My days had formed themselves into a pattern. I was in the gallery early and worked steadily all through the morning. After lunch I usually went out, returning before dusk, which at this time of the year was soon after four o’clock. Then I would occupy myself with mixing solutions or reading notes of past experiments which filled my time until after dinner. Sometimes I took this alone in my room, but on several occasions Mademoiselle Dubois had asked me to dine in her room. I could not refuse these invitations although I wanted to; I listened to her life history: how she was the daughter of a lawyer, brought up not to work, how her father had been let down through a partner, how he had died of a broken heart and how she, being penniless, had been obliged to become a governess. Told in her self-pitying way the story seemed incredibly dull and I made up my mind not to inflict boredom on her by telling her my own.
After dinner I would read one of the books I had found in the library, for Philippe had told me that the Comte would be pleased if I made use of anything I wanted there.
As the days passed through that November, I was on the periphery of the chateau life, aware of it yet not aware of it, just as I heard the music in my room-conscious of it, yet only now and then did I know what was being ;| played. | One day when I had left the chateau on Bonhomme I I met Jean Pierre on horseback. He greeted me with | customary gaiety and asked whether I was going to call on his family.
I told him I was.
“Ride with me first over to the St. Vallient vineyards and then we will go back together.”
I had never been St. Vallient way and agreed. I always enjoyed his company and the Bastide household never seemed the same without him.
He had a vitality and gaiety which appealed to me.
We talked of Christmas, which would soon be with us.
“You will spend the day with us, mademoiselle?” he asked.
“Is that a formal invitation?”
“You know that I am never formal. It is just a heartfelt wish on behalf of the family that you will honour us.”
I remarked that I should be delighted and it was good of them to want me.
“The motives are entirely selfish, mademoiselle.” With one of those quick gestures which were characteristic of him he leaned towards me and touched my arm. I met his warm glance unwaveringly, telling myself that his manner of making me feel I was important to him was merely the natural courtesy Frenchmen showed automatically towards all women.
“I shall tell you nothing of our Christmas celebrations now,” he said.
“It must all be a surprise to you.”
When we reached the St. Vallient vineyards I was introduced to Monsieur Durand, who was in charge of them. His wife brought out wine and little cakes, which were delicious, and Jean Pierre and Monsieur Durand discussed the quality of the wine. Then Monsieur Durand took Jean Pierre off to talk business while his wife was left to look after me.
She knew a great deal about me, for clearly the affairs of the chateau were the pivot round which gossip revolved. What did I think of the chateau, the Comte? I gave guarded answers and she evidently thought she would glean little from me so she talked of her own affairs, how anxious she was on Monsieur Durand’s behalf because he was too old to continue with his work.
“The anxieties! Each year it is the same, and since the big trouble ten years ago, it has not been good here at St. Vallient. Monsieur Jean Pierre is a wizard. The chateau wine is becoming as good as it ever was. I trust soon that Monsieur Ie Comte will allow my husband to retire.”
“Must he await permission from Monsieur Ie Comte?”
“Indeed yes, mademoiselle. Monsieur Ie Comte will give him his cottage. How I long for that day! I will keep a few chickens and a cow … perhaps two; and that will be the best for my husband. It is too much for an old man. How can he, when he is no longer young, fight all the hazards? Who but the good God can say when the frost is coming to destroy the vines? And when the summers are too humid there are always the pests. The spring frosts are the worst, though. The day will be fine and then the frost comes like a thief in the night to rob us of our grapes. And if there is not enough sun then the grapes are sour.
It is a life for a young man . such as Monsieur Jean Pierre. “
“I hope then that you will soon be allowed to retire.”
“It is all in the hands of God, mademoiselle.”
“Or, perhaps,” I suggested, “Monsieur Ie Comte.” She lifted her hands as though to say that was the same thing.
After a while Jean Pierre returned and we left St. Vallient. We talked of the Durands and he said that the poor old man had had his day and it was time he retired.
“I was hearing how he had to wait for the Comte’s decision.”
“Oh yes,” replied Jean Pierre.
“Everything here depends on him.”
“You resent it?”
“The days of despotic rulers are supposed to have ended.”
“You could always break away. He could not prevent you.”
“Leave our home?”
“If you hate him so much …”
“Did I give that impression?”
“When you speak of him, your voice hardens and there is a look in your eyes …”
“It is nothing. I am a proud man, perhaps too proud. This place is my home as much as his. My family has been here through centuries just as his has. The only difference is that his lived in the chateau. But we were all brought up in the shadows of the chateau, and this is our home just as it is his.”
“I understand that.”
“If I do not like the Comte I am merely in the fashion. What does he care for this place? He is hardly ever here. He prefers his mansion in Paris. He does not deign to notice us. We are not worthy of his attention. But I would never let him drive me from my home. I work for him because I must and I try not to see him or think of him. You will feel the same. I expect you already do.”
He began to sing suddenly; he had a pleasant tenor voice which vibrated with emotion.
“Qui sont-ils, les gens qui sont riches? Sont-ils plus que moi quin’ ai rien? Je cours, je was, je vir, je vi ens
Je n’ai pas peur de perd’ ma fortune. ]e cours, je was, je vir, je vi ens Pas peur de perdre mon bien. “
He finished and smiled at me, waiting for my comments.
“I like that,” I said.
“I am so pleased; so do I.”
He was looking at me so intently that I lightly touched my horse’s flank. Bonhomme broke into a gallop. Jean
Pierre was close behind me; and so we returned to Gaillard.
As we passed the vineyard I saw the Comte. He could only have come from the vineyard buildings. He inclined his head in greeting when he saw us.
“You wished to see me, Monsieur Ie Comte?” asked Jean Pierre.
“Another time will do,” answered the Comte, and rode on.
“Should you have been there when he called?” I asked.
“No. He knew I was going to St. Vallient. It was on his instructions that I went.”
He was puzzled, but as we passed the buildings on the way to the Bastide house Gabrielle came out. Her cheeks were flushed and she looked very pretty.
“Gabrielle,” called Jean Pierre.
“Here is Mademoiselle Lawson.”
She smiled at me rather absently, I thought.
“The Comte called, I see,” said Jean Pierre. His manner had changed also.
“What did he want?”
“To look at some figures … that was all. He will call another time to see you.”
Jean Pierre wrinkled his brows and he kept looking at his sister.