“Yes, of course. And when will Gabrielle be married?”
“In three weeks. It is wonderful, for Jacques is now able to marry.
That was the trouble. He could not support a wife and a mother, and knowing this Gabrielle had not told him of her condition. But Monsieur Ie Comte will make everything right. “
“Monsieur Ie Comte!”
“Yes. He has given Jacques charge of the St. Vallient vineyard. For a long time Monsieur Durand has been too old. He is now to have his cottage on the estate and Jacques will take over St. Vallient. But for Monsieur Ie Comte, it would have been difficult for them to marry.”
“I see,” I said slowly.
Gabrielle was married, and although there was a good deal of gossip which I heard on my expeditions to the little town and in the chateau and vineyard district, these comments were always whispered with a shrug of the shoulders. Such affairs provided the excitement of a week or two and none could be sure when their own families would be plunged into a similar situation. Gabrielle would marry and if the baby arrived a little early, well, babies had a habit of doing that the whole world over.
The wedding was celebrated at the Maison Bastide with all that Madame Bastide considered essential in spite of the fact that there had been little time to prepare. The Comte, so I heard, had been good to his workers and had given the couple a handsome wedding present which would buy the furniture they needed; and as they were taking over some of the Durands’ pieces, because naturally the old couple couldn’t fit them into a small cottage, they could settle in at once.
The change in Gabrielle was astonishing. Serenity replaced fear and she looked prettier than ever. When I went over to St. Vallient to see her and Jacques’s old mother she made me very welcome. There was so much I should have liked to ask her but I could not, of course; I wanted to tell her that I did not want to know merely to satisfy an idle curiosity.
When I left she asked me to look in again when I was riding that way and I promised to do so.
It was four or five weeks after the wedding. We were now well into spring and the climbing stems of the vines were beginning to grow fast. There was continual activity out of doors which would continue until harvest.
Genevieve was with me but our relationship was no longer as harmonious as it had been. The presence of Claude in the chateau affected her adversely and I was continually on tenterhooks wondering what turn it would take. I had felt I was making some progress with her; and now it was as though I had achieved a false brightness on a picture by using a solution which could only give a temporary effect and might even be injurious to the paint.
I said: “Shall we call on Gabrielle?”
“I don’t mind.”
“Oh, well, if you are not eager, I’ll go alone.”
She shrugged her shoulders but continued to ride beside me.
“She’s going to have a baby,” she said.
“That,” I replied, ‘will make her and her husband very happy. “
“It will arrive a little too soon, though, and everyone is talking about it.”
“Everyone! I know many who are not. You really shouldn’t exaggerate.
And why are you not speaking in English? “
“I’m tired of speaking in English. It’s such a tiresome language.” She laughed.
“It was a marriage of convenience. I’ve heard that said.”
“All marriages should be convenient.”
That made her laugh again. Then she said: “Goodbye, miss. I’m not coming. I might embarrass you by talking indelicately … or even looking. You never know.”
She spurred her horse and turned away. I was about to follow her because she was not supposed to be riding about the countryside alone.
But she had the start of me and had disappeared into a small copse.
It was less than a minute later when I heard the shot.
“Genevieve!” I called. As I galloped towards the copse, I heard her scream. The branches of the trees caught at me as though to impede me and I called again: “Genevieve, where are you? What’s happened?”
She was sobbing: “Oh, miss … miss …”
I went in the direction of her voice. I found her; she had dismounted and her horse was standing patiently by.
“What’s happening…” I began; and then I saw the Comte lying on the grass, his horse beside him. There was blood all over his riding-jacket.
“He’s … he’s been… killed,” stammered Genevieve.
I leaped to the ground and knelt beside him. A terrible fear came to me then.
“Genevieve,” I said, ‘go quickly for help. St. Vallient is nearest.
Send someone for a doctor. “
Those next minutes are hazy in my mind. I listened to the thudding of hoofbeats as Genevieve reached the road and galloped off.
“Lothair …” I murmured, saying his unusual name for the first time and saying it aloud.
“It can’t be. I couldn’t bear it. I could bear anything but that you should die.”
I noticed the short thick lashes; the hood like lids drawn like shutters taking away the light from his life . from mine for evermore.
Such thoughts come and go while one’s hands are more practical. As I lifted his hands a wild exultation came to me for I felt the pulse although it was feeble.
“Not… dead,” I whispered.
“Oh, thank God … thank God.” I heard the sob in my voice and was aware of a wild happiness surging through me.
I unbuttoned the jacket. If he had been shot through the heart as I had imagined, there should have been a bullet hole. I could find none.
He was not bleeding.
Quite suddenly the truth dawned on me. He had not been shot. The blood came from the horse lying beside him.
I took off my jacket and rolled in into a pillow to support his head, and I fancied I saw the colour warm in his face; his eyelids flickered.
I heard myself saying: “You’re alive … alive … Thank God.”
I was praying silently that help would come soon. I knelt there, my eyes upon his face, my lips silently moving.
Then the heavy lids flickered; they lifted and his eyes were on me. I saw the faint lift of his lips as I bent towards him.
I felt my own lips tremble; the emotion of the last minutes was unbearable the fear replaced by sudden hope which in itself must be tinged with fear.
“You will be all right,” I said.
He closed his eyes, and I knelt there waiting.
Eight
The Comte was suffering from nothing more than concussion and bruises.
It was his horse that had been shot. The accident was discussed for days in the chateau, the vineyards and the town. There was an inquiry but the identity of the one who had fired the shot was not brought to light, for the bullet was one which could have come from a hundred guns in the neighbourhood. The Comte could remember little of the incident. He could only say that he had been riding in the copse, had ducked to pass under a tree and the next thing he knew was that he was being put on a stretcher. It was believed that ducking had probably saved his life for the bullet had richocheted, hit the branch of a tree and then struck the horse’s head. It had all happened in less than a second; the horse had fallen and the Comte had been thrown into unconsciousness.
I was happy during the days that followed. I knew it was an uneasy situation, but only one thing mattered: he was alive.
Because I had always been sensible, even during those days of exquisite relief I asked myself what the future held. What had happened to me that I had allowed a man to become so important to me?