The removal of coats of lime-wash and there could be several was a delicate operation. I had watched my father perform it and had even helped him; I had a natural flair for this type of work. It is difficult to say but perhaps it is an instinct my father had it and I seemed to have inherited it but from the moment I. had seen that wall I had been excited by it and I was ready to swear that the lime-wash was hiding something.
I set to work with a palette knife, but I could not loosen the outer coat and I could naturally use only the lightest touch; one careless move could ruin what might prove a very valuable painting.
I worked at this for an hour and a half. I knew that it was unwise to work longer since the utmost concentration was needed, and during that time I had discovered nothing to substantiate my suspicion.
But the next day I was fortunate. I was able to flake away a small piece of lime-wash- no more than about one sixteenth of an inch it was true, but I was certain on that second day that there was a picture on the wall.
This was indeed the wisest thing I could do, for it took my mind from the rising emotional tension of the chateau.
I was working on the wall when Genevieve came into the gallery.
“Miss!” she called.
“Miss, where are you?”
“Here,” I answered.
As she ran in I saw that she was distraught.
“It’s a message from Carrefour, miss. My grandfather is worse. He’s asking for me. Come with me.”
“Your father …”
“He is out… riding with her. Please, miss, do come. Otherwise I’ll have to go with the groom.”
I stood up and said I would change quickly and see her in the stables in ten minutes’ time.
“Don’t be longer,” she begged.
As we rode to Carrefour together she was silent; I knew that she dreaded these visits and yet was fascinated by them.
When we reached the house Madame Labisse was in the hall waiting for us.
“Ah, mademoiselle,” she said, “I am glad you have come.”
“He is very ill?” I asked.
“Another stroke. Maurice found him when he took his petit dejeuner. The doctor has been and it was then that I sent for mademoiselle. “
“Do you mean he’s … dying?” asked Genevieve in a hollow voice.
“We cannot say. Mademoiselle Genevieve. He still lives, but he is very ill.”
“May we go to him now?”
“Please come.”
“You stay,” said Genevieve to me.
We went into that room which I had seen before. The old man was lying on the pallet and Madame Labisse had made some attempt at comfort. She had put a coverlet over him and had placed a small table and chairs in the room. There was even a rug on the floor. But the bare walls decorated only by the crucifix and the priedieu in the corner preserved the appearance of a monk’s cell.
He was lying back on the pillows a pathetic sight, his eyes set in dark caverns and the flesh falling away from each side of his long nose. He looked like a bird of prey.
“It is Mademoiselle Genevieve, monsieur,” murmured Madame Labisse.
An expression flickered over his face so that I guessed he recognized her. His lips moved and his speech was slurred and muffled.
“Granddaughter…”
“Yes, Grandfather. I am here.”
He nodded, and his eyes were on me. I did not believe he could see with the left one; it seemed dead, but the right was alive.
“Come closer,” he said, and Genevieve moved nearer to i the bed. But he was looking at me. “
“He means you, miss,” whispered Genevieve. So we changed chairs and I took the one nearest him, which seemed to satisfy him.
“Francoise,” he said. Then I understood, he was under the impression that I was Genevieve’s mother.
“It’s all right. Please don’t worry,” I said.
Don’t. ” he muttered.
“Careful. Watch …”
“Yes, yes,” I said soothingly.
“Should never have married… that man. Knew it was … wrong .. “
“It’s all right,” I assured him soothingly.
But his face was contorted.
“You must… He must…”
“Oh, miss,” said Genevieve, “I can’t bear it. I’ll come back in a minute. He’s rambling. He doesn’t know I’m here. Must I stay?”
I shook my head and she went away leaving me in that strange room alone with the dying man. I sensed that he had noticed her disappearance and was relieved. He seemed to make a great effort.
Trancoise . Keep away from him. Do not let him . “
“Why?” I said.
“Why keep away from him.”
“Such sin … such sin,” he moaned.
“You must not distress yourself,” I said.
“Come back here … Leave the chateau. There is only doom and disaster there … for you.”
The effort required for such a long speech seemed to have exhausted him. He closed his eyes, and I felt afraid and frustrated for I knew he could have told me so much.
He opened his eyes suddenly.
“Honorine, you’re so beautiful. Our child … What will become of her? Oh, sin … sin.”
Exhaustion overcame him. I thought he was dying. I went to the door to call Maurice.
“The end cannot be far off,” said Maurice.
Labisse looked at me and nodded.
“Mademoiselle Genevieve should be here.”
“I will go and bring her,” I said, glad to escape from the room of death.
As I walked along the corridor I was conscious of the gloom. Death was close. I sensed it. But it was more than
that. It was like a house from which it had been considered sinful to laugh and be happy. How could poor Francoise have been happy in such a house? How glad she must have been to escape to the castle!
I had reached a staircase and stood at the foot looking up.
“Genevieve,” I called softly.
There was no answer. On the landing was a window the light from which was almost shut out because the heavy curtains were half-drawn across it. I imagined this was how they always were kept. I went to them and looked out at the overgrown garden. I tried to open the window, but could not do so. It must have been years since anyone had opened it.
I was hoping to see Genevieve in the garden and sign to her; but she was not there.
I called her name again; there was still no reply, so I started up the stairs.
The stillness of the house closed in on me. I wondered whether Genevieve was hiding in one of those rooms, keeping away from the sick-room because she hated the thought of death. It was like her to run away from what she found intolerable. Perhaps that was at the root of the trouble. I must make her see that if she was afraid of something it was better to look it straight in the face.
“Genevieve!” I called.
“Where are you?”
I opened a door. It was a dark bedroom, the curtains half-drawn as they were on the landing. I shut the door and opened another. This part of the house could not have been used for years.
There was another flight of stairs, and this I guessed would lead to the nurseries, for these were usually at the top of the house.
In spite of what was happening in the room far below I was thinking also of the childhood of Francoise, of which I had read in those
notebooks which Nounou doled out one by one. It occurred to me then that Genevieve had probably listened to stories of her mother’s childhood in this house, and if she wanted to hide, where would she be more likely to come than to the nurseries?
I was certain that I should find her up here.
“Genevieve,” I called out more loudly than as yet.
“Are you up here?”
No answer. Only a faint return of my own voice like a ghostly echo to mock me. If she were there she was not going to let me know.
I opened the door. Before me was a room which though lofty was not large. There was a pallet on the floor, a table, a chair, a priedieu at one end and a crucifix on the wall. It was furnished as that room in which the old man now lay. But there was a difference about this room. Across the only window, which was high in the wall, were bars.