“It will be, miss. We have never had mugs with children’s names on before. The money we make goes to the convent. I shall tell the Holy Mother that she has to be grateful to you, miss.”
“// ne faut pas vend’re la peau de fours avant de I’avoir tuer,” I reminded her. And added in English: “We mustn’t count our chickens before they’re hatched.”
She was smiling at me, thinking, I knew, that whatever the occasion I would always play the governess.
One afternoon when we were returning from our ride I had the idea of using the moat. I had never explored it before so we went down there together. The grass was green and lush; and I suggested that it would be original to have the stalls there.
Genevieve thought it an excellent idea.
“Everything should be different this time, miss. We’ve never used the old moat before, but of course it’s ideal. How warm it is down here!”
“It’s sheltered from all the breezes,” I said.
“Can you imagine the stalls against the grey walls?”
“I’m sure it’ll be fun. We will have it here. Do you feel shut in down here, miss?”
I saw what she meant. It was so silent and the tall grey walls of the chateau so close were overpowering.
We had walked all round the chateau and I was wondering whether my suggestion to have the stalls here on the uneven ground of the dried-up moat had not been rather hastily made, considering how much more comfortable one of the well-kept lawns would be, when I saw the cross. It was stuck in the earth close to the granite wall of the chateau, and I pointed it out to Genevieve.
She was on her hands and knees examining it and I joined her.
“There’s some writing on it,” she said.
We bent over to examine it.
I read out, “Fidele, 1747. It’s a grave,” I added.
“A dog’s grave.”
Genevieve raised her eyes to me.
“All those years ago! Fancy.”
“I believe he’s the dog on my miniature.”
“Oh, yes, the one Papa gave you for Christmas. Fidele! What a nice name.”
“His mistress must have loved him to bury him like that… with a cross and his name and the date.”
Genevieve nodded.
“Somehow,” she said, ‘it makes a difference. It makes the moat a sort of graveyard. “
I nodded.
“I don’t think we would want to have the kermes se down there where poor Fidele is buried.”
I agreed.
“And we should all be badly bitten, too. There are lots of unpleasant insects in this long grass.”
We entered a door of the chateau and as the cool of those thick walls closed in on us, she said: “I’m glad we found poor Fidele’s grave, though, miss.”
“Yes,” I said, ‘so am I. “
The day of the kermes se was hot and sunny. Marquees had been set up on one of the lawns, and early in the morning the stall-holders arrived to set out their wares. Genevieve worked with me to make ours gay; she had spread a white cloth over the counter and had decorated it most tastefully with leaves, and on this we set out our painted crockery.
It looked very charming, and I secretly agreed with Genevieve that ours was the most outstanding of all the stalls. Madame Latiere from the patisserie was supplying refreshments in a tent; needlework figured largely in the goods for sale; there were flowers from the chateau gardens; cakes, vegetables, ornaments and pieces of jewellery.
Claude would rival us, Genevieve told me, because she would sell some of her clothes, and she had wardrobes full of them; of course everyone would want to wear her clothes, which they knew came from Paris.
The local musicians, led by Armand Bastide and his violin, would play intermittently all afternoon and when it was dusk the dancing would begin.
I was certainly proud of my mugs and the first buyers were the Bastide children who shrieked delightedly when they found their own names as though they were there by a coincidence; and as I provided plain mugs to be painted with any names which were not already on display, I was kept busy.
The kermes se was opened by the Comte-and this in itself made it a special occasion for as I was told several times in the first half-hour, it was the first kermes se he had attended for years.
“Not since the death of the Comtesse.” This was significant, said some.
It meant that the Comte had decided that life should be more normal at the chateau.
Nounou came by and insisted that I paint a mug with her name on it. I worked under a blue sunshade which spread itself over our stall; I was conscious of the hot sun, the smell of flowers, the jumble of voices and constant laughter, and I was very happy under that blue sunshade.
The Comte came by and stood watching me at work.
Genevieve said: “Oh, Papa, isn’t she good at it? The quick way she does it. You must have one with your name on it.”
“Yes, certainly I must,” he agreed.
“Your name isn’t here, Papa. You didn’t do a Lothair, miss?”
“No, I didn’t think we should need one.”
“You were wrong there. Mademoiselle Lawson.”
“Yes,” agreed Genevieve gleefully as though she, as much as her father, enjoyed seeing that I could make a mistake.
“You were wrong there.”
“It’s a wrong which can quickly be remedied if the com mission is serious,” I retorted.
“It’s very serious.”
He leaned against the counter while I selected one of the plain mugs.
“Have you any preference for colour?”
“Please choose for me. I am sure your taste is excellent.”
I looked at him steadily.
“Purple, I think, purple and gold.”
“Royal colours?” he asked.
“Most appropriate,” I retaliated.
A little crowd had collected to watch me paint a mug for the Comte.
There was a little whispering among the watchers.
I felt as though the blue umbrella sheltered me from all that was unpleasant. Yes, I was certainly happy on that afternoon.
There was his name in royal purple the ‘i’ dotted with a touch of gold paint, and a full stop after the name also in gold.
There was an exclamation of admiration from those who looked on and somewhat deliriously I painted a gold fleur-delis below his name.
“There,” I said.
“Isn’t that fitting?”
“You must pay for it. Papa.”
“If Mademoiselle Lawson will name the price.”
“A little more, I think, don’t you, miss, because after all it is a special one.”
“A great deal more, I think.”
“I am in your hands.”
There was an exclamation of amazement as the Comte dropped his payment into the bowl Genevieve had placed on the counter. I was sure it meant that we should have the largest donation to the convent.
Genevieve was pink with pleasure. I believe she was almost as happy as I was.
As the Comte moved on I saw Jean Pierre at my side.
“I would like a mug,” he said, ‘and a fleur-delis also. “
“Please do one for him, miss,” pleaded Genevieve, smiling up at him.
So I did.
Then everyone was asking for the fleur-delis, and mugs already sold were brought back.
“It will cost more for the fleur-delis,” cried Genevieve in triumph.
And I painted and Genevieve grew pinker with pleasure, while Jean Pierre stood by smiling at us.
It had been a triumph. My mugs had earned more than any other stall.
Everyone was talking about it.
And with the dusk the musicians began to play and there was dancing on the lawn and in the hall for those who preferred it.
This was the way it always was, Genevieve told me, yet there had never been a kermes se like this one.
The Comte had disappeared. His duties did not extend beyond being present at the kermes se Claude and Philippe had left too; I found myself wistfully looking for the Comte, hoping that he would return and seek me out.