King of the Castle (40 page)

“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.”

3Z5

“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?

3^7

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.