“I have blue silks for the tray-cloth. I will find some pink as well. Nounou nearly saw it today.
That was very exciting. “
“I heard Papa praying in his room yesterday.
He called me in and made me pray with him. Kneeling hurts my knees, but Papa is so good he does not notice. “
“Papa said he will show me his greatest treasure on my next birthday. I shall be eight. I do wonder what it is.”
“I wish there were children to play with. Marie said that in the house where she used to work there were nine. All those brothers and sisters would be nice. There would be one who was my special one.”
“Marie made a cake for my birthday. I went to the kitchen to watch her make it.”
“I thought Papa’s treasure would be pearls and rubies but it is only an old robe with a hood. It’s black and smells fusty after being shut up. Papa said I must not mistake the shadow for the substance.”
Nounou was standing over me.
“It’s rather sad,” I said.
“She was a lonely child.”
“But good. You can learn that. That brings her to life. She had a sweet temper. And it comes through, doesn’t it?
She accepts things as they are do you know what I mean? “
“Yes, I think I know.”
“Not the sort, you see, to take her own life. There was nothing hysterical about her. And really Genevieve is the same … at heart.”
I was silent, sipping the coffee she had brought to me. I felt drawn towards her because of the deep devotion she had felt to the mother and daughter. I sensed in a way that she was trying to win me to her point of view.
In that case I should be frank with her.
“I think I ought to tell you,” I said, ‘that on the first day I was here Genevieve took me to see her mother’s grave. “
“She often goes there,” said Nounou quickly, lights of fear darting to her eyes.
“She did it in a peculiar way. She said she was taking me to see her mother … and I thought that I was going to be taken to a living woman.”
Nounou nodded, her eyes averted.
“Then she said that her father had murdered her mother.”
Nounou’s face wrinkled in fear.
She laid her hand on my arm.
“But you understand, don’t you? The shock of finding her … her own mother. And then the gossip. It was natural, wasn’t it?”
“I shouldn’t like to think it was natural for a child to accuse her father of murdering her mother.”
“The shock …” she repeated.
“She needs help, mademoiselle. Think of this household. The death … the whispers in the chateau … the gossip outside. I know that you are a sensible woman. I know that you will want to do all you can.”
The hands were clutching at my arm; the lips moved as though mouthing words that she dared not say.
She was a frightened women and because of my recent experience at the hands of her charge she was asking my help.
I said cautiously: “It would certainly have been a great shock. She must be treated with care. Her father does not seem to realize this.”
I Nounou’s face twisted in lines of bitterness. She hates him, I thought. She hates him for what he is doing to his daughter . and what he did to his wife.
“But we realize it,” said Nounou. I was touched and I put out my hand and pressed hers.
It was as though we made a pact then. Her face brightened and she said: “We’ve let our coffee get cold. I’ll make some more.”
And there in that little room I knew that I was being caught up in the life of the chateau.
Four
I told myself it was not my affair to assess whether or not the master of the house was a murderer, but to discover how much restoration the paintings needed and what methods should be used to produce the best results; and during the weeks that followed I became absorbed in my work.
Guests came to the chateau, which meant that I was not invited to dinner. I was not really displeased about this, as the Comte’s attitude towards me disturbed me. I felt that he was almost hoping that I would fail. I feared that he might undermine my confidence, and while I was occupied in my delicate task I had to believe it would be a complete success.
But after leaving me alone for a few days he came to the gallery one morning when I was at work.
“Oh, dear. Mademoiselle Lawson,” he exclaimed as he looked at the picture before me.
“What are you doing?”
I was startled, for the picture had been reacting perfectly to my treatment and I felt the colour rush to my cheeks. I was about to protest angrily when he went on: “You are going to restore such colour to this painting that you will remind us all over again of those tiresome emeralds.”
He was amused to see my relief that he had not implied criticism of my work.
I said sharply to hide my embarrassment: “Then you are becoming convinced that a woman might have some ability?”
“I always suspected you had great ability. Who but a woman of character and determination would have come to us in the first place, eager to defend what is I am sure misguidedly called the weaker sex? “
“My only wish is to do a good job.”
“If all the militant females in the past had had your good sense, what a lot of trouble might have been saved!”
“I hope I shall be able to save you trouble, for I can assure you that had these paintings been neglected much longer…”
“I am aware of it. That was why I decided to ask your father here.
Alas, he could not come. But in his place we have his daughter. How fortunate we are! “
I turned to the painting, but I was afraid to touch it. I dared not make a false move. Work such as this needed complete absorption.
He came and stood close to me, and although he pretended to be studying the picture, I believe he was watching me.
“It seems so interesting,” he said.
“You must explain to me.”
“I have carried out one or two tests, and naturally before beginning I have made sure that I am using what, in my opinion is the best treatment.”
“And what is the best treatment?” His eyes were fixed on my face, and again I felt the uncomfortable colour in my cheeks.
“I’m using a mild alcohol solvent. It wouldn’t be active on a hardened layer of oil paint, but this paint has been mixed with a soft resin.”
“How clever of you!”
“It is part of my work.”
“At which you are such an expert.” :
“Are you convinced of that then?” My voice sounded a little too eager and I felt my lips harden to counteract the effect my remarks might have had.
“You are in the process of convincing me. You like this, picture,
Mademoiselle Lawson?” | “It’s interesting. It’s not one of your best. It doesn’t compare, of course, with the Fragonards or Bouchers. But I think the artist was a master of colour. The alizarin is beautiful. He is daring in his use of colour. His brush strokes are a little harsh, but…” I broke off because I sensed he was laughing at me.
“I’m afraid I become rather boring when I talk about paintings.”
“You are too self-critical, Mademoiselle Lawson.”
Self-critical! It was the first time anyone had ever told me that. And yet I knew it was true. I knew that I was like a hedgehog, putting out my prickles in self-defence. So I had betrayed myself.
“You will soon have restored this picture,” he went on.
“And then I shall know whether you have decided if I am worthy to be given this commission.”
“I’m sure you have no doubt what the verdict will be,” he answered, and smiling, left me.
A few days later the picture was finished and he came to pass judgment. He stood for some seconds frowning at it, and I felt my spirits sinking although before he had come in I had felt pleased with my work, knowing I had done a good job. The colours were startling and the fabric of the gown and the artist’s facility in handling his paint reminded me of Gainsborough. All this had been hidden when I had started the work; now it was revealed.