It was a strange fate when everything depended on one incident-like the Comte’s killing of his twin brother.
“Just think,” he said, ‘but for that my life would have been completely different. Poor little Jean Pierre. I often wonder if he looks down on me and says: “There! You owe it all to me.”
“It was a terrible thing, and yet, as you say, it brought good to you.”
“When I go to my old home, I know how good-not only for me but for them all. I am able to help them, you see. The Comte knows of this and is pleased. There is also an allowance for them from him. They have the best house in the village and several acres. They can make a living and are envied by their neighbours. I have heard many of them say that God smiled on them that day when Jean Pierre was run over.”
I shivered slightly.
“Realism, Mademoiselle. It is the strongest characteristic of the French. Had Jean Pierre not run into the road at that precise moment and under the Comte’s horses, he would have lived wretchedly with his family who would have been in a similar plight. You understand their conclusions.”
“I think of your mother. What are her feelings?”
“With a mother it is different. She takes flowers every week to his grave and she grows evergreen bushes there to tell everyone that his memory remains green in her heart.”
“But at least she rejoices when she sees you.”
“Yes, but it reminds her of my twin brother, of course. People are talking of it now as much as they did when it happened. They blame the Comte more and forget what he has done for our family. It is the rising wave of anger against the aristocracy. Anything that can be brought against them is brought.”
T have been aware of that since I came to France, and I heard of it even before. “
“Yes, there are changes coming. I hear of what is brewing when I visit my family. They can be more frank with me than with any who were not of them, as it were. It is a growing tide of resentment. Sometimes there is little reason in it-but God knows at others there is. There are so many injustices in the country. The people are dissatisfied with their rulers. Sometimes I wonder how long it can last. Now it is not safe to travel alone through the villages unless one is dressed as a peasant. Never in my lifetime have I known that before.”
“What will be the end of it?”
“Ah, my dear Mademoiselle, for that we must wait and see.”
As we were nearing the chateau we heard the sound of horse’s hoofs and a man came riding towards us. He was tall, rather soberly dressed and wore no wig over his plentiful reddish hair.
“It’s Lucien Dubois,” cried Leon.
“Lucien, my dear fellow. It is good to see you.”
The man pulled up and took off his hat when he saw me. Leon introduced me. Mademoiselle Maddox, a cousin of the Comte’s now visiting the castle.
Lucien Dubois said he was enchanted to meet me and asked if I was staying long.
“So much depends on circumstances,” I told him.
“Mademoiselle is English but she speaks our language like a native,” said Leon.
“Not quite, I’m afraid,” I replied.
“But most excellently,” said Monsieur Dubois.
“You will be going to your sister,” said Leon.
“I hope you are going to stay for a while.”
“Like Mademoiselle, I will say that so much depends on the circumstances.”
“You have already met Madame LeGrand said Leon to me.
“Monsieur Dubois is her brother.”
I thought there was a resemblance the flamboyant good looks, the distinctive colouring, although the man’s eyes were not as green as his sister’s-but perhaps he had not the art of accentuating their colour.
I wondered what he thought of his sister’s relationship with the Comte. Perhaps as a Frenchman he accepted it. I thought cynically that the Comte’s nobility probably made the situation tolerable. To be a King’s mistress was an honourable position; to be a poor man’s a shameful one. I would not accept the distinction and if it was due to my immaturity and lack of realism, I was glad of them.
“Well, we shall be seeing you before long, I don’t doubt,” said Leon.
“If I am not honoured with an invitation to the castle you must come to my sister’s house,” said Monsieur Dubois. Then bowing to us he rode on.
“There you see a man who is disgruntled with life,” Leon told me. ‘ “Why?”
“Because he thinks it has not dealt him what he deserves. The plaint of many, you may say. All the failures of the world blame fate.”
“The fault is in ourselves not in our stars, as our national poet put it.”
“There are a lot of them about. Mademoiselle. Envy is the most common emotion in the world. It’s the basic ingredient of every deadly sin.
Poor Lucien! He has a grievance. I think he has never forgiven the family of Fontaine Delibes. “
What did they do to him? “
“It is not what they did to him but what was done to his father. Jean Christophe Dubois was incarcerated in the Bastille and died there.”
“For what reason?”
“Because the Comte-the present one’s father-wanted Jean Christophe’s wife-that was the mother of Lucien and Gabrielle. She was a beautiful woman. Gabrielle has inherited her looks. There is such a thing called a lettre de cachet. This could be acquired by influential people and through it they could have their enemies imprisoned. The victims would never know the reason for their detention. The lettre was enough to put them there. It is an iniquitous practice. The very words lettre de cachet can strike terror, into the heart of any man. There is no redress against it. Of course the Comtes Fontaine Delibes had always had a foot in Court circles and those of the Parlement. Their influence and their power was -and is-great. The present Comte’s father wanted this woman, her husband objected and was preparing to take her away. Then one night a messenger arrived at his home. He carried a lettre de cachet. Jean Christophe was never seen again.”
“How cruel!”
The times are cruel. It is for that reason that the people are determined to change them. “
Then it is time they did. “
“It takes more than a few weeks to set right the errors of centuries.
Jean Christophe had a son and daughter. The Comte died three years after he had taken Jean Christophe’s wife and there was a new Comte, Charles Auguste, the present one. Gabrielle was a young widow of eighteen years. She came to plead for her father. Charles Auguste was struck by her beauty and elegance. He was very young then and impressionable. It was too late. Jean Christophe died in prison before his release could be brought about. However, Charles Auguste had fallen in love with Gabrielle and a year after their meeting Etienne was born. “
“I am amazed by the drama which seemed to surround the castle.”
“Where the Comtes Fontaine Delibes are there will always be drama.”
“Gabrielle at least forgave the injury done to her father.”
“Yes, but I fancy it may be different with Lucien. I often think he harbours resentment.”
As we rode on to the chateau I could not stop thinking of the poor man who had been ruthlessly condemned to spend the last years of his life in a prison because another wished him out of the way, and it seemed to me that intrigue and drama which would previously have been beyond my conception was building up around me.
Margot called me to her room. She looked radiant and I marvelled at the manner in which she could change from depression to excitement.
On her bed were several rolls of material.
“Come and look at these, Minelle,” she cried.
I examined them. There was a roll of velvet of the fashionable puce colour with gold lace and another in a beautiful shade of blue with silver lace.