The Demon Lover (9 page)

I don’t think I ever enjoyed painting anyone as much as I enjoyed painting him. It was because of the unusual method, I suspected; and because I had a strong feeling of dislike for him. It was a great help to feel strongly about the subject. It seemed to breathe life into the paint.

My father watched me while I worked.

I laid down my brush at length.

“Oh, Father,” I said.

“I do want this to be a great success. I want to delude him. I want him to have the Collison of all Collisons.”

“If only we can work this together …” said my father, his face breaking up in a helpless sort of way which made me want to rock him in my arms.

What a tragedy! To be a great artist and unable to paint!

It was a good morning’s work and I was very pleased with it.

After dejeuner which my father and I took alone as Bertrand had been summoned to go off somewhere with the Baron and Nicole, I suggested that my father take a rest. He looked tired and I knew that the morning’s work had been more than a strain on his eyes.

I conducted him to his room, settled him on his bed and then, taking a sketch-pad with me as I often did, I went out.

I went down to the moat and sat there. I thought of how Bertrand and I had come here and how we had talked and what a pleasant day it had been. I hoped we should see more of each other. He was so different from the Baron-so kind and gen
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I could not understand why women like Nicole could demean themselves as she had done for the sake of men like the Baron. I found him far from attractive. Of course he had great power and power was said to be irresistible to some women.

Personally I hated all that arrogance. The more I saw of the Baron the better I liked Bertrand. It seemed to me that he had all the graces.

He was elegant, charming and above all kindly and thoughtful for others-qualities entirely lacking in the mighty Baron. Bertrand’s task had been to put us at our ease on our arrival and this he had done with such perfection that we had become good friends in a very short time, and instinct told me that our friendship had every chance of deepening.

While I had been thinking I had been idly sketching, and my page was full of pictures of the Baron. It was understandable that he should occupy my thoughts as I had to paint a miniature of him in a manner I reckoned no miniature had ever been painted before.

There he was in the centre of my page-a bloodthirsty Viking in a winged helmet, nostrils flaring, the light of lust in his eyes, his mouth curved in a cruel and triumphant smile. I could almost hear his voice shouting. I wrote below the sketch “Ha! Rollo.”

Round the page were other sketches of him . in profile and in full face. I wanted to know that face from every angle and in several moods. I had to imagine those I had not seen.

Then suddenly I heard a laugh and turning sharply, I saw him. He was leaning over my shoulder. His hand shot out and he took the paper from me.

I stammered: “I didn’t hear you.”

“My grass is thick and luxuriant here by the moat. I confess … seeing you there so absorbed … sketching away … I crept up to see what could be of such interest to you.”

He was studying the paper.

“Give it to me,” I commanded.

“Oh no. It’s mine. Man Dieu, you are a very fine artist, Mademoiselle.

Ha! Rollo. Why, that is magnificent. “

I held out my hand pleadingly.

“I feel as though I have been stripped bare,” he said accusingly, but his eyes had lost their steely grey. He was amused and pleased.

“I did not realize that you knew me so well,” he went on.

“And to draw this without a model! Why, you are a draughts man Mademoiselle. I often say that the reason so many artists today are mediocre is because they never learned how to draw. How did you come to know me so well?”

“I don’t know you. I know a little of your face. But I was with you this morning during the sitting.”

“I noticed how you kept your gimlet eye on me. Mademoiselle Collison’jioy should be painting a miniature of me.”

“That is for my father,” I said.

“You can destroy that paper.”

“Destroy it! Never! It’s too good for that. I shall keep it. It will always remind me of you, Mademoiselle Collison. I have something else to remind me too. The miniature of which I was telling you. You must see it. I can’t wait any longer to show it to you.”

He held out a hand to help me to my feet.

I said: “My father is resting. I thought he should do so.”

“Well, after a trying morning …” he said almost mischievously.

“Now you and I will go and see the miniatures, shall we? I refuse to wait a moment longer before showing you your double.”

I went with him into the castle. He was carrying my sketch-pad.

Fortunately there was nothing else on it but a few sketches of trees and the moat.

He took me to a part of the castle where I had not been before.

“This section was restored in the mid-eighteenth century,” he told me.

“It’s rather elegant, don’t you think?”

I agreed it was.

“Entirely French,” I commented, and I could not help adding: “Rather different from the comparatively crude aspect of Norman architecture.”

“Precisely,” he replied, ‘but lacking the antiquity. Why, it is not a hundred years old yet. So modern! But a fine piece of architecture all the same. What do you think of the furniture? It was made by Gourdin and Blanchard Gamier. “

“Delightful,” I said.

“Come with me.” He opened a door and we were in a small chamber, the ceiling of which was painted with a celestial scene. Angels floated across a heaven of exquisite blue dotted with golden stars.

The walls were panelled and on these hung the miniatures. There must have been about fifty of them and they were all exquisite and of great value. They were of all periods dating back to the early fourteenth century and many of them were on supports of vellum and parchment, metal, slate and wood which was largely used at that time.

“They are beautiful,” I cried.

“I think so too. It’s a delightful expression of art. More difficult to execute, I imagine, than a large canvas. The artist must be restricted. You must have very keen eyes for such work.” He hesitated and my heart started to beat very fast. For a moment I thought: He knows! Then he went on: “I should have liked to be a painter myself, Mademoiselle Collison. I love art. I understand it. I can criticize it… see what is wrong … even feel I know how it should have been done… but I can’t paint. That’s rather a tragedy, don’t you think?”

“You are an artist manque,” I said.

“Yes, I do think that is rather sad. It’s better I think to be born without the urge to paint than to have it and not be able to use it.”

“I knew you would understand. I lack the divine spark. Is that what it is? I could mix the paints. I have an eye for colour … but alas, the spirit which makes painting great is lacking, But let me show you my Unknown Woman.”

He took me to it, and I was startled. It could have been a painting of me. The reddish tint in the fine abundant hair escaping from the jewelled snood which held it. the tawny eyes . the firm chin . they might well have been mine. The Unknown Woman was dressed in green velvet and the colour of the dress brought out this striking tint in her hair.

He laid a hand on my shoulder. There! Now you see what I mean. “

“It’s extraordinary,” I agreed.

“And it really is a Collison?”

He nodded.

“Nobody knows which one. You tiresome people always call yourselves K. If only you had had a variety of initials what a lot of trouble you would have saved.”

I couldn’t stop looking at the picture.

“It’s always been a favourite of mine,” he said.

“Now I need no longer call it the Unknown Woman. It now has a name for me: Mademoiselle Kate Collison.”

“Have you had it long?”

“It has always been in the family collection for as long as I can remember. I think in the past one of my ancestors must have been on very friendly terms with one of yours. Why otherwise should he have wanted a miniature of the lady? It’s a very interesting thought, don’t you agree?”

“It could have come into his possession in some other way. You don’t know the identity of several of the people portrayed, I am sure. It is certainly a collection you can be proud of.”

“I shall hope to add two more to it shortly.”

“I thought the one… my father was painting was for your bride elect.”

“It is. But she will live here, and our two miniatures will be hung side by side on this wall.”

I nodded.

“I hope,” he went on, ‘that I shall have the pleasure of showing you other treasures of mine. I have some fine pictures as well as furniture. You are an artist, Mademoiselle

Collison. Oh fortunate Mademoiselle CoHison . a real artist. not an artist manque such as I am. “

“I am sure you are the last person to feel sorry for yourself.

Therefore you cannot expect other people to be. “

“Why so?”

“Well, you happen to think you are the most important person not only in Normandy but throughout the entire country, I imagine.”

“Is that how you see me?”

“Oh no,” I said.

“It is how you see yourself. Thank you for showing me the miniatures. They are most interesting … Now I think I should return to my room. It is time to dress for dinner.”

The days which followed were the most exciting of my life-up to that time. I had made two discoveries which could not be denied-one sad, the other exhilarating beyond my expectations. My father would not be able to paint miniatures again. I could see clearly that the necessary deftness of touch had deserted him. He could not see well enough, and to be the smallest fraction of an inch out of place in such a small area could change a feature entirely. He might go to larger canvases for a while but in time even that would be over for him. The other discovery was that I was a painter worthy of the name of Collison. I could put those initials on my miniatures and none would be able to question the fact that they had not been done by a great artist.

I could not wait to get to work every morning. I don’t know how I sat through those sessions while my father worked and the Baron sat there smiling a rather enigmatic smile, making lively conversation with me or sometimes lapsing into what seemed like a brooding silence.

I would dash to the drawer in which I kept my work and take out that picture. It was growing under my hands; it laughed at me; it mocked me; it was cruel; it was amused; it suggested power and an immense ruthlessness. I had captured this man and shut him up in my miniature. To have brought all this into such a small space was an achievement, I knew.

My father gasped when he saw it and said he had never seen anythingofmine—or his for that matter—to equal it.

I began to think that this way of working was perhaps more rewarding than conventional sittings. I felt I knew the man. I could almost follow his thoughts. My excitement was so intense that I would find myself gazing at him during meals or whenever I was in his company.

Several times he caught me at it; then he gave me one of those enigmatical smiles.

What strange days they were! I felt as though I had stepped outside the life I had known into a different world. The Farringdons, the Meadows, the Cambornes seemed miles away . on another planet almost.

This could not last, of course. I think perhaps it owed its fascination to the fact that it was inevitably transient.

I should go away from here. Forget the Baron who had obsessed me all these days; but the time I had spent here would in a way be caught up and imprisoned in the miniature.

Then there was Bertrand de Mortemer. Our friendship was progressing at unusual speed. It was a great joy to be with him. We rode together often. He described the family estate which was situated south of Paris.

“Not a big one,” he said.

“Nothing like Centeville … but it is pleasant… with the Loire close by and all those beautiful castles to make one feel proud every time one catches a glimpse of them.”

“I should love to see them.”

“They are far more beautiful than this stark old Norman fortress. They are built for living in, for celebrations, ban yes, for enjoying life,

not fighting for it as they did in this grey stone castle. I feel so different when I’m at Centeville. “

“Are you here often?”

“Whenever I am sent for.”

“You mean by the Baron?”

“Who else? His father set himself up as head of the family and Rollo has inherited the crown.”

“Still, I suppose you could escape from the yoke.”

“Rollo would frown on that.”

“Who cares for Rollo … outside the precincts of the Castle ofCenteville?”

“He has a way of showing his displeasure which can be uncomfortable.”

“Does that matter very much?”

“It’s usually a practical displeasure.”

I shivered.

“Let’s talk about more pleasant things. How is the miniature going?”

“Very well, I think.”

“Is your father pleased with it?”

“Very.”

“I dare say we shall be seeing it soon. What does Rollo think?”

“He hasn’t seen it yet.”

“I should have thought he would have demanded to.”

“He doesn’t exert the same power over visiting artists as he does in his family circle, you see.”

He laughed and then was serious.

“Kate,” he said-for some time he had called me by my Christian name.

“When it is over, you will go away from here …”

“If our work is approved we shall go to Paris to paint the Princesse.”

“But you will go from here …”

“And you?”

“I shall hear what I am expected to do. There is always something. When Rollo asks me here it is for a reason. He has not yet explained that to me.”

“Can’t you ask him?”

“He has not precisely said there is something. I am merely surmising there is because when I am invited here it is usually because I am going to be asked … no, told… to do something.”

“The more I hear of the mighty Rollo, the more I dislike him.” My lips curled. I was thinking of that gleam of acquisitiveness I was going to get into his eyes cold grey with a hint of blue reflection from the coat he was wearing.