How stupid I had been to suspect the Comte was the father of her child. How could she have been so radiantly happy if this had been the case?
“But for the Comte …” I said.
“Ah, but for the Comte!” She was smiling placidly.
“It seems strange to me that you could not tell Jacques but you could tell him.”
Again that smile.
“Oh, no. He would understand. I knew it. Besides he was the one who could help … and he did. Jacques and I will always be grateful to him.”
This meeting with Gabrielle did something to lift the indecision which
Claude’s offer had brought to me. I would not leave the chateau until it was absolutely necessary, no matter how dazzling the prospect laid before me.
Now I had two overwhelming interests: to uncover what lay beneath the lime-wash and to reveal the true character of the man who was beginning to mean so much far too much in my life.
The words “Forget me not’ had been intriguing, and I was hoping to uncover more, but I did not. What I did uncover was the face of a dog which appeared to be crouching at the feet of the woman of whom the painting was going to prove a portrait. It was while I was working in this section that I discovered paint which I thought might be part of a later work. I suffered moments of horror because I knew it was a practice to cover old paintings with a layer of lime-wash and repaint on the new layer; in which case I might have destroyed a picture which had been painted over the one on which I was working.
I could only go on with what I had begun and to my amazement, in an hour I had revealed that what seemed like a painting was something which had been added to the original picture-although at a later date.
It was extraordinary and it grew more so, for the dog was revealed to be in a case which was the shape of a coffin; and beneath this were the words “Forget me not.”
I laid down my knife and looked at it. The dog was a spaniel like the one in the miniature which the Comte had given me at Christmas. I was certain that this was a portrait of the same woman the subject of the first picture I had cleaned, of my miniature and now the wall-painting.
I wanted to show this to the Comte, so I went to the library. Claude was there alone. She looked up hopefully when she saw me and I realized immediately that she thought I had come to accept her offer.
“I was looking for the Comte,” I said.
Her face hardened and the old dislike was visible.
“Did you propose to send for him?”
“I thought he would be interested to look at the wall.”
“When I see him I will tell him you sent for him.” I pretended not to see the mockery.
“Thank you,” I said, and went back to my work. But the Comte did not come.
Genevieve had a birthday in June which was celebrated by a dinner-party at the chateau. I did not attend this although Genevieve had invited me. I made excuses knowing full well that Claude, who was after all the hostess, had no desire for my presence.
Genevieve herself did not mind whether I went or not; nor, it seemed, to my chagrin, did the Comte. It was a very lukewarm affair and Genevieve was almost. sullen about it.
I had bought her a pair of grey gloves which she had admired in one of the town’s shop windows and she did say she was pleased with these, but she was in one of her gloomy moods and I felt that it would have been better not to have celebrated a birthday in such circumstances.
The day after, we went riding together, and I asked how she had enjoyed the party.
“I didn’t,” she declared.
“It was hateful. What’s the good of having a party when you don’t invite the guests? I would have liked a real party … perhaps with a cake and a crown on it…”
“That’s not a birthday custom.”
“What does it matter? In any case there must be birthday customs. I expect Jean Pierre would know. I’ll ask him.”
“You know what your Aunt Claude feels about your friendship with the Bastides.”
Fury broke out all over her face.
“I tell you I shall choose my own friends. I’m grown up now. They’ll have to realize it. I’m fifteen.”
“It’s not really such a great age.”
“You’re just as bad as the rest of them.”
For a few moments I saw her stormy profile before she broke into a gallop and was away. I tried to follow her but she was determined I shouldn’t.
After a while I rode back to the chateau alone; I was very uneasy about Genevieve.
The hot days of July passed like a dream to me; August had come, and the grapes were just ripening in the sun. As I passed the vineyards one of the workers would usually comment on them.
“Good harvest this year, mademoiselle.”
In the patisserie where now and then I took coffee and a slice of the gateau de la mais on Madame Latiere talked to me of the size of the grapes. They would be sweetened by all the sunshine they had had this year.
The harvest was almost upon us, and it seemed that. the thoughts of all were on it. It was a kind of climax. I still had work to do on the wall-painting; and there were pictures still to be cleaned; but I could not stay indefinitely at the chateau. Was I being foolish to reject Claude’s offer?
But I refused to think of leaving the chateau; I had lived in it for about ten months but I had felt that I had never truly been alive before I had come; and a life away from it seemed impossible, vague, no life at all. Nothing, however interesting, could compensate me if I went away.
Often I recalled the conversations which had taken place between us and asked myself if I had read something into them which did not exist; I was not sure whether the Comte had been mocking me, in truth telling me to mind my own business, or whether he had been telling me obliquely of his regard for me.
I threw myself into the life of the chateau, and when I heard of the annual kermes se I wanted to play my part.
It was Genevieve who told me.
“You ought to have a stall, miss. What will you sell? You’ve never been to a kermes se before, have you?”
I told her that they occurred regularly in our villages and towns. I had made all sorts of things for our church bazaars and I imagined that a kermes se was not very different from these.
She wanted to hear about this and when I told her she was delighted, agreeing that I was very well acquainted with what went on at a kermes se
I had a notion for painting flowers on cups and saucers and ashtrays.
And when I had completed a few and shown them to Genevieve, she laughed with pleasure.
“But, miss, that’s wonderful. They’ve never had anything like it at our kermes se before.” I painted enthusiastically not only flowers but animals on mugs little elephants, rabbits and cats. Then I had the idea of painting names on the mugs. Genevieve would sit beside me telling me what names I should do. I did Yves and Margot, of course; and she named other children who would most certainly be at the kermes se
“That’s a certain sale,” she cried.
“They won’t be able to resist buying mugs with their own names on. May I be at your stall? Trade will be so brisk you’ll need an assistant.”
I was happy to see her so enthusiastic.
“Papa will be here for this kermes se she told me.
“I don’t remember his being here for one before.”
“Why was he not here?”
“Oh, he was always in Paris … or somewhere. He has been here more than ever before. I heard the servants talking about it. It is since his accident.” t “Oh?” I said, attempting to appear unconcerned.
Perhaps, I reminded myself caustically, it is because Claude is here.
I talked of the kermes se and I was delighted because Genevieve shared my excitement and recalled previous ones.
“This,” I said, ‘must be the most successful of all. “