Genevieve. But why had she done this?
Did she hate me so much?
I went along to Genevieve’s room. She was sitting on her bed staring blankly before her while Nounou was pacing up and down crying.
“Why did you do it?” I asked.
“Because I wanted to.”
Nounou stood still staring at us.
“You behave like a baby. You don’t think before you act, do you?”
“Yes, I do. I thought I’d like to do it, so when you went to the gallery, I went for my scissors.”
“And now you’re sorry?”
“I’m not.”
“I am. I haven’t many dresses.”
“You might wear it all cut up. It might be becoming. I’m sure some people would think so.” She began to laugh helplessly and I could see that she was near to tears.
“Stop it,” I commanded.
“It’s a foolish way to behave.”
“It’s the way to cut up a dress. Whish! You should have heard the scissors. It was lovely.” She went on laughing and Nounou put a hand to her shoulder only to have it shaken off.
I left them; it was useless to try to reason with her while she was in that mood.
The dinner to which I had looked forward was an uncomfortable meal. I was conscious all the time of Genevieve, who had appeared, sullen and silent. She was watching me furtively all through the meal, waiting, I knew, for me to betray her to her father.
I talked a little, mostly about the pictures and the chateau, but I felt I was being rather dull and disappointing to the Comte, who had wanted perhaps to provoke spirited answers to his teasing manner.
I was glad to escape to my room, which I did immediately the meal was over. I was turning over in my mind what I should do. I should have to reason with Genevieve; I should have to explain to her that she could not find lasting pleasure in behaving as she did.
It was while I was meditating about this that Mademoiselle Dubois came to my room.
“I must talk to you,” she said.
“What a commotion!”
“You’ve heard about my dress?”
“The whole household knows of it. Josette went to the sommelier and he went to the Comte. Mademoiselle Genevieve has played too many tricks.”
“And so … he knows.”
She regarded me slyly.
“Yes … he knows.”
“And Genevieve?”
“She’s in her room cowering behind the skirts of Nounou. She’ll be punished and she deserves it.”
“I can’t think why she takes a delight in doing such things.”
“Mischief! Malice! She’s jealous of your being asked to dine with the family and the Comte taking such an interest.”
“Naturally he would be interested in his pictures.”
She tittered.
“I’ve always been careful. Of course when I came here I had no idea what sort of place it was. A Comte … a chateau … it sounds wonderful. But when I heard those terrible stories, I was quite terrified. I was ready to pack my bags and go. But I decided to give it a chance, though I saw how dangerous it was. A man like the Comte, for instance …”
“I should not think you would be in any danger from him.”
“A man whose wife died like that! You are rather innocent, Mademoiselle Lawson. As a matter of fact I had to leave my last post because of the unwelcome attentions of the master of the house.”
She had grown quite pink with, I told myself cynically, the exertion of imagining herself desirable. I am sure all the near-seductions she talked of had only taken place in her imagination.
“How awkward for you,” I said.
“When I came here I knew I had to take special care in view of the Comte’s reputation. There will always be scandal surrounding him.”
“There will always be scandal when there are those to make it,” I put in.
I disliked her for so many things; for her enjoyment of others’ discomfort, for her stupid simpering suggestions that she was a femme fatale; and irrationally, for her long nose, which made her look like a shrew-mouse. Poor woman, as if she could help her appearance! But the meanness of her soul was in her face that night and I disliked her. I told myself I hated those who stood in judgment on others.
I was glad when she had gone. My thoughts were occupied by Genevieve.
Our relationship had suffered a big setback and I was disappointed.
The loss of my dress troubled me little compared with the absence of the confidence I had felt I was beginning to inspire. And oddly enough, in spite of what she had done, I felt a new tenderness towards her. Poor child! She was in need of care; and she was groping blindly, trying to call attention to herself, I was sure. I wanted to understand her; I wanted to help her. It occurred to me that she received very little help and understanding in this house despised and rejected by her father, spoiled by her nurse. Something should be done, I was sure. It was not often that I acted on impulse but I did then.
I went to the library and knocked at the door. There was no answer so I went in and pulled the bell-rope. When one of the menservants appeared, I asked if he would take a message to the Comte as I wished to speak to him.
Only when I saw the surprise in the man’s face was I aware of the
greatness of my temerity, but I still felt that the need to act was so urgent that I didn’t care. On reflection I expected him to return and say that the Comte was too busy to see me and perhaps a meeting could be arranged the next day, but to my surprise when the door opened it was to admit the Comte.
“Mademoiselle Lawson, you sent for me?”
I flushed at the irony.
“I wished to speak to you, Monsieur Ie Comte.”
He frowned.
“This disgraceful affair of the dress. I must apologize for my daughter’s behaviour.”
“I had not come for an apology.”
“You are very forgiving.”
“Oh, I was angry when I saw the dress.”
“Naturally. You will be recompensed and Genevieve shall make you an apology.”
“That is not what I want.”
The puzzled expression on his face might have been feigned. He gave the impression, as he so often did, of knowing exactly what was going on in my mind.
“Then perhaps you will tell me why you … summoned me here?”
“I did not summon you. I asked if you would see me here.”
“Well, I am here. You were very quiet during dinner. It was no doubt due to this foolish affair, and you were being discreet, displaying national sang-fro id and hiding the indignation you felt towards my daughter. But now the secret is out and you no longer have any need to fear you are telling tales. And so … you have something to say to me.”
“I wanted to talk about Genevieve. Perhaps it is presumptuous of me . ” I paused for reassurance that this was not so, but it did not come.
“Please go on,” was all he said.
“I am concerned about her.”
He signed for me to be seated and sat opposite me. As he opened his eyes wider and sat back in his chair folding his hands with the carved jade signet ring on his little finger, I could believe all the rumours I had heard of him. The aquiline nose, the proud set of the head on the shoulders, the enigmatic mouth, and the eyes whose expression was unfathomable, belonged to a man who was born to rule; a man who believed in his divine right to have his own way and found it natural to remove anything or anyone who stood in his path.
“Yes, Monsieur Ie Comte,” I went on, “I am concerned for your daughter. Why do you think she did this?”
“She will no doubt explain.”
“How can she? She doesn’t even know herself. She has suffered a terrible ordeal.”
Was it my imagination or did he seem to grow a little more alert?
“What ordeal was this?” he asked.
“I mean … the death of her mother.”
His gaze met mine, steady, implacable, arrogant.