King of the Castle (16 page)

I went on: “When you were a child she looked after you:

if she saw you about to fall she would rush to pick you up, wouldn’t she? ” She nodded.

“Why should she change towards you because she is dead? I think what you hear is creaking boards in a very old house, the rattle of doors, windows … anything like that. There could be mice … But just suppose there are ghosts. Don’t you think your mother would be there to protect you from harm?”

“Yes,” she said, her eyes shining.

“Yes, she would. She loved me.”

“Remembef that if you awake startled in the night.”

“Oh, yes,” she said.

“I will.”

I was pleased, and felt that to continue the conversation might spoil the effect I had made so I moved on and in a short while we were cantering side by side.

We did not speak again until we reached Maison Carrefour.

It was an old house standing back from the crossroads. A thick stone wall surrounded it, but the elaborately-wrought iron gates were open.

We went through these gates and under a wide archway and were in an inner courtyard. There were green shutters at the windows, and I was immediately conscious of a deep silence. I had imagined the home of

the bright little girl who had recorded her daily life in her notebooks to be different from this.

Genevieve glanced at me quickly to guess my reactions, but I hoped I betrayed nothing.

We left our horses in the stables and Genevieve led me to a door.

She lifted the heavy knocker and I heard the sound reverberating through the lower part of the house. There was silence; then came the shuffle of footsteps, and a manservant appeared.

“Good day, Maurice,” said Genevieve.

“Mademoiselle Lawson has come with me today.”

The courtesies exchanged, we were in the hall, the floor of which was covered with mosaic tiles.

“How is my grandfather today, Maurice?” asked Genevieve.

“Much the same, mademoiselle. I will see if he is ready.”

The manservant disappeared for a few moments before he came back to the hall and said that his master would see us now.

There was no fire in the room and the chill struck me as I entered. At one time it must have been beautiful, for it was perfectly proportioned. The ceiling was carved and there was an inscription on it which I couldn’t see clearly except that it was in medieval French;

the closed shutters kept out all but the minimum of light and the room was austerely furnished. In a wheelchair sat an old man. He startled me for he was more like a corpse than a living human being; his eyes were sunken in his cadaverous face and were too brilliant. In his hands he held a book which he had closed as we entered. He was wearing a brown dressing-gown tied with a brown cord.

“Grandfather,” said Genevieve, “I have come to see you.”

“My child,” he answered in a surprisingly firm voice, and held out a thin white hand on which blue veins stood out.

“And,” went on Genevieve, “I have brought Mademoiselle iA5

Lawson who has come from England and is cleaning my father’s pictures.

”

The eyes which were all that seemed alive about him were trying to probe my mind.

“Mademoiselle Lawson, you will forgive my not rising. I can do so only with great difficulty and the help of my servants. I am pleased you have come with my grand daughter. Genevieve, bring a chair for Mademoiselle Lawson … and for yourself.”

“Yes, Grandfather.”

We sat before him. He was charmingly courteous; he asked me about my work, expressed great interest and said that Genevieve must show me his collection. Some of it might be in need of restoration. The thought of living, even temporarily, in such a house as this, depressed me. For all its mystery the chateau was alive. Alive! That was it. This was like a house of the dead.

Now and then he addressed Genevieve and I noticed how his eyes rested on her. He had given me his polite attention but the intentness of his scrutiny of her surprised me. He cares deeply for her, I thought. Why should she think herself unloved for I had come to the conclusion that this was one of the main reasons for her bad behaviour when she had such a doting grandparent.

He wanted to hear what she was doing, how she was progressing with her lessons. I was surprised that he spoke of Mademoiselle Dubois as though he knew her intimately while I had gathered from Genevieve that he had never actually met her. Nounou he knew well, of course, for she had once been part of his household, and he spoke of her as though she were an old friend.

“How is Nounou, Genevieve? I trust you are kind to her. Remember she is a good soul. Simple, perhaps, but she does her best. She always did. And she is good to you. Always remember that and treat her kindly, Genevieve.”

“Yes, Grandfather.”

“I hope you don’t grow impatient with her.”

“Not often. Grandfather.”

“Sometimes?” He was alert, uneasy.

“Well, only a little. I just say: ” You are a silly old ‘oman”.”

“That’s unkind. Did you pray afterwards to the saints for forgiveness?”

“Yes, Grandfather.”

“It is no use asking for forgiveness if you commit the same sin immediately afterwards. Guard your temper, Genevieve. And if you are ever tempted to do foolish things remember the pain that causes.”

I wondered how much he knew of the wildness of his granddaughter and whether Nounou paid him visits and told him. Did he know that she had shut me in the oubliette^ He sent for wine and the biscuits which were usually served with it.

These were brought by an old woman whom I guessed to be one of the Labisses. She wore a white cap on her grey hair, and somewhat morosely set down the wine without a word. Genevieve murmured a greeting and the woman bobbed a curtsy and went out.

While we were drinking the wine the old man said: “I had heard that the pictures were to be restored but I did not expect a lady to do them.”

I explained about my father’s death and that I was completing his commitments.

“There was a little consternation at first,” I said, ‘but the Comte seems pleased with my work. “

I saw his lips tighten and his hand clench on the rug.

“So … he is pleased with you.” His voice and his whole expression changed. I saw that Genevieve was sitting on the edge of her chair nervously watching her grandfather.

“At least he implies that he is, by allowing me to continue with the pictures,” I said.

“I hope,” he began, and his voice sank and I did not catch the rest of the sentence.

“I beg your pardon.”

He shook his head. The mention of the Comte’s name had evidently upset him. So here was another who hated that man. What was it in him that inspired such fear and such hatred? Conversation became uneasy after that and Genevieve, seeking to escape, asked if she might show me the grounds.

We left the main hall and went through several passages until we came to a stone-floored kitchen; she took me through this to a garden.

“Your grandfather is pleased to see you,” I commented.

“I believe he would like you to come often to see him.”

“He doesn’t notice. He forgets. He is very old and hasn’t been the same since … his stroke. His mind isn’t clear.”

“Does your father know you come?”

“He doesn’t ask.”

“You mean he never comes here?”

“He hasn’t been since my mother died. Grandfather wouldn’t want him, would he? Can you imagine my father here?”

“No,” I answered truthfully.

I looked back at the house and saw the curtains in an upper room move.

We were being watched. Genevieve followed my gaze.

“That’s Madame Labisse. She’s wondering who you are. She doesn’t like it the way it is now; she would like to go back to the old days. Then she was parlour maid and Labisse was footman. I don’t know what they are now.

They wouldn’t stay except for the fact that Grandfather has left them a legacy provided they’re in his service when he dies. “

“It’s a strange household,” I said.

“That’s because Grandfather is only half-alive. He has been like it

for three years. The doctor says he cannot live for many more years so I suppose the Labisses think it worthwhile.”

Three years, I thought. That was the time of Francoise’s death. Was he so affected that he had had a stroke? If he loved her as he obviously did his granddaughter, I could understand it.

“I know what you’re thinking,” cried Genevieve.

“You’re thinking that that was the time my mother died. Grandfather had his stroke a week before she died. Wasn’t it strange … everyone was expecting him to die, but she was the one.”

How strange! She had died of an overdose of laudanum a week after her father had a stroke. Had it affected her so much that she had taken her life?

Genevieve had turned back to the house and I walked silently beside her. There was a door in the wall and she quickly passed through it holding it for me to do the same. We were in a small cobbled courtyard; it was very quiet here. Genevieve walked across the cobbles and I followed, feeling as though I were joining in a conspiracy.

We were standing in a dark lobby.

“Where is this?” I asked, but she put a hand to her lips.

“I want to show you something.”

She crossed the lobby and led the way to a door which she pushed open.

It was a room bare of everything but a pallet bed and a priedieu and a wooden chest. The floor was of stone flags and there were no rugs or carpets.

“Grandfather’s favourite room,” she said.

“It’s like a monk’s cell,” I said.

She nodded delightedly. She looked about her furtively and opened the chest.

“Genevieve,” I said, ‘you have no right. “

But curiosity would not let me resist looking at what lay there. I thought in astonishment, it’s a hair shirt. There was something else that made me shudder. A whip!

Genevieve let the lid of the chest fall.

“What do you think of this house, mademoiselle?” she asked.

“It is as interesting as the chateau, don’t you think?”

“It is time we left,” I said.

“We must say goodbye to your grandfather.”

She was silent all the way home. As for myself I could not get that strange house out of my thoughts. It was like something that clings to the memory after a nightmare.

The guests who had been staying at the castle left and I was immediately aware of the change. I became less aloof from the life of the place. For instance when I was leaving the gallery one morning I came face to face with the Comte.

He said: “Now that all the visitors have gone, you should dine with us now and then, Mademoiselle Lawson. En famille, you understand? I am sure you could enlighten us all on your favourite subject. Would you care to do so?”

I replied that it would be a pleasure.

“Well, join us tonight,” he said.

I felt elated as I went to my room. My encounters with him were always stimulating although often they left me tingling with rage. I took my black velvet dress and laid it on my bed, and while I was doing this there was a knock on my door and Genevieve came in.

“Are you going out to dinner tonight?” she asked.

“No, I’m dining with you.”

“You look pleased. Did Papa ask you?”

“It is a pleasure to receive an invitation when they are rather rare.”

She stroked the velvet thoughtfully.

“I like velvet,” she said.

“I was just going to the gallery,” I told her.

“Did you want to see me about something?”

“No, I only wanted to see you.”

“You can come to the gallery with me.”

“No, I don’t want to.”

I went alone to the gallery and was there until it was time to change for dinner. I sent for hot water and washed in the ruelle in an absurd but happy state of expectation. But when I came to put on my dress I stared at it in horror. I could not believe what I saw. When I had laid it out it had been ready to slip on; now the skirt hung in jagged and uneven strips. Someone had ripped it from waist to hem; the bodice, too, had been slashed across.

I picked it up and stared at it in bewilderment and dismay.

“It’s not possible,” I said aloud. Then I went to the bell rope and pulled.

Josette came hurrying to me.

“Why, mademoiselle …”

As I held out the dress to her she clapped her hands over her mouth to stop the exclamation.

“What does it mean?” I demanded.

“Oh … but it’s wicked. Oh, but whyY ” I can’t understand it,” I began.

“I didn’t do it, mademoiselle. I swear I didn’t do it. I only came to bring the hot water. It must have been done then.”

“I didn’t think for a moment that you did it, Josette. But I’m going to find out who did.”

She ran out crying almost hysterically.

“I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it. I won’t be blamed.”

And I stood in my room staring at the ruined dress. Then I went to my wardrobe and took out the grey with the lavender stripe. I had only just hooked it up when Josette appeared dramatically waving a pair of scissors.

“I knew who’d done it,” she announced.

“I went to the schoolroom and found these … just where she’d laid them down. Look, mademoiselle, pieces of velvet are still in them. See these little bits. They’re velvet.”

I knew, as I had known almost as soon as I had seen the ruined dress.

Genevieve. But why had she done this?

Did she hate me so much?

tt 131 I went along to Genevieve’s room. She was sitting on her bed staring blankly before her while Nounou was pacing up and down crying.

“Why did you do it?” I asked.

“Because I wanted to.”

Nounou stood still staring at us.

“You behave like a baby. You don’t think before you act, do you?”

“Yes, I do. I thought I’d like to do it, so when you went to the gallery, I went for my scissors.”

“And now you’re sorry?”

“I’m not.”

“I am. I haven’t many dresses.”

“You might wear it all cut up. It might be becoming. I’m sure some people would think so.” She began to laugh helplessly and I could see that she was near to tears.