Zipporah's Daughter (Knave of Hearts) (26 page)

‘Tell me what happened,’ I begged. ‘Talk … please … I must know.’

‘How could I have guessed how it would be? That morning she went off into the town … just as she had so many times before. She wanted to go to the milliner’s. She talked about the hat she was having made. She asked me about the colour of the feathers.’

‘Yes,’ I said soothingly. ‘And then she went to the milliner’s … ’

‘In the carriage. She had two grooms with her and her lady’s maid.’

In the carriage! I remembered it. A glorious vehicle with his crest emblazoned on it in gold.

‘I did not know that the day before one of the agitators had been preaching in the town. He had stirred them up to riot. It is going on all over France … not in any great degree and we don’t hear where it is happening, but they are working the people up in the remotest places … ’

‘Yes,’ I urged him. ‘Yes?’ I felt he was putting off telling me the dreadful truth because he could not bear to speak of it.

‘While she was in the milliner’s the riot started. It was at the bakery. She came out and must have heard the people shouting. She and her maid got into the carriage. It was immediately surrounded by the mob.’

‘Oh no,’ I murmured, and I recalled the occasion when I had been with the Comte and we had heard a man preaching revolution. I had never forgotten the fanaticism in his eyes.

‘The coachman tried to break through the crowd. It was the only thing to do.’

‘And then … ?’ I asked.

He shook his head. ‘I can’t bear to think of it. Some of those criminals seized the horses … tried to stop them. The carriage was overturned and the frightened horses tried to dash through the crowd. One of the grooms was saved, though badly hurt. The rest … ’

I put my arms round him. I tried to comfort him, but that was impossible. He sat for what seemed a long time, saying nothing, just staring blankly ahead.

I don’t remember much of the rest of that day. A shock such as this one had stunned me as it had him.

It was a week since he had come to tell me of my mother’s death but I still could not entirely believe that it had happened. I know my father tried to convince himself that he was dreaming, and that this overwhelming tragedy was a nightmare which he had conjured up out of a fevered imagination. The only comfort we could derive was from each other. We talked often of my mother, for that seemed to soothe us both and we were constantly together. I knew he could not sleep and Amélie, who was very sympathetic and eager to do all she could to help, made soothing possets conducive to sleep and I made him take them before retiring. In this way he did get a measure of rest. Sometimes he slept late into the mornings and I was pleased because that shortened the day.

I was in his room one morning when he awoke and for a few seconds he seemed happy, not remembering where he was. Then I glimpsed the man I had known. But for how briefly! It was tragic to watch the realization of what had happened dawn on him. I knew that he was never going to be happy again and he was not an old man.

While he stayed on at Tourville I devoted myself to him entirely. I realized then how deeply I had loved my mother, although we had drifted apart when she had separated me from Dickon and I had nursed a grievance against her. Now she was gone, I could understand how she had felt, how she had been ready to sacrifice herself for me. I wished that I could have told her that I understood and how much I had loved her. What she would have wanted me to do more than anything was to care for my father, and this I would do. Theirs had been one of the most romantic love-stories I had ever heard of. The idyllic adventure of youth, then the reunion in middle age when they had both grown wiser and realized what they could offer each other. Their perfect love had a bitter, tragic ending. Did every good thing in life have to be paid for? I wondered.

To see him now, this poor broken man who had once been so suavely sure of himself, wounded me almost as much as the loss of my mother. We had taken to each other on sight, and now there was a close affection between us. He had first brought me to France and looked after me when I needed special care; now it was my turn to look after him.

He seemed to be unaware of the passing of the days. He wanted to be with me all the time, to talk of my mother—of his first meeting with her, the excitement, the passion they had shared … and then the long years without each other. ‘But we never forgot, Lottie, neither of us … ’ And then the coming together, and the perfection of that later relationship. ‘It was a miracle,’ he said, ‘finding her again.’

I was thoughtful. She had written to him, telling him of my existence and the need to save me from an adventurer. Dickon! I thought, Dickon again. He moulded our lives. It was always Dickon.

There was comfort in thinking of him now because it took my thoughts momentarily from our tragedy.

One day my father said: ‘Lottie, I wish you could come home. Come back with me … bring the children. I think life would be bearable if you did.’

I replied: ‘I could come for a while, but this is my home. When Charles returns … ’

‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘A selfish thought. But if only it could be …

‘We shall see each other often. You must come here and I will come to you.’

‘Dear daughter,’ he said, ‘how different you are from the others. But then you are
her
daughter too.’

‘Perhaps this will change Sophie. Perhaps now that she knows you need company … your own about you … ’

‘Sophie thinks of nothing but her own hurt. Armand … I never had much in common with him. He goes his own way. He is indifferent to me … to his wife … to our family … indifferent to life, I sometimes think. I have had one child who is dear to my heart. Oh, Lottie, I wish you would come home with me.’

He knew that I could not do that. I must wait here for Charles’s return.

I tried to make him talk of other things, but there were so many dangerous subjects. I dared not mention the state of the country because that would remind him of that terrible scene which had resulted in my mother’s death. Neither Sophie nor Armand was a happy subject. The children were a great help. Charlot delighted him and I was glad to see a friendship springing up between them. Claudine was interested in him and would sometimes allow him to pick her up, when she would peer into his face and scrutinize him.

She said to him: ‘Are you my grandfather?’

I saw tears in his eyes when he told her that he was.

‘You’re crying,’ she accused, looking at him in horror. ‘Big people don’t cry.’ She added: ‘Only babies do.’

I took her from him because I saw his emotion was too great for him to bear. He loved the child, though. He might be proud of Charlot but I think it was Claudine with her frank comments who had first place in his heart.

With the three of us together I think we could have found some semblance of happiness and I wished that I could go back with him.

The next best thing was that he should stay at Tourville and this he did, seeming in those first weeks to be unaware of the passing of time.

He talked to me a great deal of his past life. There had been many women between that first encounter with my mother and the reunion. ‘Yet never once did I stray in deed or even thought when she was with me. Perhaps that does not seem very remarkable to you, but for the man I was it was little short of a miracle.’ He went on: ‘I am pleased to see your friendship with Lisette.’

I am very fond of her,’ I replied. ‘It is not always easy for her. She was educated with Sophie and me and she was with us so much, and then there were occasions when it was brought home to her that she was only the niece of the housekeeper. I think she felt that a little.’

‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have done what I did.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It seemed best at the time.’

‘It was good of you to allow Tante Berthe to have her niece with her.’

There was a faraway look in his eyes and he said at length: ‘I think perhaps I should tell you how it came about. It started years ago when Lisette’s mother came to the
hôtel
to bring some gowns for my first wife. She was a seamstress employed by one of the fashionable dressmakers, and if any alterations were required, Lisette’s mother used to come to the house to do them. She was very pretty … a dainty, slender girl. I came upon her struggling in with a bundle of materials … far too heavy for her. I carried them for her up the stairs to my wife’s room. That was the beginning of our acquaintance. I was interested in her. Her name was Colette. The inevitable happened. I visited her. She lived in one of those little streets close to Notre Dame … narrow, winding, not very salubrious, where the dyers had their tubs. I was often splashed by the red, blue and green streams which flowed down the gutters. She had two rooms in a house which was run by an old crone. On those days I found it quite an adventure to visit such an area. It meant dressing as an artisan. I was quite young then, so don’t judge me too harshly. I learned that Colette had come down in the world. Like many girls, she had come to Paris for a life of greater excitement than she could enjoy on her father’s farm. She was one of a strictly religious family and longed to escape from it, but she soon found that life in Paris was not what she expected. She could sew well but that was not enough to give her a living. She found a protector … some tradesman who was a little better off than she was. He left her after a while and then she found another. She was not a prostitute. She just took the occasional lover to keep her going.

‘She was a brave woman, Colette, but not very strong and it would have been better for her to have stayed in the country. I did not want to get very involved, being at that time concerned with another lady, but there was something about Colette’s refined looks and air of vulnerability which I found appealing, and I was not, in those days, one to think of restraining myself. What I wanted I took thoughtlessly.

‘So I visited Colette in the house near that nauseating Rue des Marmousets. I would stay for an hour or so and give her enough money to keep her for a month. She was delighted with the arrangement. I forgot her for a while and when she came to the house again my interest was revived, so I went to see her once more.

‘While I was there I was aware of something strange. A noise … a sort of presence. I became rather uneasy. I was in a low-class area. Colette knew who I was. I began to fear that she might have someone hidden there who would take an opportunity to rob me … or even worse. It was a most unpleasant sensation. I dressed hurriedly, gave her the money and escaped.

‘But I was quite fascinated by Colette. She had an air of innocence and I could not believe that she would be a party to anything dishonest, let alone any act of violence. I had gone there simply dressed, taking with me just the money I would give to Colette, but she would have that in any case, so that ruled out robbery. Blackmail? That was laughable. No one would have been very shocked if it were learned that I visited a girl who had invited me to do so. My wife? She knew that I had many mistresses and had raised no objection. No, the thought of someone’s being secreted in those two little rooms for the purpose of harming me was ridiculous. I laughed at myself and when I next met Colette she aroused the same desires in me and very soon I paid her another visit.

‘I heard the strange noises again. I felt the same uneasiness, and I knew for certain that we were not alone. Suddenly I could bear it no more. I had to know. I went to the door between the two rooms. To my astonishment there was a key in it and the door was locked from the side on which I stood. I unlocked it and opened it and there looking up at me was one of the prettiest little girls I had ever seen. She was clearly terrified. She ran past me to Colette and started to cry, “Maman, I didn’t move, I didn’t.” I looked from the child to Colette, who said, “Yes, she is mine. It is a hard job to keep her. When my friends come she must stay hidden.”

‘I can’t tell you how moved I was. For one thing Colette was so frail, the child so pretty; and the fact that I had entertained suspicions made me ashamed of myself and filled me with pity for the brave young woman.

‘After that, my relationship with Colette grew. I wanted to help the child. I bought clothes for her. She was only four years old, I learned. Colette told me that she tried to arrange to do a lot of work at home which was often possible for a seamstress. Then she knew that the child was all right. When she had to leave her she was in a state of dreadful anxiety. I was horrified. I gave her money so that there was always enough for them to eat and so that someone could look after the child when Colette was away. That went on for about a year. Colette was embarrassingly grateful.

‘She told me her story. It was not an unusual one: the coming to Paris, believing she would make her fortune there, perhaps marry a man who was wealthy by the standards she had been accustomed to. She said her family would not help her if they knew because they would be horrified to learn that she had an illegitimate child, but on consideration she thought her elder sister might. Berthe had always been the forceful member of the family and had looked after them all; she had been very upset when Colette had left home. Colette could not bear to tell them of her circumstances.

‘She had not been in Paris long when she found her tradesman. She had believed he would marry her. He had been devoted, but when the child was born he did not care for such responsibilities and his family arranged for him to marry another tradesman’s daughter. He came to see Colette for a while but the visits became less frequent, and then suddenly she learned that he had left Paris and she heard no more of him.

‘So there was poor Colette with a child to support when she found it was all she could do to support herself. She tried bravely. She was a good girl, Colette, admirable in many ways. I did not realize how ill she was. She was suffering from consumption as so many of those girls do, working in stuffy rooms, not having sufficient food … and warm clothing.

‘I did not see her for some time as I had been in the country and when eventually I went to her room I found her confined to her bed. She had at last sent for her sister and that was the first time I saw Berthe. I realized that Colette was dying, for in no other circumstances would she have sent for her sister. Berthe was clearly an admirable woman—stern, not very demonstrative but one who would do her duty as she saw it.