The Rainbow Bridge (17 page)

‘But how do you know that it will be appreciated? Don't you long to run after it and say to the man with the corkscrew: “Hey! Stop talking … look… taste… savour… enjoy!'

‘Oh yes!' he laughed. ‘But be warned, that's when we start drinking our own stock.'

Colette seemed to be about to say something more, but Louise put a finger to her lips. After a pause he went on. ‘Colette, you and I grow grapes here on these slopes and make wine in the winery below. We put our skill, and not a little of our souls into the wines. But we can't follow them when they leave our gates. We have to trust that they will represent us faithfully; they are our ambassadors. We can't control the situations in which they will find themselves. All we can do is hope that some of them will find a palate that will understand our message, maybe for a moment of celebration, or to ease a hurt, warm a heart, or stiffen the resolve of someone who needs it.'

For some reason this simple statement brought tears to Louise's eyes. Was that what she was: an ambassador? Had the Master had such faith in her?

Ever since he had rescued her, Jean Brouchard had gone out of his way to be kind to Colette; indeed he almost regarded her as a daughter. Colette told Louise how, when things had gone wrong between her and Madame, she used to come down and sit in Monsieur Brouchard’s noisy little office and tell him of her woes. He would say little, but would send her home feeling comforted. Then, sometime later, she would see him talking to M. Morteau among the vines, or surprisingly, find him sitting uncomfortably in the parlour with Madame, nursing a small liqueur in his huge hand. Then things would mysteriously improve and, for a while at any rate, Madame and she would be friends.

August was ready to merge into September when Lucien brought a message from M. Brouchard saying that it was a long time since he had seen Colette, and could she drop down some time soon. So she and Louise set off armed with a small basket of eggs from Madame, whose hens benefited from the grain-rich sweepings of the mill. Louise had her own reasons for wanting to visit the mill. Apart from the prospect of seeing Lucien showing off his muscles for Colette’s benefit – he might be engaged but that hadn’t robbed him of his eye for a pretty girl – the whole mechanism of the waterworks enthralled her. She had been inside flour mills in Holland when they rocked, swayed and
groaned as the sails of the windmill swept around. In the water mill, however, the power was contained under the mysterious control of the sluice gates that channelled the water into the millrace.

Colette had agreed to ask M. Brouchard, on Louise’s behalf, how he adjusted the speed of the mill. He was surprised at the question; Colette hadn’t shown an interest in the mill before. But as he demonstrated how he could raise and lower the sluice gates to get the right flow into the millrace, she nodded with well-assumed interest. When the demonstration was over they moved into the little office. Louise, forgetful of the miller, stood behind Colette for a moment, stooping to whisper her thanks in her ear. Something made her look up; M. Brouchard was staring directly at her.

‘Excuse me, Mademoiselle,’ he said rubbing his eyes. ‘But I seem to be seeing you twice.’ He laughed uneasily. ‘Two Colettes are undoubtedly better than one … but perhaps it is a trick of the light.’

Louise stood frozen, not sure whether to move or to stand still. She had been careless; he really did have the eyes to see her. He looked away, shaking his head as if to dispel the double image, and Louise moved quickly out of the dusty sunlight that haloed Colette where she sat. He seemed relieved when he looked again.

‘So, you have seen how I work my mill. Now tell me, how are things up at the winery?’

Louise never ceased to be surprised by Colette. She had seen her cross swords with Madame, her eyes flashing, just as she remembered her own father’s eyes flash when he was roused. Then again she had watched her happily
discussing some ‘truant’ vine with Papa Morteau as if the unfortunate plant was standing in front of them, cap in hand. Now she was giving M. Brouchard a detailed account of the woes of the winery, complete with acreages and yields, even figuring the dire effect on the business of the Count’s generosity with his land and his gifts of wine. The miller sighed.

‘And how is Paul taking all this? When I talk of these things he goes to earth like a worm before a thrush.’ Colette smiled and then frowned.

‘He’s worried. He was forced to lay off a few of the workers … he hates that.’

Brouchard nodded. ‘I know.’

‘He won’t say things straight out, so sometimes I don’t know whether he is talking to his vines or to me. I think he feels that something evil has crept into the valley and that the dividing of the vineyards is just a symptom of this.’ She stopped, wondering if M. Brouchard would understand.

‘I’m listening, my dear. Paul Morteau is one of my oldest friends; he can sometimes see things that we poor plodders and grinders just don’t see …’ He thought for a moment; “Something evil” you say. I wonder …?’ Then he changed the subject: ‘Now, tell me how things stand with Madame’s cousin, the Count. Has there been any progress in the negotiations to buy the land that is her due?’

‘No, as you may have heard, the family have refused to meet his price.’ Colette’s shoulders drooped – no land, no Gaston. M. Brouchard got up and went to the door, touching her shoulder in sympathy as he passed. He opened the door, looked up and down, then closed it firmly.

‘Mademoiselle Colette, I asked you to come down to talk to me, but I haven’t yet told you why. I need your help, but
in order not to deceive you, I have to tell you some things that must remain secret between us.’

‘Even to the family?’

‘Yes, even to Gaston. You see, there are times when it is safer for people not to know the whole truth.’ Colette nodded; she understood this very well.

M. Brouchard began, stroking his beard forward from underneath as he did so. ‘There are rumours, yet to be confirmed, that the Count – “Citoyen du Bois” as he now likes to be called – is involved in plans for a royalist uprising similar to those taking place in Normandy and Brittany.’ Colette’s eyebrows shot up, but she didn’t say anything. ‘Any day now I expect to hear details of the exact time and place of a meeting of the conspirators. Duty tells me that I should give this information to the authorities so that the Count and his friends may be caught and brought to justice. If we can prevent this rebellion, countless innocent lives will be saved. Whatever about being brought to justice, the Count must be stopped!’

Colette realised that the miller was looking at her as if needing confirmation that there was no alternative to stopping the Count. She nodded; another rebellion would be intolerable.

The miller sighed. ‘Now for my dilemma. As the Morteaus do not own the winery or the land, if anything happens to the Count, not only will they be ruined, but the winery will close and the whole economy of the village will collapse. Everything I have striven to maintain will be lost. My report to the authorities will be like poking a stick into a hornet’s nest. The army will be upon us, and with them will come the politicians, the spies and the inquisitors. No one’s life will be safe then: not yours, not mine, not the Morteaus’. The Terror works by terror, and I have sworn to myself to
keep the guillotine out of this village. The Count knows this; he has me over a barrel.’ He cocked his head, listening, out of habit, to the grumble of the mill wheels above.

‘You have a plan, or you wouldn’t have asked me here. How can I help?’ Colette asked.

‘I have a plan, yes, but like a chain, it is only as good as its weakest link. My plan is that the Count du Bois should receive a visit from a certain distinguished Lieutenant of Hussars.’

‘Gaston?’ Colette queried. ‘But … that would have to be official, wouldn’t it? Poking the hornet’s nest, like you said?’

‘As Chairman of the Revolutionary Committee, I have certain privileges. I am authorised, for example, to ask for a small detachment of horsemen to be sent to investigate a rumour of spies in my area. I know the colonel of Gaston’s regiment and will make the request through him, asking that Gaston be the officer in charge; after all, he knows the area. I will say nothing about the Count or the information I have about a meeting. If all goes to plan, it will look like a routine patrol. If Gaston happens to find that his cousin, the Count, is in cahoots with royalist insurgents, I think we can rely on him to send them packing and to scare the pants off the Count in the process. Gaston will simply report to his superiors that some rebels have been routed. No inquisitors, no trials, no guillotine.’

‘I’m sorry, M. Brouchard, but there are several reasons why this plan could never work. The first is that Gaston would never spy on the Count – they are cousins after all. The other reason is that, if Gaston did find the Count plotting with the royalists, he would feel honour bound to treat him like any other traitor, and turn him over to the authorities. I know Gaston, you see. So the whole house of cards would come tumbling down anyway.’

The turbulent sounds of the working mill filled the room while the miller considered what Colette had said. Finally, he gave an exclamation and slapped his hands on his knees, raising two little clouds of dust.

‘In that case,’ he said, ‘it is up to us to persuade Gaston to re-open negotiations with the Count before the meeting takes place. Colette, my dear, this is where you come in; between us we must persuade Gaston that he owes it to his family, to the village, and to you, to secure the future of the winery, no matter what the cost to his pride.’

Colette had known that this suggestion would come and had been dreading it. It was a family secret, but it would have to come out now.

‘Monsieur, Gaston won’t go. You see, it is not just that he let it be known that the family have refused to pay the Count’s demand. The fact of the matter is that they can’t. M. Brouchard, the coffers are empty.’

The miller leant back in his high chair, looking as if he had been hit.

‘Aah! So there are no funds. And I thought it was just Gaston’s pride. What has happened to their prosperity; they used to be the envy of us all?’

‘The Count has been bleeding the winery for years. The vintage records are perfect, but sadly, no proper accounts have been kept.’

‘Oh, my friend Paul. No wonder you slid away from me when I asked how things were going.’ He looked at Colette. ‘But you are keeping accounts now, aren’t you?’

Colette’s modest shrug told it all. ‘It makes no difference. When the Count’s letter came, they counted everything: the money’s not there.’

Brouchard put both hands under his beard and pushed it up so that it made a fearsome thicket in front of his chin.
‘So, there is my weak link. You came to our village too late, my dear.’ He closed his eyes and sighed … ‘I had hoped to kill two birds with one stone: stop the Count and secure the land. Now I have no alternative; I will have to call in the authorities. God help us all.’

Above their heads the millstones continued, pulsing out their own distinctive rhythm. The stones seemed to be talking to Louise, forming words in her mind: louder and louder. Now’s the time they rumbled, now’s the time. She tried to plead with them: No, not so soon! Not so soon! She felt like a prisoner whose date of execution has unexpectedly been brought forward. I want more time, I want more time, but she had no more time. Colette was getting to her feet. Now or never, now or never, the millstones ground urgently, and Louise knew that if she didn’t act now she might never have the will-power to do so again.

‘There is always my portrait,’ she said, loud above the din of the mill, ‘the portrait of the girl in the green dress. It is worth the price of this land, I believe.’ Even the dust motes that hung in the air stopped moving. She had given no thought to how, or even whether, M. Brouchard would hear her, but her message was for him. Colette began to turn, but then, afraid of revealing Louise’s presence, froze. Her mouth opened and closed as she struggled to contain her protest. But Louise had eyes only for the miller, who was standing, like someone trying to recall a dream. Then she saw his face clear as if he remembered what it was.

‘You know… that picture that Gaston brought back in the spring, does he still have it? It was standing in the kitchen for a while. A girl in a green dress, if I remember?’

‘Yes?’ Colette’s voice was a whisper.

‘One of his cadets told me that an expert in Paris said it
was worth a small fortune.’

‘Oh, but Gaston would never, ever, sell it!’ Colette exclaimed. Her voice dropped, ‘And I … I’d hate to see it go.’

‘But it could do the trick, Colette … it would be something to bargain with. Gaston could go to the Count with his head up, and all we need to do is let him make a courtesy call to the chateau with his troop, a day or two before the meeting, and no one need know that he is renegotiating. If we get the timing right, he can make the Count accept the picture as security until he can raise the money. His presence alone will scare the Count into cancelling the meeting. I have to keep the guillotine and the tumbrel out of the village, Colette, and this could be our only chance.’

Put like that, all Colette could do was to nod and allow him to usher her dumbly to the door. ‘Lucien will bring up a bag of grain for Madame’s chickens,’ the miller said, as he rubbed his hands with satisfaction, and watched fondly as Colette walked up the road from the mill. Then, for a moment, he peered intently after her, shook his head, gave it a thump with the heel of his hand and muttered, ‘I’m sure I need glasses.’

On the walk back to the winery Colette was furious with Louise for having ‘sacrificed herself’ as she put it, and then with herself for having agreed with M. Brouchard that there was no alternative.

‘But it is the answer, Colette. There is no alternative,’ Louise comforted her friend. ‘It will be only for a little while, you’ll see.’