King of the Castle (4 page)

“Quite a long time … eight months.”

I laughed.

“You call that long?”

“The others didn’t stay as long. No one else stayed longer than six.”

My mind switched from the carving on the banister to the daughter of the house. So this was why Mademoiselle Dubois remained. Genevieve was so spoilt that it was difficult to keep a governess. One would have thought that the stern King in his Castle could have controlled his daughter. But perhaps he did not care enough. And the Comtesse?

Strangely enough before Mademoiselle Dubois had mentioned the daughter I had not thought of a Com tesse. Naturally there must be one, since there was a child. She was probably with the Comte now and that was why I had been received by the cousin.

“In fact,” she went on, “I am constantly telling myself that I shall go. The trouble is …”

She did not finish, nor did she need to because I under stood very well. Where could she go? I pictured her in some dreary lodging. or perhaps she had a family. But in any case she would have to earn a living. There were many like her desperately exchanging pride and dignity for food and shelter. Oh yes, I understood absolutely. None better, for it was a fate I could envisage for myself. The gentlewoman without means. What could be more difficult to bear than genteel poverty! Brought up to consider oneself a lady, educated as well as

perhaps better than the people one must serve. Continually aware of being kept in one’s place. Living with neither the vulgar gusto of the servants below stairs nor with the comfort of the family. To exist in a sort of limbo. Oh, it was intolerable, and yet how often inevitable. Poor Mademoiselle Dubois! She did not know what pity she aroused in me and what fears.

“There are always disadvantages in every post,” I comforted.

“Oh yes, indeed yes. And here there is so much …”

“The chateau seems to be a storehouse of treasures,”

“I believe the pictures are worth a fortune.”

“So I have heard.” My voice was warm. I put out a hand to touch the linenfold panelling of the room through which we were passing. A beautiful place, I thought; but these ancient edifices were in constant need of attention. We had passed into a large room, the kind which in England we called a solarium, because it was so planned to catch the sun, and I paused to examine the coat of arms on the walls. It was fairly recent and I wondered whether there might be murals under the lime wash I thought it very possible. I remembered the excitement when my father had once discovered some valuable wall-painting which had been hidden for a couple of centuries. What a triumph if I could make such a discovery! The personal triumph would of course be secondary and I had thought of that only because of my reception. It would be a triumph for art as all such discoveries are.

“And the Comte is doubtless very proud of them.”

“I… I don’t know.”

“He must be. In any case he is concerned enough to want them examined and if necessary restored. Art treasures are a heritage. It is a privilege to own them and one has to remember that art great art doesn’t belong to one person.”

I stopped. I was on my favourite hobby horse, as Father would say. He had warned me.

“Those who are interested

probably share your knowledge; those who are not are bored. “

He was right, and Mademoiselle Dubois fitted into the second category.

She laughed, a small tinkly laugh without any mirth or pleasure in it.

“I should hardly expect the Comte to express his feelings to me.”

No, I thought. Nor should I. “Oh, dear,” she murmured.

“I hope I haven’t lost my way. Oh, no … this is it.”

“We are now almost in the centre of the chateau,” I said.

“This is the original structure. I should say we are immediately beneath the round tower.”

She looked at me incredulously.

“My father’s profession was the restoration of old houses,” I explained.

“I learned a great deal from him. In fact we worked together.”

She seemed momentarily to resent that in me which was the exact reverse of her own character. She said almost severely: “I know that a man was expected.”

“My father was expected. He was coming about three years ago and then for some reason the appointment was cancelled.”

“About three years ago,” she said blankly.

“That would be when …”

I waited, and as she did not continue I said: “That would be before you were here, wouldn’t it? My father was coming and somewhat peremptorily he was told it was not convenient. He died almost a year ago and as I have continued with work that was outstanding naturally I came in his place.”

She looked as though such a procedure was far from natural and I secretly agreed with her. But I had no intention of betraying myself to her as she had betrayed herself to me.

“You speak very good French for an Englishwoman.”

“I am bilingual. My mother was French, my father English.”

“That is fortunate … in the circumstances.”

“In any circumstances it is fortunate to be in command of languages.”

My mother had said I was too tutorial. It was a trait I should curb. I fancy it had increased since Father had died. He once said I was like a ship firing all guns to show I was equipped to defend myself just in case another should be preparing to open fire on me.

“You are right, of course,” said Mademoiselle Dubois meekly.

“This is the gallery where the pictures are.”

I forgot her then. I was in a long room lightened by several windows, and on the walls . the pictures! Even in their neglect they were splendid, and a quick look was enough to show me that they were very valuable. They were chiefly of the French school. I recognized a Poussin and Lorrain side by side and was struck as never before by the cold discipline of one and the intense drama of the other. I revelled in the pure golden light of the Lorrain landscape and wanted to point out to the woman beside me that light and feathery brushwork which might have been learned from Titian, and how the dark pigments had been used over rich colour to give that wondrous effect of light and shade. And there was a Watteau . so delicate, arabesque and pastel. and yet somehow conveying by a mood the storm about to break. I walked as if in a trance from an early Boucher painted before his decline set in and a perfect example of the rococo style, to a gay erotic Fragonard.

Then I was angry because they were all in need of urgent attention.

How was it they had been allowed to get into this state! Some I could see had darkened badly; there was a dull foggy film on others which we called ‘bloom’. A few were scratched and streaked with water. The brown acid left by flies was visible; and in some places the paint

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had flaked off. There were isolated burns as though some one had held a candle too closely.

I moved silently from picture to picture forgetful of everything else.

I calculated that there was almost a year’s work in what I had seen so far and there was probably a great deal more than that as there always was when one began to examine these things more closely.

“You find them interesting,” said Mademoiselle Dubois rapidly.

“I find them of immense interest, and certainly in need of attention.”

“Then I suppose you will get down to work right away.”

I turned to look at her.

“It is by no means certain that I shall do the work. I am a woman, you see, and therefore not considered capable.”

“It is unusual work for a woman.”

“Indeed it is not. If one has a talent for this kind of work, one’s sex is of no importance whatever.”

She laughed that foolish laugh.

“But there is men’s work and women’s work.”

“There are governesses and tutors, aren’t there?” I hoped I made it clear that I had no intention of continuing this aimless conversation, by changing the subject.

“It depends of course on the Comte. If he is the man of prejudice”

A voice not far off cried: “I want to see her. I tell you, Nounou, I will see her. Esquilles has been ordered to take her to the gallery.”

I looked at Mademoiselle Dubois. Esquilles! Splinters! I saw the allusion; she must have heard herself called that often enough.

A low soothing voice and then: “Let go, Nounou. You silly old woman.

Do you think you can stop meY The door of the gallery was flung open and the girl whom I at once recognized as Genevieve de la Talle stood there. Her dark hair was worn loose and was almost deliberately

untidy; her beautiful dark eyes danced with enjoyment; she was dressed in a gown of mid-blue which was becoming to her dark looks. I would have known immediately, even if I had not been warned, that she was unmanageable.

She stared at me and I returned the gaze. Then she said in English:

“Good afternoon, miss.”

“Good afternoon, mademoiselle,” I answered in the same tongue. She seemed amused and advanced into the room. I was aware of a grey-haired woman behind her. This was obviously the nurse, Nounou. I guessed she had been with the girl from babyhood and helped with the spoiling.

“So you’ve come from England,” said the girl.

“They were expecting a man.”

“They were expecting my father. We worked together, and as he, being dead, is unable to come, I am continuing with his commitments.”

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“Shall we speak in French?” I asked in that language.

“No,” she replied imperiously. f! can speak English well. ” She said, ” I am Mademoiselle de la Talle. “

“I did assume that.” I turned to the old woman, smiled and said good day.

“I find these pictures most interesting,” I said to her and Mademoiselle Dubois, ‘but it is obvious that they have been neglected.

”

Neither of them answered, but the girl, evidently annoyed to be ignored, said rudely: “That will be no concern of yours since you won’t be allowed to stay.”

“Hush, my dear,” whispered Nounou.

“I will not hush unless I want to. Wait until my father comes home.”

“Now, Genevieve …” The nurse’s anxious eyes were on me, apologizing for the bad manners of her charge.

“You’ll see,” said the girl to me.

“You may think you are going to stay, but my father …”

“If,” I said, ‘your father’s manners resemble yours, nothing on earth would induce me to stay. “

“Please speak English when you address me, miss.”

“But you appear to have forgotten that language as you have your manners.”

She began to laugh suddenly and twisted herself free of the nurse’s grasp and came up to me.

“I suppose you are thinking I’m very unkind,” she said.

“I am not thinking of you.”

“What are you thinking of then?”

“At the moment of these pictures.”

“You mean they are more interesting than I am?”

“Infinitely,” I answered.

She did not know what to reply. She shrugged and turning away from me said pettishly in a lowered voice:

“Well, I’ve seen her. She’s not pretty and she’s old.”

With that she tossed her head and flounced out of the room.

“You must forgive her, mademoiselle,” murmured the old nurse.

“She’s in one of her moods. I tried to keep her away. I’m afraid she’s upset you.”

“Not in the least,” I answered.

“She is no concern of mine … fortunately.”

“Nounou,” called the girl, imperious as ever.

“Come here at once.”

The nurse went out, and raising my eyebrows I looked at Mademoiselle Dubois.

“She’s in one of her moods. There’s no controlling them. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry for you and the nurse.”

She brightened.

“Pupils can be difficult but I have never found one quite so …” She looked furtively at the door and I wondered whether Genevieve added eavesdropping to her other charming characteristics.

Poor woman, I thought, I didn’t want to add to her difficulties by telling her I thought she was foolish to suffer such treatment. I

said: “If you care to leave me here I’ll make an examination of the pictures.”

“Can you find your way back to your room do you think?”

“I’m sure I can. I took careful note as we came along. Remember, I’m used to old houses.”

“Well, then, I’ll leave you. You can always ring if you want anything.”

“Thank you for your help.”

She went out noiselessly, and I turned to the pictures, but I was too disturbed to work seriously. This was a strange household. The girl was impossible. What next? The Comte and the Comtesse? What should I find them like? And the girl was ill-mannered, selfish and cruel. And to have discovered this in five minutes of her company was disconcerting. What sort of environment, what sort of upbringing had produced such a creature?

I looked at those walls with their priceless neglected pictures and in those few moments I thought: Perhaps the wisest thing would be to leave first thing in the morning. I might apologize to Monsieur de la Talle, agree that I had been wrong to come, and leave.

I had wanted to escape from a fate which I knew, since my encounter with Mademoiselle Dubois (Splinters, poor thing), could be quite terrible. I had so desperately wanted to continue with work I loved;

and because of that I had come here under false pretences and laid myself open to insult.

I was so firmly convinced that I must go that I almost believed some instinct was warning me to do so. In that case I would not tempt myself by studying these pictures further. I would go to the room they had given me, and try to rest in preparation for the long journey back tomorrow.

I walked towards the door and as I turned the handle it refused to move. Oddly enough in those seconds I felt

a real panic. I could have imagined that I was a prisoner, that I could not escape if I wanted to; and then it seemed as though the very walls were closing in on me.

My hand was limp on the handle and the door opened. Philippe de la Talle was standing outside. Now I under stood that the reason I couldn’t open it was that he had been on the point of coming in.