The Rainbow Bridge (2 page)

‘Go on!’ said Colette breathlessly. Margot was staring out of the window, her teeth bared. Colette felt another hand close on her elbow from behind but she couldn’t turn, she had to hear. ‘What did you see, Margot?’

‘Oh, Mam’selle, there they were: two hands printed in flour like two white gloves on her back. You should have heard what I–’ But Colette was not to hear Margot’s denunciation of Bernadette – or was it the luckless Lucien? The hand on her elbow had suddenly become a band of steel as Madame Morteau drew Colette bodily out of the scullery door.

‘Come, my dear,’ she said severely. ‘Leave the dishes to Margot.’

‘But Madame, I like to help. Also I like to hear Margot’s talk about the village. She–’

‘Hush, my dear.’ Madame Morteau stopped her. Then, in a softer tone … ‘ah, your poor mother, I grieve so much for her. For her sake I mustn’t let you become a servant here. This is your home now.’ Madame dropped her voice further. ‘Margot is a good girl, but you must realise that she is a peasant. I cannot have her filling your ears with village gossip. Also there is the way she speaks … What if your mother were to come back and hear you talking like a girl from the fields?’

Madame Morteau hadn’t meant to hurt – she seldom did – but her choice of words was unfortunate. Colette had held
her mother in her arms as she died; she knew there was no coming back from where her mother had gone. Suddenly all her frustration and anger welled up inside her. Tears and helpless rage surged through her. What did her precious aristocratic upbringing matter if it meant she couldn’t have friends of her own? She tore her arm from Madame Morteau’s grip and ran towards the stairs. At the bottom step she whipped around, Margot’s choicest vulgarities seething in her mouth. She tried to get them out, but they choked her. Oh, why couldn’t she rage and fume and throw things like other girls? Madame Morteau was looking at her in amazement. Didn’t she realise what she had said? Was she stupid? Had she no notion of what it was like to have your family torn away from you? Colette bit hard on her lip; if only she could have her mother back everything would be all right. She threw herself at the stairs and pounded as hard as she could up to the first landing, where she paused, feeling the sharp taste of blood in her mouth.

As she climbed wearily up the next flight, she thought bitterly of how her father had died, trying to save the lives of people who probably meant nothing to him, at the hands of a mob that had good cause to hate him and his class. And then there was Mother, who had starved herself into ill health, because she had been too proud to confess – until it was too late – that she had no money. What use were these old values? And now here she was, being preserved like one of those pale and pathetic pressed flowers that fall out of old books.

She reached the top landing and paused to look out of the open window. The road fell away below the house to where the statue of St Vincent stood alone in the village square. Sparrows were chattering in the eaves above her head. She could hear Gaston humming to himself as he
moved about his room to her left. He would be packing for his departure now. If only she could go with him, just to be there and to participate in his adventures. Anything to escape from this dreadful limbo.

‘Got it!’ Gaston gave a small cry of triumph; had he remembered his tune? He was humming it again. She listened. His confidence was increasing: ‘Ta, ta, taaa ta, Taaa …’ his voice was gaining strength. Oh to be a man, for whom things were always simple and straightforward, and to be brave without thinking.

Ever since her father’s death, Colette had been haunted by fear, her sleep broken by the same nightmare. She had never seen or heard a real mob, but still the mob lay in wait each night. She would try to open her eyes but daren’t, because she knew that their faces would be there, pressed up close, terrifying, screaming, distorted faces full of hate for Father and her. Then, in a sudden silence, the killing would start. Grunts, and the sound of blows falling again and again on her father. She knew she could stop the murder if she only could wake in time, but she never could. And so each night was approached in terror and each day began with a feeling of having failed him.

She walked down the short corridor to her room where she lay down on her coverlet and stared at the cracks on the ceiling. Gaston would be gone soon, just when he seemed to have finally noticed her.

Colette woke with a start. The sun had moved while she slept. She felt refreshed and was surprised to find her face stiff from tears. She poured the remains of the water from her jug into a basin and washed her face. Then, taking the jug with her, she hurried for the stairs. It would soon be
time to start preparing for dinner. Madame would have forgotten this morning’s incident. Perhaps she’d be able to corner Margot and hear the rest of the Lucien saga. First, however, she’d tap on Gaston’s door and ask if he needed water too. Her knock produced an immediate response. ‘Is that Colette? Come at once, you must help me!’ It was an order. This would be what it would be like to be a soldier under his command, she thought.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘I’m in trouble. I’m quite respectable … I think.’ She put down her jug, lifted the latch and looked in. Gaston was standing in the middle of the room in his shirt-tails, knees apart, feet at right angles, apparently unable to move. On the floor lay the fragmented glory of his new dress uniform. She covered a smile; he looked like a peacock that had met with a serious accident. Of course, he needed to dress up for the Count who was to come to dinner today. But why was he frozen in that extraordinary position?

‘Look what I did, Colette, I put on my boots before my breeches, then I tried to get them off, and my spurs caught in the braid of my dolman.’ Colette looked behind him. She could see that the spikes of his spurs were entangled in the delicate braid of the glorious silver and blue jacket at his feet. It made her toes curl just to see the damage he would cause if he moved. ‘If I pull the braid, I’ll be disgraced!’ Colette knelt down and disentangled his spurs, carefully easing back the trapped braid as she did so.

‘That’s it, you’re free now; you can take your boots off,’ she said.

‘That’s how I got into trouble in the first place, Colette.’ He stood on one leg, grasped the heel of his boot, tried to heave, lost his balance and began to hop backwards.

‘Well, don’t do it again!’ she laughed, snatching away the
precious dolman. ‘Come, let me take the spurs off first, then I’ll pull.’ She undid the buckles and removed the wickedly spiked wheels. ‘I’m glad I’m not a horse,’ she said. Gaston sat down on a chair and held out a boot. She took it in her hands; it was smooth to touch and smelled excitingly of new leather. Then she began to pull.

‘It’s coming!’ Gaston held hard to the sides of his chair, bracing one foot on the floor. The boot came off with an audible ‘fop’ as the vacuum was released. ‘Now for the other one.’

‘How will you ever manage on your own?’ she asked.

‘I may have a servant, otherwise I’ll just have to rely on my friends to help.’ The second boot proved more difficult. Colette leaned back while Gaston braced himself. ‘Pull … it’s coming!’ At that moment his stockinged foot slipped away from him on the polished floor, his body weight shifted, the chair tipped forward and the back hit him on the head with a stunning crack. Colette lost her balance and rocketed back with the boot.

‘Oh, your poor head,’ she said, struggling to her feet. For a second Gaston didn’t stir. She threw the boot she was holding to one side and rushed to help him. He stood up groggily, then swayed alarmingly. She grabbed him about the waist and held on. At that moment the door was thrown open and Madame Morteau stood staring at them from the doorway.

‘What on earth is going on here!’ she demanded. ‘Gaston, you should be ashamed … and in your shirt-tails.’ Her look moved to Colette, who didn’t dare release Gaston in case he fell. ‘Colette, out at once! Have you no sense of propriety!’

‘But, Mother, she was only helping me off with my boots!’

‘I don’t see why that should involve her embracing you
about the middle.’

‘I fell … Mother; she’s only a …’

‘I don’t want to hear about it! The sooner you leave for your regiment the better.’ She turned to Colette, who had stepped back, half dismayed, but yet half delighted with the excitement. ‘Colette, you are wanted in the kitchen. The Count du Bois will be here shortly. I don’t know how you expect poor Margot to prepare dinner on her own. There are still peas to be shelled.’

‘Madame, I haven’t met the Count. Is he married? Has he children?’ Madame Morteau pursed her lips in the way Colette had seen her do when she disapproved of something.

‘No, the Count is not married …’ she replied shortly. ‘Now, run along.’

Colette hurried off to the kitchen, aware that Madame had answered only part of her question.

If Colette had looked out of the landing window as she hurried down to shell peas for the Count, she would have seen a crowd around the statue of St Vincent in the square. Mass was over, and both the villagers and visitors to the Summer Festival were milling about, wondering how to fill the time before the musicians would mount the stand below the statue and the dancing and revelries begin. A man detached himself from the crowd and climbed on to the platform. On his head was a bright red floppy cap, the bonnet rouge of the Revolution. He had a waist-length jacket of coarse blue material that opened in front to show a striped cotton waistcoat. Below this were trousers, rather than the stockings and breeches – or culottes – favoured by the aristocracy. This outfit had become the symbol of the Revolution, the dress of the common man in revolt against the aristocracy, and the wearers were known as sans-culottes.

Down by the river, unaware of the growing excitement in the square, Jean Brouchard, the miller, stood on the bridge over the millrace, resting his large and comfortable frame against the rail, watching the water hurrying beneath him. Because it was Sunday, the mill was silent. Inside, the huge millstones rested on beds of corn that had been carefully
run in just before the stones were stopped the night before. Tomorrow they would start again, with hardly a rumble, rolling easily on the hard grains. But the water in the millrace still flowed, and the huge waterwheel dipped and turned silently on its greased axle, bright curtains of water dropping from its paddles. Today Jean’s beard was black. On weekdays it was frosted grey with flour, and his upward curving eyebrows would support little drifts of white. He was slightly deaf from the continuous sounds of the mill, so he didn’t hear Lucien, his labourer from the mill, approach at a run.

‘Monsieur Brouchard … Monsieur Brouchard!’ The miller turned in surprise; Lucien rarely came near the mill on a Sunday. As an employee, Lucien was a mixed blessing. He was as strong as a horse, but he also had the inclinations of a colt, and was the heart-throb of all the village maidens. As a result, his mind was seldom where it should be – listening to the minute variations of sound that told how the stones were grinding. Jean raised his eyebrows. Lucien went on: ‘There is a Jacobin, an agent provocateur, addressing the people outside the church. You must come quickly!’

Despite his relaxed appearance, Jean Brouchard was alert. A year and a half ago he had, with some reluctance, agreed to serve as the leader of the village Revolutionary Committee. It was his firm conviction that the Revolution was there to serve the people, rather than the people serving the Revolution, so he had called some meetings to resolve disputes and had spoken loudly and well for liberty, equality and fraternity, and had left it at that. He was, however, well informed. Carters and traders passed through the mill every day. He would sit them on the high stool in his tiny office, where the floor shook and the dust motes danced in the light from cobwebbed windows, and pretend
to write in his ledger. As no one could overhear them here, his visitors talked freely. In this way Jean kept abreast of the news that circulated through the network of carters that stretched to the four corners of France.

‘Why do you call him an agent provocateur?’ he asked.

‘Because provoking is what he is doing. He’s working the people up and trying to get them to start a riot. He knows that the Count is to visit the winery today. He’s saying it’s a disgrace that the vineyard should be in the hands of one man, an aristocrat and a traitor. He says it should belong to us – the citizens – and that we must confront the Count and demand that the slopes be divided among us.’

‘And is anyone listening to him?’

‘The village people are laughing behind their hands. They know that there’s more to making wine than squeezing grapes into their mouths. But the visitors who have come in for the Summer Festival, and the migrant workers, they are listening.’

‘But what can they get out of this? They can’t expect to be given slices of land?’ the miller protested.

‘No, but they can expect a bellyful of wine! That’s his line. He’s saying that if they march on the winery he will guarantee that they do not go home thirsty.’

‘Is he indeed?’ Jean straightened himself.

‘I told you Monsieur Brouchard,’ Lucien was getting desperate, ‘You must come – now!’

‘And you have no interest in a bellyful of wine?’

‘Why should I? You know as well as I do that Monsieur Morteau looks after us in the village; it’s the rabble that are thirsting.’ Lucien, who could actually hear the shouting from the village square, was shifting from foot to foot, but his employer just stood, pushing his hand up under his beard, as he did when thinking. At last he stood away from the
rail.

‘Listen to me, Lucien. You can’t stop a mob, any more than you can stop a mill wheel from turning in a flood; it would be smashed to bits in minutes. What we need is to offer them grist for their mill.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I mean something of more substance than wine. Come … I want you to take a message to the winery. It’s for the Count, but give it to Monsieur Morteau, because the Count won’t understand. It’ll be a chance for you to see young Margot. You have her eating out of your hand, so that can be your reason for going if anyone stops you.’

‘She’s more likely to bite my hands than to eat out of them!’ Lucien looked ruefully at the palms that had so neatly betrayed him on Bernadette’s plump back. ‘Margot’s out for my blood.’

‘Well, here’s a chance to redeem yourself. Come into the office, I need to write an official letter.’ Lucien waited while Jean unscrewed his inkwell, found a piece of paper, flexed his fingers and began to write. He and the vigneron had a long-established understanding of each other, but he must be careful with his words in case the letter fell into the wrong hands. He signed the note, folded it in half, and handed to Lucien. ‘Quick now, go! You can tell Monsieur Morteau that this is from me; he will understand.’ Jean watched Lucien depart, following one of his night-time routes along the backs of the houses. Then the miller set off for the square with determined strides.

The vigneron’s house stood at the top of the village, the main door, which was seldom used, opened on to the sweep of road leading down to the village square. The
entrance had been designed for effect, three curving stone steps mounting to a broad platform in front of the door. To the right of the house was a stone archway that led into a cobbled yard. The winery occupied three sides of the yard, while on the fourth was the house. Creepers covered its walls, surrounding the windows and shading the side door, which led, by a short passage, to the kitchen, the nerve centre of the house.

Colette had taken her basket of peas out into the courtyard, away from the heat and activity in the kitchen. It was a spot where they all liked to sit. A trailing vine of jasmine grew against the wall of the house, providing dappled shade. Occasionally it shed little white flowers into her bowl of shelled peas or rewarded her with an intoxicating waft of scent. On the opposite side of the yard were the doorways of the winery, mysterious black caverns. As a child she had not been allowed to join in the festivities of her local grape harvest in case she should witness coarse behaviour, but she felt the air of expectancy that hung over the courtyard, as if it too was looking forward to the activity of the harvest. Nothing much moved today, a couple of chaffinches hopped about, searching for spilled grain between the cobbles. A sound drifted in from the direction of the village square; it rose and fell rhythmically, reminding her vaguely of the sea.

As she worked, she thought about Gaston and how nice it had been to share something with him. His body had felt strong and firm in her arms when she had steadied him, and she got a closeness and a sense of belonging that she hadn’t felt since she had come to the Morteau household. If only Gaston could stay. A movement caught her eye. There was a young man standing in the shadow of the archway, looking furtively around the yard. She kept still and he
didn’t appear to see her. He had good features and an impressive build; Colette noticed how his shirt bulged where his muscles pushed at the coarse linen. He didn’t look like a thief, but when he started tiptoeing across the yard towards the open door of the house, she wondered if she should raise the alarm. He stopped and ran his fingers through his hair to smooth it. Then, not satisfied with the result, he spat liberally on his palms and slicked the stray locks into place. Colette winced, half amused, half disgusted, but she had no doubt now who their visitor was.

‘Monsieur?’ she queried. Lucien’s jump was so violent that she started too, accidentally spilling some of her precious peas.

‘Oh, pardon, Mademoiselle… Je cherche Mademoiselle Margot?”

‘Margot est dans la cuisine,’ she said, indicating the door leading to the kitchen. He bowed nervously, thanked her, braced himself, and then proceeded with caution into the house. Colette wanted to see what would happen, but there were the peas to be picked up. She was still on her hands and knees when she heard the clatter of approaching hooves. Before she could rise, the noise reached a crescendo and a carriage hurtled through the arch into the yard, the coachman hauling back on the reins, and the horses’ shoes knocking sparks from the cobblestones. Almost before it had stopped, the carriage door flew open and a man emerged from its dark interior; he must have had the blinds drawn. He was wearing a wig and was dressed in an embroidered frock coat. Colette started up; here was someone who was prepared to take the risk of dressing in the clothes of an aristocrat.

‘Bar the gates!’ he shouted, as he threw the coat and the wig into the carriage. ‘I’ll hold the horses.’ The coachman
hurried to close the gates; they were seldom used and protested loudly. Colette stared at the gentleman. He was a man of about forty but of athletic build, and he held the horses competently. He saw her as she stood up, clutching her rescued peas. For a moment their eyes met. His sparked with interest, but his immediate concerns came first. ‘You … maid. I need trousers – any trousers – working trousers, not these damned culottes.’ He waved down at his breeches. Colette, familiar with the voices and ways of the aristocracy, recognised the new arrival as the Count du Bois, but why this call for trousers? Colette rather liked being mistaken for a maid, so she bobbed him a curtsy in her best chambermaid imitation before turning towards the door. As she walked down the short passage that led into the kitchen, a burst of Margot’s richest invective exploded ahead of her, and her peas were nearly sent flying for a second time as Lucien, desperately protecting his stomach, backed into her. Margot, in a fit of righteous fury, was charging at him with her broom handle. Colette could only retreat ahead of them.

‘Oooof, my stomach! Margot, ma chérie… I have a letter… it’s urgent.’

‘So it wasn’t me you came to see – you hypocrite!’ They were all in the open now, where Margot could raise the broom above her head. As Lucien turned to run he saw Colette standing nearby.

‘Mam’selle,’ he shouted at her. ‘Excusez-moi… take this, it’s urgent, it’s for Monsieur Mort–’ His instructions were cut short as Margot’s broom handle came down with a crack across his shoulders and the note went flying.

‘What the hell’s going on over there? And where in the name of God are those trousers!’ Margot and Lucien, recognising the voice of authority, swivelled as one, frozen
in mid-battle, and stared at the irate aristocrat. It was time for Colette to leave; she picked up Lucien’s note, dropped it into her bowl, and ran for the kitchen, where she almost bumped into Madame Morteau.

‘Where are you going, Colette – and where is la Margot?’ For one wonderful moment, Colette felt like throwing the bowl – peas, letter and all – over her benefactor, but Madame had her own authority. Colette controlled herself. She needed to think fast; she mustn’t get Margot into trouble. Then she remembered the Count and his demand for clothes.

‘Madame … it is the Count … he has no trousers!’ she exclaimed. If Colette had wanted to stop Madame Morteau in her tracks, she could not have arranged it better. For the first time ever she saw her benefactor at a complete loss for words. She even groped for a chair and sat down.