I shivered, contemplating that future. I could not stay indefinitely at the chateau. I had restored a number of the pictures in the gallery and those were the ones I had been employed to deal with. The work would not last for ever. Yet in this pleasant dream-world in which I lived during those weeks, it was firmly fixed in my mind that I should be at the chateau for a long time to come.
Some people find it easy to believe things are what they want them to be. I had never been like that. until now, preferring always to face the truth, priding myself on my good sense. I had changed since I had come here; and oddly enough I would not look deep enough into my mind to discover why.
Mardi Gras was the time for carnival, and Genevieve was as excited as Yves and Margot, who showed her how to make paper flowers and masks; and because I thought it was good for her to join in these activities we rode into the little town on one of the Bastides’ carts and behind our grotesque masks we pelted each other with paper flowers.
We were present in the square when they hung the Carnival Man from the mock gibbet and we actually danced in the crowd.
Genevieve was ecstatic when we returned to the castle.
“I’ve often heard of Mardi Gras,” she declared, ‘but I never knew it was such fun. “
“I hope,” I said, ‘that your father would not have objected to your being there. “
“We shall never know,” she answered mischievously, ‘because we’re not going to tell him, are we, miss? “
“If he asked we should certainly tell him,” I retorted.
“He never would. He’s not interested in us, miss.”
Was she a little resentful? Perhaps, but she cared less about his neglect than she had once. And Nounou raised no objections as long as wherever Genevieve went I was with her. She seemed to have a faith in me which I found flattering.
And when I took her into the town Jean Pierre had been with us. It was he who suggested these jaunts; he delighted in them; and Genevieve enjoyed his company. No harm could come to Genevieve while she was with the Bastides, I assured myself.
It was during the first week of Lent that the Comte and Philippe returned to the chateau.
The news spread rapidly throughout the household and in the town.
Philippe was betrothed. He was going to marry Mademoiselle Claude de la Monelle.
The Comte came to me in the gallery where I was working. It was a lovely sunny morning, and now that the days were longer I was spending more time in the gallery. The brightness made more obvious my work of restoration, and he studied the pictures with pleasure.
“Excellent, Mademoiselle Lawson,” he murmured; and his eyes were on me, dark with the expression which always set me wondering.
“And what’s this operation?” he asked.
I explained to him that the painting on which I was working had been badly damaged and that layers of paint were missing. I was filling them with gesso putty and afterwards I should retouch with paint.
“You are an artist. Mademoiselle Lawson.”
“As you once remarked … an artist manquee.”
“And you have forgiven though not forgotten that unkind observation?”
“One does not have to forgive others for speaking the truth.”
“How strong-minded you are. We as well as our pictures have need of you.”
He had taken a step nearer to me and his eyes were still fixed on my face. It could not be with admiration? I knew what I looked like. My brown coat had never been becoming: my hair had a habit of escaping from its pins and I was always unaware of it until something happened to make me; my hands were stained with the materials I used. It was certainly not my appearance which interested him.
It was the way in which philanderers behaved to all women, of course.
The thought spoilt my pleasure in the moment and I tried to push it away.
I said: “You need have no fear. I shall use a paint which is easily soluble in case it should have to be removed. Colours ground in synthetic resin are, you know.”
“I did not know,” he replied.
“It is so. You see, when these pictures were painted, artists mixed their own paints. They and they alone knew the secrets … and each painter had his own method. That is what makes the old masters unique.
It’s so difficult to copy them. “
He bowed his head.
“Retouching is a delicate operation,” I went on.
“Naturally a restorer should not attempt to add his ideas to an original.”
He was amused, realizing perhaps that I was talking to hide my embarrassment. Then he said suddenly: “I can see that could be disastrous. It would be like trying to make a person what you thought he should be. Instead of which you should help to bring out the good subdue the evil.”
“I was thinking only of painting. It is the only subject on which I could speak with some knowledge.”
“And your enthusiasm when you speak of it proclaims you an expert.
Tell me, how is my daughter progressing with her English? “
“She is making excellent progress.”
“And you do not find teaching her and the care of the pictures too much for you?”
I smiled.
“I enjoy them both so much.”
“I’m glad that we can provide you with so much pleasure. I thought you might find our country life dull.”
“By no means. I have to thank you for allowing me the use of your stables.”
“Something else you enjoy?”
“Very much.”
“Life here at the chateau has been much quieter than in the past.” He looked over my head and added coldly: “After my wife’s death we did not entertain as we used to and we have never gone back to the old ways. It will probably be different now that my cousin is to be married and his wife will be mistress of the chateau.”
“Until,” I said impulsively, ‘you yourself marry. “
I was sure I detected bitterness in his voice as he said:
“What makes you imagine I should do so?”
I felt I had been guilty of tactlessness and I said in self-defence:
“It seems perhaps natural that you should … in time.”
“I thought that you knew the circumstances of my wife’s death.
Mademoiselle Lawson? “
“I have heard … talk,” I replied, feeling like a woman who has put one foot in a quagmire and must withdraw quickly before she is completely submerged.
“Ah,” he said, ‘talk! There are people who believe I murdered my wife. ”
“I am sure you would not be affected by such nonsense.”
“You are embarrassed?” He was smiling, taunting me now.
“That shows me that you do not think it is necessarily nonsense.
You think me capable of the darkest deeds. Admit it. “
My heart had begun to beat uncomfortably fast.
“You are joking, of course,” I said.
“This is what we expect of the English, Mademoiselle Lawson. This is unpleasant, so we will not discuss it.” His eyes were angry suddenly.
“No, we will not discuss it; better to continue to believe in the victim’s guilt. “
I was startled.
“You are quite wrong,” I said quietly.
He had recovered his calm as quickly as he had lost it.
“And you, Mademoiselle Lawson, are admirable. You understand, though, that in the circumstances I could never marry again. But you are surprised that I should discuss my views on marriage with you?”
“I’ll admit I am.”
“But then you are such a sympathetic listener. I do not mean sympathetic in the usual sentimental sense. I mean that you betray such calm good sense, such frankness, and these qualities have lured me to the indiscretion of discussing my private affairs with you.”