Scarlet in the Snow (28 page)

‘By your accent, you’re Faustinian,’ he said, sharply.

‘Yes, Messir, I am. And I’d just arrived at Lilac Gardens on Messir d’Louvat’s request, to start getting things ready, when he came rushing out in a terrible state.’

‘It was a break-in, you say?’

‘Yes. Someone got into the gallery and . . .’ I shot a meaningful glance towards the imperturbable guard. Durant understood.

‘Remy,’ he said, ‘please open the gate and let the young lady in. We will need to discuss this in private.’

Remy reached over to the gatepost and pressed something. There was a hiss of released steam, the heavy iron gates swung open, and I walked through, the gates shutting behind me with a hollow clang.

I’d done it. I was in. Now I had to somehow persuade the Durants to let me see Ivan – Gabriel. I could not bear to tell them my story until I had seen him with my own eyes, and proved to myself that he was alive.

‘Apologies for the reception,’ said Messir Durant, as we went up the stairs and into the house, ‘but we are living in strange times, and I’ve told Remy to be careful.’ He ushered me into a large, well-lit hall and down a long corridor hung at intervals with striking, light-filled photographs of exotic lands, animals and people. I remembered reading in
Modern Art and Artists
that Gabriel Fontenoy’s godfather was a celebrated explorer. But what the book hadn’t said was that he was also a talented photographer, for the bottom-right of each picture was signed ‘Edmond Durant’.

He turned, saw me looking at them, and smiled. ‘You like my photographs, Mam’selle?’

‘Oh, yes. They are most interesting.’ I pointed to a picture of a magnificent white wolf captured in mid-pounce. ‘And dangerous to take, too!’

‘Oh, well, you just have to know what you’re doing,’ he said with a shrug.

‘It must be an interesting life you lead, Messir,’ I said.

‘Oh, yes, it is,’ he said, ‘but then I have never been one for the little life. Adventure and risk and discovery – that is my lifeblood. Staying at home and doing the things everyone else does has always bored me.’

We had arrived at a quiet, book-lined study. Durant motioned me to a chair, and after closing the door, sat behind the desk. Above the desk, I noticed, was a rather
formal oil portrait of a young woman with a small child on her lap. His wife and daughter, presumably. There were also a couple of other paintings: one of a house set in a woodland scene, the other a still life. Though they were quite small, almost miniature, they drew the eye at once, with their vivid, striking composition.

Durant shot me a sharp glance. ‘Now then, Mam’selle, what’s this about a break-in at the gallery?’

I smiled winningly and took my notebook and pencil out from my bag. ‘I have to tell you, Messir, that was only a pretext.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ He stiffened, his eyes now cold.

‘I mean, Messir d’Louvat told me you didn’t like journalists, but I had to . . . take the opportunity to to see if I could –’

‘You’re a journalist?’ he echoed, cutting me off.

‘Yes. I . . . I work for a small ladies’ magazine in Faustina, called
The Mirror
. I’m supposed to be covering some fashion stories, but I –’ I put on my sweetest smile – ‘well, to be frank, Messir Durant, I heard a rumour about the show at Lilac Gardens and couldn’t resist going there. Messir d’Louvat wasn’t very happy at first, but he allowed me to see the painting, in the end.’

‘I can see that he might,’ said Durant, raising an eyebrow. ‘You have a most persuasive manner, Mam’selle. So you saw
Summer Morning
. What did you think of it?’

‘It’s beautiful,’ I said sincerely. ‘Really beautiful.’ I gestured at the other paintings. ‘I notice you have some fine pictures here, too. Are they also by Felix Vivian?’

‘No, they are by my godson Gabriel.’ A little tremor went through me. ‘Except the portrait, of course,’ he went on. ‘That was painted well before his time.’ He gave me a searching look. ‘Now, Mam’selle, this article of yours. What is it you want to know about
Summer Morning
?’

‘Actually, Messir,’ I said hastily, ‘I was very much hoping to interview your daughter about how she feels now the painting’s been found. You see, if I’m to get this story into
The Mirror
, I have to look at it from an angle my editor might like, you understand?’

‘Ah, of course, a woman’s angle,’ he said with a scornful smile. It stung, but I pretended to take no notice.

‘Precisely,’ I said brightly. ‘Your daughter’s story would inspire our readers. It’s so romantic – the story of the daughter of a famous explorer, who inspires a beautiful painting, and whose long-lost love returns from the dead!’

‘It’s a bit late to break that story,’ he said impassively. ‘It’s been in the magazines already. I’m sure people are quite tired of it.’

‘Oh, no, Messir. Readers can’t get enough of it. And my angle will be different. I know people will love it. Please, if you would just allow me to speak to Mam’selle Durant, I would be most grateful. I am trying to make my name, do you see, and this would help so much.’

‘Oho, an ambitious little minx,’ he said. ‘Well, then, if I give you permission, you must promise to show me your story before you print it.’

‘I promise, absolutely,’ I said fervently.

‘Very well. You may speak with Celeste. But I warn you, she may be a little short with you. It’s been quite an ordeal for her, all this.’

‘I will be very diplomatic and discreet, Messir, I promise. You must have been very happy to have your godson return safely.’

‘I was more than happy,’ he said quietly. ‘I can hardly express what a joy it was to know he was alive, even if he is not well.’

‘Yes . . . and what about the treatment that Dr Golpech is using? I heard it was very . . . radical.’

‘Golpech knows what he’s doing,’ said Durant brusquely. ‘His methods are unorthodox but I trust him. He’ll do the best for Gabriel, I know. Lucky my godson had the sense even in his disorientated state to make his way to Golpech’s surgery, or we might have lost him there and then.’

I stared at him. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Golpech found him on his doorstep one morning. He was in a terrible state, and Golpech only got a little from him before he lapsed into an unconsciousness he hasn’t come out of yet.’

‘But how –’

‘How did he get there? We don’t know yet. We’re making inquiries.’

I nearly told him then, but thought better of it. I had to see Gabriel. ‘I understand Dr Golpech runs an asylum,’ I said, ‘so why –’

‘Why isn’t he being looked after there? My dear young lady, he is my godson. He is better off here. Besides, he needs complete security and quiet and we can provide that here much better than in that noisy place.’

‘And Dr Golpech agrees?’

‘I didn’t give him the choice,’ he said impatiently.

Thank heavens for the arrogance of the rich and famous, I thought. It had given Ivan a slim chance. ‘Do you expect to –’

‘Look, I don’t have the time for more questions.’ He rang a little bell, and a servant appeared.

‘Please take Mam’selle ter Zhaber to my daughter’s rooms,’ Durant said. ‘Tell Celeste I have given my consent to an interview.’ He turned to me. ‘You have ten minutes, Mam’selle, no more. We are expecting the doctor in half an hour and you will have to leave well before that.’

‘Of course, Messir. I will, I promise. Thank you so much.’

‘Yes, yes,’ he said absently. I could see he’d already dismissed me from his mind. If he only knew, I thought as I followed the servant, if he only knew my real story, he’d soon change his tune! But now was not the time to tell him.

Both times I’d seen Celeste Durant – in the dream and in the painting – it had been from behind. I’d never seen her face. Now I saw she was as exquisite as a porcelain doll, with a mass of jet-black ringlets framing an oval face of flawless peaches and cream, big blue eyes under a long curling sweep of black eyelash, her lips a pouting pink, a flash of pearl-white teeth visible within. She wore a silk dress that matched the colour of her eyes and showed off her figure to great advantage, and I immediately felt utterly plain and frumpish beside her.

Then she opened her mouth and the spell was broken. ‘So you want an interview. Why should I give you one? I’ve never heard of your magazine. And I don’t care for Faustinians.’ Her voice was petulant, dismissive.

‘Please, Mam’selle,’ I said humbly, though inwardly I seethed at her tone, ‘I would be so honoured if you would let me ask you questions. You are the model for a painting that is really famous in my country. And yes, it is beautiful, but it hardly does you justice.’

Her face softened. ‘Why, that is very kind. Is it true?’

‘Sorry?’ I said, thrown.

‘That Felix’s painting is famous in your country?’

‘It certainly is. It is a great work of art. But more importantly, it captures the very light of your beauty. In fact, in Faustina, the subject means more to people than the artist, you know.’ The flattering, lying words felt unbearably slimy on my tongue, but they did the trick. She beamed.

‘So I am famous in Faustina?’

‘Oh, yes, Mam’selle, you are. And now, with the painting back and the return of Gabriel Fontenoy, you will be even more famous. It is not just your beauty people will focus on. It is also the inspiring story of your womanly courage. Please allow me to tell it.’

I felt nauseous even saying such things. But she was obviously delighted.

‘Oh, very well,’ she said, with an unconvincing attempt at casualness. ‘If you remember this is my story, not his,’ she added.

‘Excuse me?’ I said, confused.

‘Oh, it’s Gabriel this and Gabriel that; it’s as if they forget that it was me who suffered the most!’

I gaped at her. She saw my expression and snapped, ‘Well, it’s true. I was the one left behind – to wait and wonder. How do you think that felt?’

My belly was churning. I wanted to slap her till her ears rang, to yell, ‘Do you have any idea, you selfish cow, what poor Gabriel has gone through?’ But it would have been pointless. She didn’t know. And even if she had, it would hardly have penetrated her self-absorption. I decided instantly that I didn’t want to tell her the truth.

I said smoothly, ‘I can understand how difficult it must have been for you. And now, too, when you have to keep watch at his bedside and help the doctor to –’

‘Do you think I am some kind of servant?’ she said haughtily. ‘I most certainly do not help the doctor. I wouldn’t even if the doctor would want me to, which he doesn’t.’

My heart was racing. ‘I’ve heard that the treatment advocated by the doctor is quite radical.’

Celeste shrugged. ‘He says it’s the only way to pull Gabriel out of whatever brain fever he is in. Though there hasn’t been much progress so far.’

‘Is it possible – would it be possible – to see him?’

It was her turn to stare. ‘What? You want to see the doctor?’

‘No, not the doctor – Gabriel Fontenoy.’ I hurried on. ‘Just for background, you understand. It makes such a difference if one can write at firsthand. I would of course be focusing the article about how hard it is for you,
remembering what he was, and now what he is – hoping against hope that he will get better, but feeling discouraged at times, saying if only –’

‘Mmm. I like that,’ she said. ‘That’s a good way of putting it. Very well. No harm showing you, I suppose. Just a quick glimpse, mind. Dr Golpech is due soon and I’m sure he would be tiresome about it if he knew.’

I nodded. Yes, I’m sure the good doctor would be tiresome about it, I thought. ‘It must have been quite a shock,’ I said, as I followed her out. ‘I mean, when you found out about Messir Fontenoy turning up on Dr Golpech’s doorstep.’

‘Yes, of course it was a shock. We don’t know exactly how it happened because he didn’t get time to tell the doctor before he passed out; he had only managed to say he’d escaped from his kidnappers and that they were Ruvenyan.’

‘What?’

‘Yes, outrageous, isn’t it! Our President is, of course, outraged that such a thing could happen on our own soil to one of our citizens, and he’s sent a stiff letter to the Ruvenyan Ambassador, who denies all knowledge of it, the liar. But what can you expect from such a barbarous country?’

Anger rose in me but I tamped it down firmly. ‘You say it happened on your own soil? Do you mean . . .?’

‘Yes. He was in Palume when it happened. Back then we thought that he’d just gone off in a huff. He’d been behaving badly ever since Felix won that prize. He was jealous of him winning, but angry too that he hadn’t even known I’d been sitting for him. Felix said it had to be a secret because he knew Gabriel would be jealous.’

My heart lurched unpleasantly. ‘About how he vanished – didn’t you suspect something had happened to him?’

‘No. He took off one day without a word. His old nurse went with him. I couldn’t stand her. She always stuck to him like glue. She was one of the reasons we didn’t worry at first. Later, when we still heard nothing from him, Papa hired an investigator. But we discovered nothing.’

‘What about his nurse?’ I asked.

‘What about her?’

‘You said she always stuck to him like glue. Where is she now?’