King of the Castle (39 page)

There was an air of effeminacy about him which made more plausible Claude’s account, and the fact that his features did in some way resemble those of his cousin made this complete difference in their characters the more apparent. I could believe that he wanted more than anything to live at the chateau, to own the chateau, to be known as the Comte de la Talle, and for all this he had bartered his honour, and

married the Comte’s mistress and would accept the Comte’s illegitimate son as his . all for the sake of one day, if the Comte should die, being King of the Castle, for I was sure that if he had refused to accept the terms laid down by the Comte, he would not have been allowed to inherit.

We talked of the grapes and the harvests he remembered from his childhood and when we came to the sheds I was shown the baskets which were being prepared and I listened while Philippe talked to the workers.

He walked his horse back to the chateau and I thought him friendly, reserved, a little deprecating, and found myself making excuses for him.

I went up to my room and as soon as I entered it I was aware that someone had been there during my absence.

I looked about me; then I saw what it was. The book I had left on my bedside table was on the dressing-table. I knew I had not left it there.

I hurried to it and picked it up. I opened the drawer. Everything appeared to be in order. I opened another and another. Everything was tidy.

But I was sure that the book had been moved.

Perhaps, I thought, one of the servants had been in. Why? No one usually came in during that time of day.

And then on the air I caught the faint smell of scent. A musk-rose scent which I had smelt before. It was feminine and pleasant. I had smelt it when Claude was near.

I was certain then that while I was out Claude had been in my room.

Why? Could it be that she knew I had the key and had she come to see if I had hidden it somewhere in my room?

I stood still and my hands touched the pocket of my petticoat through my skirt. There was the key safe on my person. The scent had gone.

Then again there it was faint, elusive, but significant.

It was the next day when the maid brought a letter to my room from Jean Pierre, who said he must see me without

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delay. He wanted to speak to me alone so would I come to the vineyards as soon as possible where we could talk without being interrupted. He begged me to come.

I went out into the hot sunshine, across the drawbridge and towards the vineyards. The whole countryside seemed to be sleeping in the hot afternoon; and as I walked along the path through the vines now laden with their rich ripe fruit Jean Pierre came to meet me.

“It’s difficult to talk here,” he said.

“Let’s go inside.” He took me into the building and to the first of the cellars.

It was cool there and seemed dark after the glare of the sun; here the light came through small apertures and I remembered hearing how it was necessary to regulate the temperature by the shutters.

And there among the casks Jean Pierre said: “I am to go away.”

“Go away,” I repeated stupidly. And then: “But when?”

“Immediately after the harvest.”

He took me by the shoulders.

“You know why, Dallas.”

I shook my head.

“Because Monsieur Ie Comte wants me out of the way.”

“Why?”

He laughed bitterly.

“He does not give his reasons. He merely gives his orders. It no longer pleases him that I should be here so, although I have been here all my life, I am now to move on.”

“But surely if you explain …”

“Explain what? That this is my home … as the chateau is his? We, my dear Dallas, are not supposed to have such absurd sentiments. We are serfs … born to obey. Did you not know that?”

“This is absurd, Jean Pierre.”

“But no. I have my orders.”

“Go to him … tell him … I am sure he will listen.”

He smiled at me.

“Do you know why he wants me to go away? Can you guess? It is because he knows of my friendship with you. He does not like that.”

“What should it mean to him?” I hoped Jean Pierre did not notice the excited note in my voice.

“It means that he is interested in you … in his way.”

“But this is ridiculous.”

“You know it is not. There have always been women … and you are different from any he has ever known. He wants your undivided attention … for a time.”

“How can you know?”

“How can I know? Because I know him. I have lived here all my life and although he is frequently away, this is his home too. Here he lives as he can’t live in Paris. Here he is lord of us all. Here we have stood still in time and he wants to keep it like that.”

“You hate him, Jean Pierre.”

“Once the people of France rose against such as he is.”

“You’ve forgotten how he helped Gabrielle and Jacques.”

He laughed bitterly.

“Gabrielle like all women has a fondness for him.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“That I don’t believe in this goodness of his. There’s always a motive behind it. To him we are not people with lives of our own. We are his slaves, I tell you. If he wants a woman then anyone who stands in his way is removed and when she is no longer required, well… You know what happened to the Comtesse.”

“Don’t dare say such things.”

“Dallas! What’s happened to you?”

“I want to know what you were doing in the gun-room at the chateau.”

“I?”

“Yes, I found your grape scissors there. Your mother said you had missed them and that they were yours.”

He was taken aback a little. Then he said: “I had to go

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to the chateau to see the Comte on business . that was just before he went away. “

“And he took you to the gun-room?”

“No.”

“But that’s where I found them.”

“The Comte wasn’t at home so I thought I’d have a look round the chateau. You’re surprised. It’s a very interesting place. I couldn’t resist looking round. That was the room, you know, where an ancestor of mine last saw the light of day.”

“Jean Pierre,” I said, ‘you shouldn’t hate anyone so much. “

“Why should it all be his? Do you know that he and I are blood relations? A great-great-grandfather of mine was half-brother to a Comte the only difference was that his mother was not a Comtesse.”

“Please don’t talk like this.” A terrible thought struck me and I said: “I believe you would kill him.”

Jean Pierre did not answer and I went on: “That day in the woods…”

“I didn’t fire that shot. Do you imagine I’m the only one who hates him?”

“You have no reason to hate him. He has never harmed you. You hate him because he is what he is and you want what he has.”

“It’s a good reason for hating.” He laughed suddenly.

“It’s just that I’m furious with him now because he wants to send me away. Wouldn’t you hate anyone who wanted to send you away from your home and the one you loved? I did not come here to talk of hating the Comte but of loving you. I shall go to Mermoz when the harvest is over and I want you to come with me, Dallas. You belong here among us. After all we are your mother’s people. Let us be married and we will laugh at him then. He has no power over you.”

No power over me! I thought: but you are wrong, Jean Pierre. No one has ever before had this power to regulate my happiness, to excite and depress me.

Jean Pierre had seized my hands; he drew me towards him, his eyes shining.

“Dallas, marry me. Think how happy that you will make us all-you, me, my family. You are fond of us, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I said, “I am fond of you all.”

“And do you want to go away… back to England? What will you do there, Dallas, my darling? Have you friends there? Then why have you been content to leave them so long? You want to be here, don’t you?

You feel that you belong here? “

I was silent. I thought of it. The life Jean Pierre was offering me. I imagined myself being caught up in the excitement of the vineyards, taking my easel out and developing that little talent I had for painting. Visiting the family at the Maison Bastide . But no, then I should see the chateau; I should never be able to look at it without a pain in my heart; and there would be times when I should see the Comte perhaps. He would look at me and bow courteously. And perhaps he would say to himself:

Who is that woman? I have seen her somewhere. Oh, she is that Mademoiselle Lawson who came to do the pictures and married Jean Pierre Bastide over at Mermoz.

Better to go right away than that better to take the opportunity which Claude had offered and which was still open although it would probably not remain so much longer.

“You hesitate,” said Jeanne Pierre.

“No. It can’t be.”

“You do not love me?”

“I don’t really know you, Jean Pierre.” The words had escaped me, and I had not meant to say them.

“But we are old friends, I thought.”

“There is so much that we don’t know about each other.”

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“All I have to know of you is that I love you.”

Love? I thought. Yet you do not speak of it as vehemently as you do of hate.

His hatred of the Comte was stronger than his love for me; and it occurred to me then that one had grown out of the other. Was Jean Pierre eager to marry me because he thought that the Comte was attracted by me? As that thought came to me I was conscious of a great revulsion against him and he no longer seemed like the old friend in whose home I had spent so many hours. He was a sinister stranger.

“Come, Dallas,” he said, ‘say we’ll be married. And I’ll go to the Comte and tell him that I shall be taking a bride with me to Mermoz.

”

There it was! He would go to the Comte in triumph.

“I’m sorry, Jean Pierre,” I said, ‘but this is not the way. “

“You mean you will not marry me?”

“No, Jean Pierre, I can’t marry you.”

He dropped my hands and a look of baffled rage crossed his features.

Then he lifted his shoulders, “But,” he said, “I shall continue to hope.”

I had a great desire to escape from the cellar. Such hatred of one man towards another was terrifying; and I, who had felt so self-sufficient in the past, so able to take care of myself, had now begun to learn the meaning of fear.

I was glad to come out into the hot light of day.

I went straight to my room and thought about Jean Pierre’s proposal.

He had not the manner of a man in love. He i’ had shown me how deeply he could feel when he talked of the Comte. To spite the Comte he would marry me. This horrifying thought brought with it its elation. He had noticed, then, the Comte’s interest in me. Yet since his return from Paris he had scarcely seemed aware of me.

The next morning I was working on the wall-painting to which I was putting the finishing touches when Nounou came to me in great distress.

“It’s Genevieve,” she said.

“She’s come in and gone straight to her room. She’s half crying, half laughing and I can’t get out of her what’s wrong. I wish you’d come and help me.”

I went with her to Genevieve’s room. The girl was certainly in a wild mood. She had thrown her riding-hat and crop into a corner of the room and when I entered was sitting on her bed glowering into space.

“What’s wrong, Genevieve?” I asked.

“I might be able to help.”

“Help! How can you help? Unless you go and ask my father …” She looked at me speculatively.

I said coldly: “Ask what?”

She didn’t answer; she clenched her fists and beat them on the bed.

“I’m not a baby!” she cried.

“I’m grown up. I won’t stay here if I don’t want to. I’ll run away.”

Nounou caught her breath in fear but asked: “Where to?”

“Anywhere I like and you won’t find me.”

“I don’t think I should be eager to if you remain in your present mood.”

She burst out laughing but was sober almost at once.

“I tell you, miss, I won’t be treated like a child.”

“What has happened to upset you? How have you been treated like a child?”

She stared at the tips of her riding-boots.

“If I want friends, I shall have them.”

“Who said you shouldn’t?”

“I don’t think people should be sent away just because …” She stopped and glared at me.

“It’s no business of yours. Nor yours, Nounou. Go away. Don’t stand staring at me as though I’m a baby.”

Nounou looked ready to burst into tears and I thought I could handle this better if she were not there, continually

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to remind Genevieve that she was her nurse. So I signed to her to leave us. She went readily.

I sat on the bed and waited. Genevieve said sullenly, “My father is sending Jean Pierre away because he’s my friend.”

“Who said so?”

“No one has to say so. I know.”

“But why should he be sent away for that reason?”

“Because I’m Papa’s daughter and Jean Pierre is one of the wine growers

“I don’t see the point.”

“Because I’m growing up, that’s why. Because …” She looked at me and her lips quivered. Then she threw herself on to the bed and burst into loud sobs which shook her body.

I leaned over her.

“Genevieve,” I said gently, ‘do you mean that they’re afraid you’ll fall in love with him? “

“Now you laugh!” she cried, turning a hot face to glare at me.

“I tell you I’m old enough. I’m not a child.”

“I didn’t say you were. Genevieve, are you in love with Jean Pierre?”

She didn’t answer, so I went on: “And Jean Pierre?”

She nodded.

“He told me that was why Papa is sending him away.”

“I see,” I said slowly.

She laughed bitterly.

“It’s only to Mermoz. I shall run away with him.

I shan’t stay here if he goes. “

“Did Jean Pierre suggest this?”

“Don’t keep questioning me. You’re not on my side.”

“I am, Genevieve. I am on your side.”

She raised herself and looked at me.