King of the Castle (11 page)

Few escaped the Terror and eventually it reached the Chateau Gaillard. A band of revolutionaries were marching on the chateau, waving their banners, singing the new song from the south. The workers left the vineyard; from the little cottages of the town ran the women and children. The stall-holders and the shopkeepers spilled into the square. The aristocrats had had their day. They were masters now.

I shivered as I read how the young countess had left the castle and sheltered in a nearby house. I knew what house it was; I knew which family had taken her in. Had I not heard that the family histories were entwined? The de la Talles were never friends, though, only patrons. I could clearly remember Madame Bastide’s proud looks when she had said that.

So Madame Bastide, who must have been Jean Pierre’s great-grandmother, had sheltered the Comtesse. She had ruled her household so that even the men had not dared to disobey her. They were with the revolutionaries preparing to pillage the castle while she hid the Comtesse in her house and forbade them all to whisper outside the house a word of what was happening.

The old Comtesse refused to leave the chateau. She had lived there;

she would die there. And she went into the chapel there to await death at the hands of the rebels. Her name was Genevieve and she prayed to St. Genevieve for help. She heard the rough shouting and coarse laughter as the mob broke into the castle; she knew they were tearing down the paintings and the tapestries, throwing them from the windows to their comrades.

And there were those who came to the chapel. But before they entered they sought to tear down the statue of St. Genevieve which had been set up over the door. They climbed up to it but they could not move it.

Inflamed with wine they called to their comrades. Before they continued to pillage the chateau they must break down the statue.

At the altar the old Comtesse continued to pray to St. Genevieve while the shouting grew louder and every moment she expected the rabble to break into the chapel and kill her.

Ropes were brought; to the drunken strains of the “Marseillaise’ and ” Ca Ira’ they worked. She heard the great shout that went up.

“Heave, comrades … all together!” And then the crash, the screams and the terrible silence.

The chateau was out of danger; St. Genevieve lay broken at the door of the chapel, but beneath her lay the bodies of three dead men; she had saved the chateau, for superstitious fearful in spite of their professed ungodliness, the revolutionaries slunk away. A few bold ones had tried to rally the mob but it was useless. Many of them came from the surrounding district and they had lived their lives under the shadow of the de la Talles. They feared them now as they had in the past. They had one wish and that was to turn their backs on Chateau Gaillard.

The old Comtesse came out of the chapel when all was silent. She looked at the broken statue and kneeling beside it gave thanks to her patron saint. Then she went into the chateau and with the help of one servant attempted to set it to rights. There she lived alone for some years, caring for the young Comte who was stealthily brought back to his home. His mother had died in giving birth to him, which was not surprising considering all that she had suffered before his birth, and the fact that Madame Bastide had been afraid to call the midwife to her. There they lived for years in the chateau the old Comtesse, the young child and one servant; until the times changed and the Revolution passed and life at the chateau began to slip back into the old ways. Servants came back; repairs were made; the vineyards became prosperous. But although the strongroom in which they had been kept was untouched, the emeralds had disappeared and were lost to the family from that time.

I closed the book. I was so tired that I was soon asleep.

Three

I spent the next morning in the gallery. I was half-expecting a visit from the Comte after the interest he had shown the night before, but he did not come.

I had lunch in my room as usual, and when I had finished there was a knock on my door and Genevieve came in. “>w Her hair was neatly tied behind her back and she looked subdued as she had last night at dinner. It occurred to me that her father’s being in the house had a marked effect upon her.

First we mounted the staircase in the polygon al tower and reached the summit of the building. In the tower she pointed out to me the surrounding countryside speaking in slow, rather painful English, as the Comte had suggested. I believed that although at times she hated and feared him, she had a desire to win his respect.

“Mademoiselle, can you see a tower right away to the south? That is where my grandfather lives.”

“It is not very far.”

“It is nearly twelve kilometres. You can see it today only because the air is so clear.”

“Do you visit him often?”

She was silent, looking at me suspiciously. I said: “It is not so very far.”

“I go sometimes,” she said.

“Papa does not go. Please do not tell him.”

“He would not wish you to go?”

“He has not said so.” Her voice was faintly bitter.

“He doesn’t say much to me, you know. Please promise not to tell him.”

“Why should I tell him?”

“Because he talks to you.”

“My dear Genevieve, I have met him only twice. Naturally he talks about his paintings to me. He is concerned for them. He is not likely to speak to me of other things.”

“He doesn’t usually talk to people … who come to work here.”

“They probably don’t come to restore his paintings.”

“I think he was interested in you, mademoiselle.”

“He was concerned as to what I should do to his works of art. Now, look at this vaulted ceiling. Notice the shape of the arched door.

That enables you to place it within a hundred years or so. ” Actually I wanted to talk about her father, to ask how he usually behaved to people in the house; I wanted to know why he would not wish her to visit her grandfather.

“You speak too fast, mademoiselle, I cannot follow.”

We descended the staircase, and when we had reached the bottom she said in French: “Now you have been to the top you must see the lower part. Did you know that we had dungeons in the chateau, mademoiselle?”

“Yes, your father sent me a book which had been written for an ancestor of yours. It gave a very good idea of what the chateau contained.”

“We used to keep prisoners here, mademoiselle. If anyone offended a Comte de la Talle he was put into the dungeons. My mother told me. She took me there once and showed me. She said that you didn’t have to be in a dungeon, though, to be imprisoned. She said stone walls and chains were one way of keeping prisoners; there were others.”

I looked at her sharply, but her eyes were wide and innocent and the demure look was still on her face.

“In the royal chateau there were dungeons … oubliettes they called them because people were sent into them and forgotten. They are the

prisons of the forgotten. Did you know, mademoiselle, that the only way into these prisons was through trap doors which could not easily be seen from above?”

“Yes. I have read of these places. The victim was made to stand unsuspectingly on the trap door, which was opened by pressing a lever in another part of the room;

suddenly the floor opened beneath him and he would fall down. “

“Down into the oubliette. It was a long drop. I’ve seen it. Perhaps his leg would be broken and there would be no one to help him; he would lie there forgotten with the bones of others who had gone before him. Mademoiselle, are you afraid of ghosts?”

“Of course not.”

“Most of the servants are. They won’t go into the room above the oubliette … at least they won’t go alone. They say at night there are noises in the oubliette… queer groaning noises. Are you sure you want to see it?”

“My dear Genevieve, I have stayed in some of the most haunted houses in England.”

Then you are safe. Papa said, didn’t he, that French ghosts would be more polite than English ones and only come when expected. If you aren’t frightened and don’t believe in them you wouldn’t be expecting them, would you? That was what he meant. “

How she remembered his words! I thought then: The child needs more than discipline. She needs affection. It was three years since her mother had died. How she must have missed it since then with such a father!

“Mademoiselle, you are sure you are not afraid of the oubliette?”

“Quite sure.”

“It is not as it was,” she said almost regretfully.

“They cleared out a lot of bones and horrid things a long time ago when there was a search for the emeralds. It was my grandfather who did that, and of course the first place you

would look for them would be in the oubliette, wouldn’t it? They didn’t find them though, so they weren’t there. They say they were taken away but I think they’re here. I wish Papa would have a treasure hunt again. Wouldn’t that be fun? “

“I expect thorough searches have been made. From what I have read it seems certain that they were stolen by the revolutionaries who broke into the chateau.”

“But they didn’t break into the strongroom, did they? And yet the emeralds were gone.”

“Perhaps the emeralds were sold before the Revolution. Perhaps they hadn’t been in the chateau for years. I’m merely guessing. But suppose one of your ancestors needed money and sold them. He or she might not have told anyone of this. Who can say?”

She looked at me with surprise. Then she said triumphantly “Have you told my father that?”

“I’m sure the idea has occurred to him. It’s one obvious solution.”

“But the woman in the picture you are working on is wearing them. They must have been in the family then.”

“They could have been imitation.” ^ “Mademoiselle, no de la Talle would wear imitation jewels.”

I smiled and then gave a little exclamation of pleasure for we had come to a narrow and uneven staircase.

“This leads underground, mademoiselle. There are eighty steps. I’ve counted them. Can you manage? Hold the rope banister.”

I did so and followed her down; the staircase became spiral and narrow so there was only room for us to go in single file.

“Can’t you feel the cold, mademoiselle?” There was a note of excitement in her voice.

“Oh, imagine being brought down here knowing that you might never come up again. We are now down below the level of the moat.

This is where we used to keep people who had offended us. “

Having passed down the eighty steps we were confronted by a heavy oak door studded with iron; words had been carved on it and they stood out clearly and ironically.

“Entrez, Messieurs, Mesdames, chez votre maitre Ie Comte de la Talle.”

“You are thinking it a pleasant welcome, mademoiselle?” She was smiling at me slyly and it was as though another girl peeped out from behind that demure expression.

“I shuddered.

She came close to me and whispered: “But it is all over now, mademoiselle. This is no longer chez nous. We never entertain here now. Come along in. Look at these holes in the walls. They are called cages. Look at the chains. We used to chain them here and give them bread and water now and then. They never lived long, though. You see, it is dark even now, but with the door shut there is no light at all… no light… no air. Next time we come we must bring candles … or a lantern would be better. The air is so close. If I had brought a light I could have shown you the writing on the walls. Some of them scratched prayers to the saints and the Holy Mother. Some of them scratched what revenge they would take on the de la Talles.”

“It’s unhealthy down here,” I said, looking at the fungoid growth on the slimy walls.

“And as you say, we can see little without a light.”

“The oubliette is on the other side of the wall. Come on. I will show you. The oubliette is even more haunted than this place, mademoiselle, because there were the truly forgotten ones.”

She smiled secretly and led the way up the stairs. Throwing open a door she announced: “This is now the gun-gallery.”

I stepped inside and saw the guns of all shapes and sizes ranged about the walls. The ceiling was vaulted and supported by stone pillars; the floor appeared to be of flagged stone and was covered in places by rugs. There were the same stone window seats which were in my bedroom and the alcoves narrowing to a slit letting in a little light. I had to admit to myself, although I would not to Genevieve, that there was something chillingly forbid ding about this chamber. It had not been altered for hundreds of years and I could imagine the unsuspecting victim coming into the room. There was one chair, so ornately carved that it was almost like a throne. I wondered that such a piece of furniture was left in a room like this. It was a large wooden chair, and the carving on the back was of the fleursdelis and arms of the de la Talle family. I pictured the man who would sit there and naturally I pictured the present Comte talking to his victim, and then suddenly the pressing of a lever which would release the spring of the trap door; the agonizing scream, or the moment of silent terror as the victim realized what was happening to him as the floor opened and he fell down to join those who had gone before him, never again to see the light of day, to join the forgotten.

“Help me with the chair, mademoiselle,” said Genevieve.

“The spring is under it.”

Together we pushed aside the throne-like chair and Genevieve rolled up the rug.

“There,” she went on.

“I press here … and look … see it’s happening.”

There was a groaning, squeaking sound and it was as though a large square hole had appeared in the floor.

“In the old days it happened quickly and noiselessly. Look down there, mademoiselle. You can’t see much, can you? But there is a rope ladder.

It’s kept in the cupboard here. Twice a year some of the menservants

go down there, to clean it I suppose. Of course it’s all right now. No bones, mademoiselle, no mouldering bodies. There are only ghosts and you don’t believe in them. “

She had brought out the rope ladder, hung it on two hooks, which had evidently been fixed for it beneath the floorboards, and let it fall.