and shook her head.

“He is not an easy man.”

“He is unpredictable?”

She lifted her shoulders.

“He was expecting a man. We were all expecting a man. The servants talked of the Englishman who was coming. You cannot keep secrets in Gaillard, mademoiselle. At least most of us can’t. My son says I talk too much. He, poor boy, talks little. The death of his wife changed him, mademoiselle, changed him sadly.”

She was alert, listening, and I heard the sound of horse’s hoofs. A proud smile touched her face, changed it subtly.

“That,” she said, ‘will be Jean Pierre. “

In a few moments he stood in the doorway. He was of medium height, with hair of a lightish brown bleached, I imagine, by the sun; his dark eyes narrowed to slits as he smiled, and his skin was tanned almost to copper colour. There was about him an air of immense vitality.

“Jean Pierre!” said the old woman.

“This is Mademoiselle from the chateau.”

He came towards me, smiling as though, like the rest of the family, he was delighted to see me. He bowed ceremoniously.

“Welcome to Gaillard, mademoiselle. It is kind of you to call on us.”

“It was not exactly a call. Your young brother and sister saw me passing and invited me in.”

“Good for them! I hope this will be the first of many visits.” He drew up a chair and sat down.

“What do you think of the chateau?”

“It’s a fine example of fifteenth-century architecture. I have not had much opportunity so far of studying it but I think it has characteristics similar to those of Langeais and Loches.”

He laughed.

“You know more of our country’s treasures than we do, mademoiselle, I’ll swear.”

“I don’t suppose that is so, but the more one learns the more one realizes how much more there is to learn. For me it is pictures and houses, for you … the grape.”

Jean Pierre laughed. He had spontaneous laughter, which was attractive.

“What a difference! The spiritual and the material!”

“I think it must be exciting as I was saying to Madame Bastide to plant the vines, to tend the grapes, to watch over them and then to make them into wine.”

“It’s a matter of hazards,” said Jean Pierre.

“So is everything.”

“You have no idea, mademoiselle, the torments we suffer. Will there be a frost to kill the shoots? Will the grapes be sour because the weather has been too cold? Each day the vines must be examined for mildew, black rot and all the pests. So many pests have one ambition and that is to spoil the grape-harvest. Not until the harvest is gathered in are we safe and then you should see how happy we are.”

“I hope I shall.”

He looked startled.

“You have started work at the chateau, mademoiselle?”

“Scarcely. I am not yet accepted. I have to await…”

“The decision of Monsieur Ie Comte,” put in Madame Bastide.

“It is natural, I suppose,” I said, moved rather unaccountably by a desire to defend him.

“One could say I had come under false pretences.

They were expecting my father and I did not tell them that he was dead and that I proposed to take over his commitments. Everything depends on Monsieur Ie Comte. “

“Everything always depends on Monsieur Ie Comte,” said Madame Bastide resignedly.

“Which’, added Jean Pierre with his sunny smile, ‘ma demoiselle will say is natural since the chateau belongs to him, the pictures on which she plans to work belong to him, the grapes belong to him … in a sense we all belong to him.”

“The way you talk it would seem we were back before the Revolution,” murmured Madame Bastide.

Jean Pierre was looking at me.

“Here, mademoiselle, little has changed through the years. The chateau stands guarding the town and the surrounding country as it did through the centuries. It retains its old character and we whose forefathers depended on its bounty still depend upon it. There has been little change in Gaillard. That is how Monsieur Ie Comte de la Talle would have it, so that is how it is.”

“I have a feeling that he is not greatly loved by those who depend on him.”

“Perhaps only those who love to depend, love those they depend on. The independent ones always rebel.”

I was a little mystified by this conversation. There was clearly strong feeling concerning the Comte in this house hold, but I was becoming more and more anxious to learn everything I could about this man on whom my fate depended, so I said: “Well, at the moment, I’m on sufferance awaiting his return.”

“Monsieur Philippe would not dare give a decision for fear of offending the Comte,” said Jean Pierre.

“He is much in awe of his cousin?”

“More than most. If the Comte does not marry, Philippe could be the heir, for the de la Talles follow the old royalty of France, and the Salic law which applied to the Valois and the Bourbons is for the de la Talles as well. But, like everything else, it rests with the Comte.

As long as some male heir inherits he could pass over his cousin for some other relative. Sometimes I think Gaillard is mistaken for the Versailles of Louis the Fourteenth. “

“I imagine the Comte to be young … at least not old. Why should he not marry again?”

“It is said that the idea is distasteful to him.”

“I should have thought a man of his family pride would have wanted a son for he is undoubtedly proud.”

“He is the proudest man in France.”

At that moment the children returned with Gabrielle and their father, Armand. Gabrielle Bastide was strikingly lovely. She was dark like the rest of the family, but her eyes were not brown but a deep shade of blue and those eyes almost made of her a beauty. She had a sweet expression and was more subdued than her brother.

I was explaining to them that I had had a French mother, which accounted for my fluency in their language, when a bell began to ring so suddenly that I was startled.

“It is the maid summoning the children for goiiter,” said Madame Bastide.

“I will go now,” I said.

“It has been so pleasant. I hope we shall meet again.”

But Madame Bastide would not hear of my going. I must, she said, stay to try some of the wine.

Bread with layers of chocolate between it for the children, and for us little cakes and wine, were brought in.

We talked of the vines, pictures, and life in the neighbour hood. I was told I must visit the church and the old hotel de ville: and most of all I must come back and visit the Bastides. I must look in whenever I was passing. Both Jean Pierre and his father who said very little would be delighted to show me anything I wished to see.

The children were sent out to play when they had finished their bread and chocolate and the conversation turned once more to the chateau.

Perhaps it was the wine to which I, certainly, was unaccustomed, particularly at that hour of the day but I grew more indiscreet than I would normally have been.

I was saying: “Genevieve is a strange girl. Not in the least like Yves and Margot. They are so spontaneous, so natural normal, happy children. Perhaps the chateau is not a good environment for a child to grow up in.” I was speaking recklessly and I didn’t care. I had to find out more about the chateau and most of all the Comte.

“Poor child!” said Madame Bastide.

“Yes,” I went on, ‘but I believe it is three years since her mother died, and that is time for one so young to have recovered. “

There was silence, then Jean Pierre said: “If Mademoiselle Lawson is long at the chateau she will soon learn.” He turned to me.

“The Comtesse died of an overdose of laudanum.” I thought of the girl in the graveyard and I blurted out: “Not… murder!”

“They called it suicide,” said Jean Pierre.

“Ah,” put in Madame Bastide, ‘the Comtesse was a beautiful woman. ” And with that she returned to the subject of the vineyards. We talked of the great calamity which had hit most of the vineyards in France a few years ago when the vine-louse had attacked the vines, and because Jean Pierre loved the vineyards so devotedly when he spoke of them he made everyone share his enthusiasm. I could picture the horror when

the vine-louse was discovered to be attached to the roots of the vine; I could feel the intense tragedy to all those concerned when they had to face the problem of whether or not to flood the vineyards.

“There was disaster throughout France at that time,” he said.

“That was less than ten years ago. Is that not so, Father?”

His father nodded.

“It has been a slow climb back to prosperity, but it’s coming.

Gaillard suffered less than most. “

When I rose to go, Jean Pierre said he would walk back with me.

Although there was no danger of my losing my way, I was glad of his company for I found the Bastides warm and friendly a quality I had come to treasure. It occurred to me that when I was with them I myself became a different person from the cool and authoritative woman I showed to the people of the chateau. I was like a chameleon changing my colour to fit in with the landscape. But it was done without thought, so it was absolutely natural. I had never before realized how automatically I put on my defensive armour, i>ut it was very pleasant to be in company where I did not need it.

As we came out of the gate and took the road to the chateau I asked:

“The Comte … is he really so terrifying?”

“He is an autocrat… one of the old aristocrats. His word is law.”

“He has had tragedy in his life.”

“I believe you are sorry for him. When you meet him you’ll see that pity is the last thing he would need.”

“You said that they called his wife’s death suicide …” I began.

He interrupted me swiftly.

“We do not even speak of such things.”

“But…”

“But,” he added, ‘we keep them in our minds. “

The chateau loomed before us; it looked immense,

impregnable. I thought of all the dark secrets it could be keeping and felt a shiver run down my spine.

“Please don’t bother to come any farther,” I said.

“I am sure I am keeping you from your work.”

He stood a few paces from me and bowed. I smiled and turned towards the castle.

I went to bed early that night to make up for the previous night’s lack of sleep. I dozed and my dreams were hazy. It was strange, because at home I rarely dreamed. This was muddled dreaming of the Bastides, of cellars containing bottles of wine, and through these dreams flitted a vague faceless shape whom I knew to be the dead Comtesse. Sometimes I felt her presence without seeing her; it was as though she were behind me whispering a warning, “Go away. Don’t you become involved in this strange household.” Then again she would be jeering at me. Yet I was not afraid of her. There was another shady shape to strike terror into me. Monsieur Ie Comte. I heard the words as though from a long way; then growing so loud that it was like someone shouting in my ears.

I awoke startled. Someone was shouting. There were voices below and scurrying footsteps along the corridor. The chateau was waking up although it was not morning. In fact the candle I hastily lighted showed me my watch lying on the table and this told me it was only just after eleven.

I knew what was happening. It was what everyone was waiting for and dreading.

The Comte had come home.

I lay sleepless, wondering what the morning would bring.

The chateau was quiet when I awoke at my usual time. Briskly I rose and rang for my hot water. It came promptly.

The maid looked different, I told myself. She was uneasy. So the Comte had his effect even on the humblest servants.

“You would like your petit dejeuner as usual, mademoiselle?”

I looked surprised and said: “But of course, please.”

I guessed they were all talking about me, asking themselves what my fate would be. I looked round the room. Perhaps I shall never sleep here again, I thought. Then I was unhappy thinking of leaving the chateau, never really knowing these people who had taken such a hold on my imagination. I wanted to know more of Genevieve, to try to understand her. I wanted to see what effect on Philippe de la Talle his cousin’s return would have. I wanted to know how far Nounou was responsible for the waywardness of her charge. I should have liked to hear what had happened to Mademoiselle Dubois before she had come to the chateau. Then of course there were the Bastides. I wanted to sit in that cosy room and talk about the vines and the chateau. But most of all I wanted to meet the Comte not just once and briefly to receive my dismissal, but to learn more of a man who, it seemed generally believed, had been responsible for the death of his wife, even if he had not actually administered the poison dose.

My breakfast came and I felt too excited for food, but I was determined none of them should say that I was so frightened that I had been unable to eat, so I drank two cups of coffee as usual and ate my twist of hot bread. Then I went along to the gallery.

It was not easy to work. I had already prepared an estimate which Philippe de la Talle had said would be given to the Comte on his return. He had smiled at me when I gave it to him and glancing through it had remarked that it looked like the work of an expert. I was sure he was’ hoping it would please the Comte-partly, I imagined, to justify his having allowed me to stay, but there was an element of kindness in him, I was sure, which made him want me to have the job because I had betrayed how badly I needed it. I summed him up as a man who would be kind, unless being so made too many demands upon him.

I imagined the Comte’s receiving my estimate, hearing that a woman had come instead of a man. But I could not picture him clearly. All I could imagine was a haughty man in white wig and crown. It was a picture I had seen either of Louis XIV or XV. The King . the King of the Castle.

I had a note-pad with me and tried to jot down a few points which I had passed over on my previous examination If he will let me stay, I told myself, I shall become so absorbed in the work that he can have murdered twenty wives for all I care.

There was one painting in the gallery which had particularly caught my attention. It was a portrait of a woman. The costume placed it in the eighteenth century mid or perhaps a little later. It interested me not because of the excellence of the work there were better pictures in the gallery but because although it was of a later date than most of them it was in a greater state of deterioration. The varnish was very dark and the whole surface was mottled as though it suffered from a skin disease. It looked to me as though it had been exposed to the weather.

I was contemplating this picture when I heard a movement behind me. I swung round to find that a man had entered the gallery and was standing there watching me. I felt my heart pound and my legs tremble.

I knew at once that I was at last face to face with the Comte de la Talle.

“It is Mademoiselle Lawson, of course,” he said. Even his voice was unusual deep, cold.

“You are the Comte de la Talle?”

He bowed. He did not come towards me. His eyes surveyed me across the gallery, and his manner was as cool as his voice. I noticed that he was tallish, and I was struck by his leanness. There was a slight resemblance to Philippe; but there was none of Philippe’s femininity in this man. He was darker than his cousin; his cheekbones were high and this gave his face the pointed look which seemed almost satanic. His eyes were very dark sometimes they could seem almost black, I discovered later, depending on his mood; they were deeply set and his lids were heavy; his aquiline nose gave to his face the look of haughtiness; his mouth was mobile; it changed according to the man he was. But at this time I knew only one man the arrogant King of the Castle on whom my fate depended.

He wore a black riding-coat with a velvet collar and above his white cravat his face was pale, even cruel.

“My cousin has told me of your coming.” He advanced towards me now. He walked as a king might have walked through the hall of mirrors.

I had regained my poise very quickly. There was nothing like haughtiness to bring out my bristling armour.

“I am glad you have returned. Monsieur Ie Comte,” I said, ‘for I have been waiting several days to know whether you wish me to stay and do the work. “

“It must have been tiresome for you to be uncertain whether or not you were wasting your time.”

“I have found the gallery very interesting, I assure you, so it will not have been an unpleasant way of wasting time.”

“It is a pity,” he said, ‘that you did not tell us of your father’s death. It would have saved so much trouble. “

So I was to go. I felt angry because I was so miserable. Back to London, I thought. I should have to find a lodging. And how could I afford to live until I discovered a post? I looked down the years and saw myself becoming more and more like Mademoiselle Dubois. What nonsense! As if I ever should! I could go to Cousin Jane. Never, never!

I hated him in that moment because I believed he guessed the thoughts which were passing through my mind. He

would know that a woman as independent as I, must have been desperate to have come in the first place, and he was enjoying tormenting me.

How she must have hated him, that wife of his! Perhaps she killed herself to get away from him. I should not be surprised if that were the answer.

“I did not realize that you were so old-fashioned in France,” I said with a touch of venom.

“At home I have done this work with my father.

No one minded because I was a woman. But as you have different notions here there is nothing more to be said. “

“I disagree. There is a great deal to be said.”

“Then,” I said, lifting my eyes to his face, ‘perhaps you will begin to say it. “

“Mademoiselle Lawson, you would like to restore these pictures, would you not?”

“It is my profession to restore paintings and the more in need of repair they are, the more interesting the task becomes.”

“And you find mine in that need?”

“You must know that some of these pictures are in poor condition. I was examining this one when I realized you had come in. What kind of treatment could it have had to be in that state?”

“Pray, Mademoiselle Lawson, do not look at me so sternly. I am not responsible for the state of the picture.”

“Oh? I presumed it had been some time in your possession. You see, there is a failing in the paint. It is chalky. Obviously it has been ill-treated.”

A smile twisted his mouth and his face changed. There might have been a glimmer of amusement there now.

“How vehement you are! You might be fighting for the rights of man rather than for the preservation of paint on canvas.”

“When would you wish me to leave?”

“Not until we have talked, at least.”

“Since you find you cannot employ a woman I do not think we should have anything to talk about.”

“You are very impulsive, Mademoiselle Lawson. Now I should have thought that was a characteristic a restorer of old paintings could well do without. I have not said I would not employ a woman. That was your suggestion.”

“I can see that you disapprove of my being here. That is enough.”

“Did you expect approval of your … deception?”

“Monsieur Ie Comte,” I said, “I worked with my father. I took over his commissions. You had previously approached him to come here. I thought the arrangement still stood. I see no deception in that.”

“Then you must have been surprised by the astonishment you caused.”

I replied shortly: “It would be difficult to do delicate work of this nature in an atmosphere of disapproval.”

“That I can well understand.”

“Therefore…”

“Therefore?” he repeated.

“I could leave today if I could be taken to the mainline station. I understand there is only one morning train from the Gaillard halt.”

“How thoughtful of you to look into such arrangements. But I must repeat. Mademoiselle Lawson, you are too impulsive. You must understand my uneasiness. And you will forgive me saying so, you do not look old enough to have had a great deal of experience in skilled work of this nature.”

“I have worked with my father for years. There are some who grow old and never acquire the skill. It is a feeling in oneself for the work, an understanding, a love of painting that is born in one.”

“You are poetical as well as an artist, I see. But at… er … thirty or so … one would necessarily not have had a lifetime’s experience.”

“I am twenty-eight,” I retorted hotly; and I saw at once that I had fallen into the trap. He had determined to bring me off the pedestal on which I was trying to take a firm stand and show me that I was after all an ordinary woman who couldn’t bear to be thought older than she was.

He raised his eyebrows; he was finding the interview amusing. I saw that I had betrayed my desperate situation and the streak of cruelty in him made him want to prolong the indecision, to torment me for as long as possible.

For the first time since I had set out on this adventure I lost my control. I said: “There is no point in continuing. I realize that you have decided I cannot do this work because I am a woman. Well, monsieur, I leave you with your prejudices. So I will go either today or tomorrow.”

For a few seconds he looked at me in mock bewilderment but as I moved towards the door, he was swiftly beside me.

“Mademoiselle, you have not understood. Perhaps your knowledge of French is not as expert as your knowledge of painting.”

Once more I rose to the bait.

“My mother was French. I have understood perfectly every word you have said.”

“Then I am to blame for my lack of lucidity. I have no wish that you shall go … just yet.”

“Your manner suggests that you are not prepared to trust me.”

“Your own assumption, mademoiselle, I do assure you.”

“Then you mean you wish me to stay?”

He pretended to hesitate.

“If I may say so without offence, I should like you to undergo a little test. Oh please, mademoiselle, do not accuse me of prejudice against your sex. I am prepared to believe that there may be brilliant women in the world. I am impressed by what you tell me of your understanding and love of painting. I am also interested in the estimates of damage and the cost of repairing the pictures you have examined. It is all very clear and reasonable.”

I was afraid that my eyes had begun to shine with hope and so would betray my excitement. If, I told myself, he realized how very eagerly I desired this commission he might continue baiting me.

He had seen.

“I was going to suggest… but then you may have decided that you would prefer to leave today or tomorrow.”

“I have come a long way, Monsieur Ie Comte. Naturally I should prefer to stay and carry out the work providing it could be done in a congenial atmosphere. What were you going to suggest?”

“That you restore one of the pictures and if that is satisfactorily accomplished you continue with the rest.”

I was happy in that moment. I should have been relieved, of course, for I was certain of my capabilities. The immediate future was taken care of. No ignoble return to London! No Cousin Jane! But it was more than that. An inexplicable feeling of joy, anticipation, excitement. I could not explain. I was certain that I could pass this test, and that meant a long stay at the castle. This wonderful old place would be my home for months to come. I could explore it, as well as its treasures.

I could continue my friendship with the Bastides. I could indulge my curiosity concerning the inhabitants of the chateau.

I was insatiably curious. I had known this since my father had pointed it out to me and deplored this trait; but I could not stop myself wanting to know what went on behind the facade people showed the world. To discover this was like removing the film of decay from an old painting; and to learn what the Comte was like would be revealing a living picture.

“This proposition seems to appeal to you.”

So once more I had betrayed my feelings, something I

prided myself on rarely doing. But perhaps he was particularly perceptive.

“It seems a very fair one,” I said.

“Then, it’s agreed.” He held out his hands.

“We will shake on it. An old English custom, I believe. You, mademoiselle, have been kind enough to discuss the problem in French; we will seal the bargain in English. “

As he held my hand his dark eyes looked into mine and I felt decidedly uncomfortable. I felt suddenly innocent, unworldly, and that was, I was sure, how he intended I should feel.

I withdrew my hand with a hauteur which I trusted hid my embarrassment.

“Which picture would you select for the … test?” I asked.

“What of the one you were examining when I came in?”

“That would be excellent. It is more in need of restoration than anything in the gallery.”

We walked over to it and stood side by side examining it.

“It has been very badly treated,” I said severely. I was now on firm ground.

“It is not very old a hundred and fifty years at most and yet…”

“An ancestress of mine.”

“It is a pity she was subjected to such treatment.”

“A great pity. But there was a time in France when people like her were submitted to even greater indignity.”

“I should say that this picture has probably been exposed to the weather. Even the colour of her gown is faded, though alizarin is usually stable. I can’t see in this light the true colour of the stones about her neck. You see how darkened they have become. The same with the bracelet and the earrings.”

“Green,” he said.

“I can tell you that. They are emeralds.”

Tt would be a wonderful picture when restored. That dress as it must have been when it was painted, and the emeralds. “

“It will be interesting to see what it looks like when you have finished with it.”

“I shall start at once.”

“You have all you require?”

“For a beginning. I will go to my room for what I need and get down to work immediately.”

“I can see you are all eagerness and I am delaying you.”

I did not deny this and he stood aside for me as I passed triumphantly from the gallery. I felt I had come satisfactorily through my first encounter with the Comte.

What a happy morning I spent working in the gallery! No one disturbed me. I had returned with my tools to find that two of the menservants had taken the picture from the wall. They asked if there was anything I needed. I told them I would ring if there was. They looked at me with some respect. They would go back to the servants’ quarters, I knew, and spread the news that the Comte had given his permission for me to stay.

I had put on a brown linen coat over my dress and I looked very businesslike. Oddly enough as soon as I put on my coat I felt competent. I wished I had been wearing it during my meeting with the Comte.

I settled down to study the condition of the paint. Before I attempted to remove the varnish I must assess the tightness of the paint to the ground. It was clear that there was more discoloration here than from the ordinary accumulation of dust and grime. I had often found that before using a resin on varnish it was wise to wash carefully with soap and water. It took me a long time to decide on this course but eventually I did.

I was surprised when a maid knocked on the door to remind me that it was time for dejeuner. This I took in my room and as it was a practice never to work after lunch, I slipped out of the chateau and walked to the Maison Bastide. It seemed only courteous to tell them

what had happened since they had shown such interest in whether or not I stayed.

The old lady was in her rocking chair and delighted to see me. The children, she told me, were having lessons with Monsieur Ie Cure; Armand, Jean Pierre and Gabrielle were working; but it was a great pleasure to see me.

I seated myself beside her and said: “I have seen the Comte.”

“I heard he was back at the chateau.”

“I am to restore a picture and if it is a success I am to complete the work. I have already started; it is a portrait of one of his ancestors. A lady in a red dress and stones which at the moment are the colour of mud. The Comte says they are emeralds.”

“Emeralds,” she said.

“They could be the Gaillard emeralds.”

“Family heirlooms?”

“They were … once upon a time.”

“And no longer so?”

“Lost. I think during the Revolution.”

“I suppose the chateau passed out of the hands of the family then?”

“Not exactly. We are far from Paris, and there was less trouble here.

But the chateau was overrun. “

“It seems to have survived fairly well.”

“Yes. It’s a story that’s been handed down to us. They were forcing their way in. Perhaps you have seen the chapel? It is in the oldest part of the castle. You will notice that over the door on the outer wall there is broken masonry. Once a statue of St. Genevieve stood there high over the door. The revolutionaries were bent on desecrating the chapel. Fortunately for Chateau Gaillard they tried to pull down St. Genevieve first; they were drunk on chateau wine when they attached ropes about the figure, but it was heavier than they thought and it collapsed on them and killed three of them. They took it for an omen. It was said afterwards that St. Genevieve saved Gaillard.”

“So that is why Genevieve is so called?”

“There have always been Genevieves in the family; and although the Comte of the day went to the guillotine, his son, who was a baby then, was cared for and in time went back to the chateau. This is a story we Bastides like to tell. We were for the People for liberty, fraternity and equality, against the aristocrats but we kept the baby Comte here in this house and we looked after him till it was all over. My husband’s father used to tell me about it. He was a year or so older than the young Comte.”

“So your family history is close to theirs.”

“Very close.”

“And the present Comte … he is your friend?”

“The de la Talles were never friends of the Bastides,” she said proudly.

“Only patrons. They don’t alter … and nor do we.”

She changed the subject and after a while I left and went back to the chateau. I was eager to continue with my work.

During the afternoon one of the servants came to the gallery to tell me that Monsieur Ie Comte would be pleased if I joined the family for dinner that night. They dined at eight o’clock, and as it would be such a small party it would be in one of the smaller dining-rooms. The maid said that she would take me there if I would be ready at five minutes to eight.

I felt too bewildered to work after that. The maid had spoken to me with respect, and this could only mean one thing: not only was I considered worthy to restore his pictures, but of even greater honour, I was to dine in his company.

I wondered what I should wear. I had only three dresses suitable for evening, none of them new. One was brown silk with coffee-coloured lace, the second very severe black velvet with a ruffle of white lace at the throat, and the third grey cotton with a lavender silk stripe. I decided at once on the black velvet.

I could not work by artificial light, so as soon as the daylight faded I went to my room. I took out the dress and looked at it. Velvet fortunately did not age, but the cut was by no means fashionable. I held it up to myself and looked at my reflection. My cheeks were faintly pink, my eyes reflecting the black velvet looked dark and a strand of hair had escaped from the coil. Disgusted with my silliness I put down the dress and was adjusting my hair when there was a knock at the door.

Mademoiselle Dubois entered. She looked at me disbelievingly and then stammered: “Mademoiselle Lawson, is it true that you have been invited to dine with the family?”

“Yes. Does it surprise you?”

“I have never been asked to dine with the family.”

I looked at her and was not surprised.

“I dare say they want to discuss the paintings with me. It’s easier to talk over the dinner table.”

“The Comte and his cousin, you mean?”

“Yes. I suppose so.”

“I think you should be warned that the Comte has not a good reputation where a woman is concerned.”

I stared at her.

“He doesn’t regard me as a woman!” I retorted.

“I’m here to restore his paintings.”

“They say that he is callous, and in spite of that some find him irresistible.”

“My dear Mademoiselle Dubois, I have never yet found any man irresistible and don’t intend to start at my time of life.”

“Well, you are not all that old.”

Not all that old! Did she too think I was thirty?

She saw that I was annoyed and hurried on deprecatingly: “There was that poor unfortunate lady his wife. The rumours one hears are … quite shocking. It’s terrifying, isn’t it, to think that we are under the same roof with a man like that.”

“I don’t think either of us need be afraid,” I said.

She came close to me.

“I lock my door at nights … while he is in the house. You should do the same. And I should be very careful… tonight. It might be that he wants to amuse himself while he’s here with someone in the house. You can never be sure.”

“I will be careful,” I said to placate and get rid of her.

As I dressed I wondered about her. Did she in the quiet of her room dream erotic dreams of an enamoured Comte’s attempts to seduce her? I was certain that she was in as little danger of such a fate as I was.

I washed and put on the velvet gown. I coiled my hair high on my head using many pins to make sure no strands escaped. I put on a brooch of my mother’s simple but charming, consisting of a number of small turquoises set in seed pearls. I was ready a full ten minutes before the maid knocked on the door to take me to the dining-room.

We went into the seventeenth-century wing of the chateau the latest addition to a large vaulted chamber, a dining-hall in which, I imagined, guests were entertained. It would have been absurd for a small party to sit at such a table and I was not surprised when I was led on to a small room small, that is, by Gaillard standards leading off this dining-hall. It was a pleasant room; there were midnight-blue velvet curtains at the windows mullioned, I imagined, and different from the embrasures in the thick walls which narrowed to slits and while providing the utmost protection from outside, excluded the light. At each end of the marble mantelpiece stood a candelabrum in which candles burned. There was a similar one in the centre of a table which was laid for dinner.

Philippe and Genevieve were already there. They were both subdued.

Genevieve wore a dress of grey silk with a lace collar; her hair was

tied behind her back with a pink silk bow, and she looked almost demure and quite unlike the girl I had met previously. Philippe in evening clothes, was even more elegant than on our first meeting; and he seemed genuinely pleased to see me there.

He smiled pleasantly.

“Good evening, Mademoiselle Lawson.” I returned the greeting and it was almost as though there was a friendly conspiracy between us.

Genevieve was bobbing an uneasy curtsy.

“I dare say you have had a busy day in the gallery,” said Philippe.

I replied that I had and was making preparations. It was necessary to test so many things before one attempted the delicate work of restoration.

“It must be quite fascinating,” he said.

“I am sure you will be successful.”

I was sure he meant it, but all the time he was talking to me I was aware that he was listening for the arrival of the Comte.

He came precisely at eight and we took our places at the table the Comte at its head, I on his right, Genevieve on his left, and Philippe opposite him. The soup was served without delay while the Comte asked me how I was progressing in the gallery.

I repeated what I had said to Philippe about my start on the pictures, but he expressed more interest, whether because he was concerned for his pictures or whether he was making an attempt to be polite, I was not sure.

I told him that I had decided that the picture should first be washed with soap and water so that any surface grime should be removed.

He regarded me with an amused glint in his eyes and said: “I have heard of that. The water has to stand in a special pot and the soap made during the dark of the moon.”

“We are no longer ruled by such superstitions,” I replied.

“You are not superstitious then, mademoiselle?”

“Not more than most people of today.”

“That could be a good deal. But I am sure you are too practical for such fancies; and that is as well while you stay in this place. We have had people here …” His eyes turned to Genevieve, who seemed to shrink into her chair. ‘. governesses who have refused to stay.

Some of them declared the chateau was haunted; some gave no reason but silently departed. Something here was intolerable . either my chateau or my daughter. “

There was a cool distaste in his eyes as they rested on Genevieve and I felt resentment rising. He was the sort of man who must have a victim. He had baited me in the gallery; now it was Genevieve’s turn.

In my case it was different. I had come under false pretences and I was able to take care of myself. But a child-for Genevieve was little more and a nervous, highly strung one at that! And yet what had he said? Very little. The venom was in his manner. It was not unexpected, either. Genevieve was afraid of him. So was Philippe. So was everyone in the place.

“If one were superstitious,” I said, feeling I had to come to Genevieve’s rescue, ‘it would be very easy for one’s fancies to grow in a place like this. I have stayed in some very ancient houses with my father yet I have never encountered a single ghost. “

“English ghosts would perhaps be more restrained than French ones.

They would not appear without an invitation, which means they would only visit the fearful. But then perhaps I am wrong. “

I flushed.

“They would surely take their code of manners from the days in which they lived, and etiquette in France was always more rigid than in England.”

“You are right, of course, Mademoiselle Lawson. The English would be far more likely to come uninvited. Therefore you are safe in this chateau … provided you do not invite strange company.”

Philippe was listening intently; Genevieve with some awe. For me, I think because I dared engage in conversation with her father.

Fish had replaced the soup and the Comte lifted his glass to me.

“I trust you will like the wine, Mademoiselle Lawson. It is our own vintage. Are you a connoisseur of wines as well as of pictures? “

“It is a subject about which I know very little.”

“You will hear a great deal about it while you are here. Often it is the main topic of conversation. I trust you will not find it tiresome.”

“I am sure I shall find it most interesting. It is always pleasant to learn.”

I saw the smile at the corner of his mouth. Governess! I thought.

Certainly if I ever had to take up that profession I should have the right demeanour for it.

Philippe spoke rather hesitantly: “What picture are you starting on, Mademoiselle Lawson?”

“A portrait, painted last century in the middle, I should think. I place it about seventeen-forty.”

“You see. Cousin,” said the Comte, “Mademoiselle Lawson is an expert.

She loves pictures. She chided me for neglecting them as though I were a parent who had failed in his duty. “

Genevieve looked down at her place in embarrassment. The Comte turned to her.

“You should take advantage of Mademoiselle Lawson’s presence here. She could teach you enthusiasm.”

“Yes, Papa,” said Genevieve.

“And,” he went on, ‘if you can persuade her to talk to you in English, you might be able to speak that language intelligibly. You should try to persuade Mademoiselle Lawson when she is not engaged with her pictures, to tell you about England and the English. You could learn from their less rigid etiquette. It might give you confidence, and er aplomb. “

“We have already spoken together in English,” I said.

“Genevieve has a good vocabulary. Pronunciation is always a problem until one has conversed freely with natives. But it comes in time.”

Again spoken like a governess! I thought; and I knew he was thinking the same. But I had done my best to support Genevieve and defy him. My dislike was growing with every moment.

“It is an excellent opportunity for you, Genevieve. Do you ride.

Mademoiselle Lawson? “

“Yes. I am fond of riding.”

“There are horses in the stables. One of the grooms would advise you which was your most suitable mount. Genevieve rides too … a little.

You might ride together. The present governess is too timid.

Genevieve, you could show Mademoiselle Lawson the countryside. “

“Yes, Papa.”

“Our country is not very attractive, I fear. The wine growing land rarely is. But if you ride out a little way I am sure you will find something to please you.”

“You are very kind. I should like to ride.”

He waved a hand, and Philippe, no doubt feeling that it was time he made an effort in the conversation, took the subject back to pictures.

I talked about the portrait I was working on. I explained one or two details and made them rather technical in the hope of confusing the Comte. He listened gravely with a faint smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. It was disconcerting to suspect that he knew what was going on in my mind. If this were so, he would know that I disliked him, and oddly enough this seemed to add to his interest in me.

“I am certain,” I was saying, ‘that although this is far from a masterpiece, the artist had a mastery of colour. I can see this already. I am sure the colour of the gown will

Philippe was listening intently; Genevieve with some awe. For me, I think because I dared engage in conversation with her father.

Fish had replaced the soup and the Comte lifted his glass to me.

“I trust you will like the wine. Mademoiselle Lawson. It is our own vintage. Are you a connoisseur of wines as well as of pictures? “

“It is a subject about which I know very little.”

“You will hear a great deal about it while you are here. Often it is the main topic of conversation. I trust you will not find it tiresome.”

“I am sure I shall find it most interesting. It is always pleasant to learn.”

I saw the smile at the corner of his mouth. Governess! I thought.

Certainly if I ever had to take up that profession || I should have the right demeanour for it.

Philippe spoke rather hesitantly: “What picture are you starting on.

Mademoiselle Lawson? “

“A portrait, painted last century in the middle, I should think. I place it about seventeen-forty.”

“You see, Cousin,” said the Comte, “Mademoiselle Lawson is an expert.

She loves pictures. She chided me for neglecting them as though I were a parent who had failed in his duty. “

Genevieve looked down at her place in embarrassment. The Comte turned to her.

“You should take advantage of Mademoiselle Lawson’s presence here. She could teach you enthusiasm.”

“Yes, Papa,” said Genevieve.

“And,” he went on, ‘if you can persuade her to talk to you in English, you might be able to speak that language intelligibly. You should try to persuade Mademoiselle Lawson when she is not engaged with her pictures, to tell you about England and the English. You could learn from their less rigid etiquette. It might give you confidence, and er aplomb. “

“We have already spoken together in English,” I said.

“Genevieve has a good vocabulary. Pronunciation is always a problem until one has conversed freely with natives. But it comes in time.”

Again spoken like a governess! I thought; and I knew he was thinking the same. But I had done my best to support Genevieve and defy him. My dislike was growing with every moment.

“It is an excellent opportunity for you, Genevieve. Do you ride.

Mademoiselle Lawson? “

“Yes. I am fond of riding.”

“There are horses in the stables. One of the grooms would advise you which was your most suitable mount. Genevieve rides too … a little.

You might ride together. The present governess is too timid.

Genevieve, you could show Mademoiselle Lawson the countryside. “

“Yes, Papa.”

“Our country is not very attractive, I fear. The wine growing land rarely is. But if you ride out a little way I am sure you will find something to please you.”

“You are very kind. I should like to ride.”

He waved a hand, and Philippe, no doubt feeling that it was time he made an effort in the conversation, took the subject back to pictures.

I talked about the portrait I was working on. I explained one or two details and made them rather technical in the hope of confusing the Comte. He listened gravely with a faint smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. It was disconcerting to suspect that he knew what was going on in my mind. If this were so, he would know that I disliked him, and oddly enough this seemed to add to his interest in me.

“I am certain,” I was saying, ‘that although this is far from a masterpiece, the artist had a mastery of colour. I can see this already. I am sure the colour of the gown will be startling, and the emeralds, restored to the colour the artist intended, will be magnificent. “

“Emeralds …” said Philippe.

The Comte looked at him.

“Oh, yes, this is the picture in which they are seen in all their glory. It will be interesting to see them … if only on canvas.”

“That,” murmured Philippe, ‘is the only chance we shall have of seeing them. “

“Who knows?” said the Comte. He turned to me.

“Phi lippe is very interested in our emeralds.”

“Aren’t we all?” retorted Philippe with unusual boldness.

“We should be if we could lay our hands on them.”

Genevieve said in a high, excited voice: “They must be somewhere, Nounou says they are in the chateau. If we could find them … oh, wouldn’t it be exciting!”

“That old nurse of yours is sure to be right,” said the Comte with sarcasm.

“And I do agree that it would be exciting to find them … apart from the fact that the discovery would add considerably to the family’s fortunes.”

“Indeed!” said Philippe, his eyes glowing.

“Do you think they are in the chateau?” I asked. Philippe said eagerly: “They have never been discovered elsewhere and stones like that would be recognized. They could not be disposed of easily.”

“My dear Philippe,” said the Comte.

“You forget the time when they were lost. A hundred years ago. Mademoiselle Lawson, such stones could have been broken up, sold separately and forgotten. The markets must have been flooded with stones which had been stolen from the mansions of France by those who had little understanding of their value. It is almost certain that this was the fate of the Gaillard emeralds. The canaille who ransacked our houses and stole our treasures had no appreciation of what they took.” The momentary anger which had shown in his eyes faded and he turned to me.

“Ah, Mademoiselle Lawson, how fortunate that you did not live in those days. How would you have endured to see great paintings desecrated, thrown out of windows to lie neglected and exposed to the weather … to collect what is it… bloom?”

“It was tragic that so much that was beautiful was lost.” I turned to Philippe: “You were telling me about the emeralds.”

“They were in the family for years,” he said.

“They were worth … it is difficult to say, for values have changed so much. They were priceless. They were kept in our strongroom at the chateau. Yet they were lost at the time of the Revolution. No one knew what had become of them. But the belief has always been that they are somewhere in the chateau.”

“Periodically there are treasure hunts,” said the Comte.

“Someone has a theory and there is a great deal of excitement. We look. We dig. We attempt to discover hidden places in the chateau that have not been opened for years. This produces a great deal of activity but never any emeralds.”

“Papa,” cried Genevieve, ‘couldn’t we have a treasure hunt now? “

The pheasant had been brought in. It was excellent but I scarcely tasted it. I found the conversation all-absorbing. I had been in a state of exaltation all day because I was going to stay here.

“You have so impressed my daughter. Mademoiselle Lawson,” said the Comte, ‘that she thinks you will succeed where others have failed. You want a renewed search, Genevieve, because you feel that now Mademoiselle Lawson is here she cannot fail. “

“No,” said Genevieve, “I didn’t think that. I just want to look for the emeralds.”

“How ungracious you are! Forgive her, Mademoiselle Lawson. And Genevieve, I suggest that you show Mademoiselle Lawson the chateau.”

He turned to me: “You have not yet explored it I am sure, and with your lively and most intelligent curiosity you will want to. I believe your father understood architecture as you do pictures and that you worked with him. Why, who knows, you might discover the hiding place which has baffled us for a hundred years. “

“I should be interested to see the chateau,” I admitted, ‘and if Genevieve will show me I shall be delighted. “

Genevieve did not look at me and the Comte frowned at her. I said quickly: “We will make an appointment if that is agreeable to you, Genevieve?”

She looked at her father and then at me.

“Tomorrow morning?” she said.

“I am working in the morning, but tomorrow afternoon I should be most happy to come.”

“Very well,” she mumbled.

“I am sure it will be a profitable excursion for you, Genevieve,” said the Comte.

Through the souffle we talked of the neighbourhood mostly of the vineyards. I felt I had made great progress. I had dined with the family, something poor Mademoiselle Dubois had never achieved; I had been given permission to ride1 had brought my old riding-habit with me hopefully; I was to be shown over the chateau the next day; and I had achieved some sort of relationship with the Comte, although I was not sure what sort.

I was rather pleased when I could retire to my room, but before I left, the Comte said that there was a book in the library which I might like to see.

“My father had a man down here to write it,” he explained.

“He was extremely interested in the history of our family. The book was written and printed. It is years since I read it, but I do believe it would interest you.”

I said that I was sure it would and I should be delighted to see it.

“I will have it sent to you,” he told me.

I took my leave of the company when Genevieve did and we left the men together. She conducted me to my room and bade me a cool good night.

I had not been long in my room when there was a knock on the door and a maid entered with the book.

“Monsieur Ie Comte said you wanted this,” she told me.

She went out leaving me standing with the book in my hand. It was a slim volume and there were some line drawings of the castle. I was sure I should find it absorbing, but at the moment my mind was full of the evening’s events.

I did not want to go to bed for my mind was too stimulated for sleep, and my thoughts were dominated by the Comte. I had expected him to be unusual. After all he was a man surrounded by mystery. His daughter was afraid of him; I was not sure about his cousin, but I suspected he was too. The Comte was a man who liked those about him to fear him, and yet despised them for doing it. That was the conclusion I had come to. I had noted the exasperation those two had aroused in him and yet by his manner he had added to their fear. I wondered what his life had been like with the woman who had been unfortunate enough to marry him.

Had she cowered from his contempt? How had he ill-treated her? It was not easy to think of him indulging in physical violence . and yet how could I be sure of anything where he was concerned? I scarcely knew him . yet.

The last word excited me. I had to admit it. For how did he think of me? Scarcely at all. He had looked me over, had decided to give me the job, and that could well be the end of his interest. Why had I been invited to dine with the family? So that he could look more intently at a human specimen who interested him vaguely? Because there was nothing else of interest at the castle? Dining alone with Philippe and Genevieve would be somewhat boring. I had defied him not altogether successfully for he was too clever not to see through my defence - and because I was bold it had amused him to submit me to further examination, to attempt to deflate me.

He was a sadist. That was my conclusion. He was responsible for his wife’s death, for even if he had not administered the dose he had driven her to take it. Poor woman! What must her life have been! How wretched could a woman be to be driven to take her life. Poor Genevieve, who was her daughter! I must try to understand that girl, somehow make a friend of her. I felt she was a lost child wandering through a maze, growing increasingly more afraid that she would never find a way out.

And I, who prided myself on being a practical woman, could grow quite fanciful in this place, where strange events must have happened over centuries, where a woman so recently had died unhappily.

To drive this man out of my thoughts I tried to think of another. How different was the open face of Jean Pierre Bastide!

Then suddenly I began to smile. It was strange that I who had never been interested in a man since I had loved Charles years ago had now found two who were constantly in my thoughts.

How foolish! I admonished myself. What have either of them to do with you?

I picked up the book the Comte had given me and began to read.

The castle had been built in the year 1405 and there was still much of the original structure standing. The two wings which flanked the old building had been added later, they were well over a hundred feet tall and the cylindrical forts gave them added solidity. Comparisons were drawn to the royal chateau of Loches and it seemed that life in Chateau Gaillard was conducted in much the same manner as it was on Loches; for in Gaillard the de la Talles ruled as kings. Here they had their dungeons in which they imprisoned their enemies. In the most ancient part of the building there was one of the most perfect examples of the oubliette.

When these dungeons had been examined by the writer of the book, cages had been discovered similar to those in Loches, small hollows cut out of stone in which there was not room for a man to stand up; in these, human beings had been chained and left to die by fifteenth-, sixteenth and seventeenth-century de la Talles in the same way as Louis XI had dealt with his enemies. One man, left to die in the oubliette, had attempted to cut his way to freedom and had succeeded in boring a passage which had brought him to one of the cages in the dungeons where he had died in frustrated despair.

I read on, fascinated not only by the descriptions of the chateau but by the history of the family.

Often during the centuries the family had been in conflict with the kings; more often they had stood beside them. One of the women of the house had been a mistress of Louis XV before she married into the family and it was this king who had presented her with an emerald necklace of great value. It was considered no dishonour to be a mistress of the king, and the de la Talle who had married her when she left the royal service had sought to vie with the king’s generosity and had presented his wife with an emerald bracelet made up of priceless stones to match those of the necklace. But a bracelet was less valuable than a necklace; so there had been a tiara of emeralds and two emerald rings, a brooch and a girdle all set with emeralds, as proof that the de la Talles could stand equal with royalty. Thus the famous de la Talle emeralds had come into being.

The book confirmed what I already knew, that the emeralds had been lost during the Revolution. Until then they had been kept with other treasures in the strongroom in the gun-gallery to which no one but the master of the house had the key or even knew where the key was hidden. So it had been until the Terror broke out all over France.

It was late but I could not stop reading and I had come to the chapter headed “The de la Talles and the Revolution’.

Lothair de la Talle, the Comte at that time, was a man of thirty; he had married a few years before that fatal year and was called to Paris for the meeting of the States General. He never returned to the castle; he was one of the first whose blood was spilt on the guillotine. His wife Mary Louise, twenty-two years old and pregnant, remained in the chateau with the old Comtesse, Lothair’s mother. I pictured it clearly; the hot days of July; the news being brought to that young woman of her husband’s death; her grief for her husband, her fears for the child soon to be born. I imagined her at the highest window of the highest tower, straining her eyes over the countryside; wondering if the revolutionaries would come marching her way; asking herself how long the people of the district would allow her to live in peace.

All through the sultry days she must have waited, afraid to go into the little town, watchful of the work people who toiled in the vineyards, of the servants who doubtless grew a little less subservient with the passing of each day. I pictured the proud old Comtesse, desperately trying to preserve the old ways, and what those two brave women must have suffered during those terrible days.

Few escaped the Terror and eventually it reached the Chateau Gaillard. A band of revolutionaries were marching on the chateau, waving their banners, singing the new song from the south. The workers left the vineyard; from the little cottages of the town ran the women and children. The stall-holders and the shopkeepers spilled into the square. The aristocrats had had their day. They were masters now.

I shivered as I read how the young countess had left the castle and sheltered in a nearby house. I knew what house it was; I knew which family had taken her in. Had I not heard that the family histories were entwined? The de la Talles were never friends, though, only patrons. I could clearly remember Madame Bastide’s proud looks when she had said that.

So Madame Bastide, who must have been Jean Pierre’s great-grandmother, had sheltered the Comtesse. She had ruled her household so that even the men had not dared to disobey her. They were with the revolutionaries preparing to pillage the castle while she hid the Comtesse in her house and forbade them all to whisper outside the house a word of what was happening.

The old Comtesse refused to leave the chateau. She had lived there; she would die there. And she went into the chapel there to await death at the hands of the rebels. Her name was Genevieve and she prayed to St. Genevieve for help. She heard the rough shouting and coarse laughter as the mob broke into the castle; she knew they were tearing down the paintings and the tapestries, throwing them from the windows to their comrades.

And there were those who came to the chapel. But before they entered they sought to tear down the statue of St. Genevieve which had been set up over the door. They climbed up to it but they could not move it.

Inflamed with wine they called to their comrades. Before they continued to pillage the chateau they must break down the statue.

At the altar the old Comtesse continued to pray to St. Genevieve while the shouting grew louder and every moment she expected the rabble to break into the chapel and kill her.

Ropes were brought; to the drunken strains of the “Marseillaise’ and ” Ca Ira’ they worked. She heard the great shout that went up.

“Heave, comrades … all together!” And then the crash, the screams and the terrible silence.

The chateau was out of danger; St. Genevieve lay broken at the door of the chapel, but beneath her lay the bodies of three dead men; she had saved the chateau, for superstitious fearful in spite of their professed ungodliness, the revolutionaries slunk away. A few bold ones had tried to rally the mob but it was useless. Many of them came from the surrounding district and they had lived their lives under the shadow of the de la Talles. They feared them now as they had in the past. They had one wish and that was to turn their backs on Chateau Gaillard.

The old Comtesse came out of the chapel when all was silent. She looked at the broken statue and kneeling beside it gave thanks to her patron saint. Then she went into the chateau and with the help of one servant attempted to set it to rights. There she lived alone for some years, caring for the young Comte who was stealthily brought back to his home. His mother had died in giving birth to him, which was not surprising considering all that she had suffered before his birth, and the fact that Madame Bastide had been afraid to call the midwife to her. There they lived for years in the chateau the old Comtesse, the young child and one servant; until the times changed and the Revolution passed and life at the chateau began to slip back into the old ways. Servants came back; repairs were made; the vineyards became prosperous. But although the strongroom in which they had been kept was untouched, the emeralds had disappeared and were lost to the family from that time.

I closed the book. I was so tired that I was soon asleep.