“Why don’t you speak to your father naturally not as though you’re afraid of him?” I said.
“But everybody’s afraid of him.”
“I am not.”
“Really, miss?”
“Why should I be? If he doesn’t like my work he can say so and I should go away and never see him again.”
“Yes, it might be easy for you. My mother was afraid of him … terribly afraid of him.”
“Did she tell you so?”
“Not in words, but I knew. And you know what happened to her.”
I said: “Isn’t it time we went on? We shan’t be back before dark if we dally like this.”
She looked at me pleadingly for a moment and then said: “Yes, but do you think when people die … not like ordinary people die but when they are … Do you think that some people don’t rest in their graves?
Do you think they come back looking for . “
I said sharply: “Genevieve, what are you saying?”
“Miss,” she said, and it was like a cry for help, ‘sometimes at night I wake up startled and I think I hear noises in the chateau. “
“My dear Genevieve, everyone awakes startled now and then. It’s usually a bad dream.”
“Footsteps … tapping … I hear it. I do. I do. And I lie there shivering … expecting to see …”
“Your mother?”
This girl was frightened; she was stretching out to me for help. It was no use telling her she was speaking nonsense, that there were no ghosts. That would not help her at all because she would think it was merely grownup talk to soothe the children.
I said: “Listen, Genevieve, suppose there are ghosts, suppose your mother did come back?”
She nodded, her eyes enormous with interest.
“She loved you, didn’t she?”
I saw her hands tighten on the reins.
“Oh, yes, she loved me … no one loved me like she did.”
“She would never have hurt you, would she? Do you think that now she is dead she would have changed towards you?”
I saw the relaxed expression; I was pleased with myself. I had found the comfort she so desperately needed.
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 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.