I had made the acquaintance of Mademoiselle Dupont. She was middle-aged, completely absorbed in her profession, respectful to me and pleased that I was helping to improve Marie-Christine’s English. So there was no trouble from that quarter. Moreover, both Robert and Angele were delighted by the friendship between us and I think Robert was congratulating himself that he had done the right thing by bringing me to France.

It was true my sadness had lifted a little. I still thought of Roderick every day and knew in my heart that I would never forget him, never cease to hanker for what I had lost; but at least I was finding some small consolation and I was grateful to Robert for bringing me here, to Angele for being so understanding and perhaps most of all to Marie-Christine, who had provided me with an interest.

I was amazed at how quickly time was passing. Marie-Christine had decided to become, as she said, my patronne. She showed me the little town of Villemere; we sat outside the cafe and sampled the excellent gateaux and coffee. She introduced me to Madame Lebrun, who owned the cafe—a large, rather formidable lady who sat in the cash desk and counted the francs with an avid interest— to her small, mild husband, who did the baking, and to Lillie, the waitress, whose lover was at sea. I found I could laugh again when we wandered round the stalls on market day, which was every Thursday in Villemere. I was hunting for bargains and feeling triumphant when I secured one. Marie-Christine knew a great many people. “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” they would call as we passed. Marie-Christine told me they were all very interested in la mademoiselle anglaise.

I was surprised that I could take the interest I did in the life around me, but when I saw wives and husbands laughing together my deep melancholy would return. That close companionship was something I should never know; but at least there were times when I could feel pleasure … however fleeting.

I owed that mostly to Marie-Christine. Reading together, talking, our outings, her obvious interest in me, were the greatest help I could have.

She talked continuously. She was constantly asking questions. She wanted to know about my life and was very interested in theatrical circles.

“Mademoiselle Dupont says it is good for me to learn about the English theatre. She says your Shakespeare is the greatest poet that ever lived. He must be very good, for Dupont usually thinks the French must be better than anyone else. I wonder it wasn’t Racine or Moliere or someone like that.”

“The theatrical world in which I moved is not quite the sort to win Mademoiselle Dupont’s approval.”

“Tell me about it.”

So I told her about Countess Maud and Lavender Lady, the songs, the dances, the clothes, the first nights, the tussles with Dolly; and she was entranced.

“I love your mother!” she cried. “And she died!”

“Yes.”

“She was young to die, wasn’t she?”

“Oh yes.”

“Why do beautiful people have to die young?” She was thoughtful for a moment. “Well, I suppose if they were old, they wouldn’t be beautiful anymore. So that’s why beautiful people die young.”

I had a picture of my mother which I carried with me. I showed it to her.

“She’s lovely,” she said. “You’re not like her.”

I laughed. “Thank you,” I said. “As a matter of fact there couldn’t be anyone like her.”

“We both had beautiful mothers … you and I … not just ordinary beautiful but beautifully beautiful.”

I was silent, thinking about Desiree, radiant after a first night, talking all the time … the mishaps which had nearly resulted in disaster … the man in the front stalls who had been waiting at the stage door while she slipped out at the back. Memories … memories … I could never escape.

“It makes you sad, thinking of your mother, doesn’t it?” said Marie-Christine.

“Yes … but she is gone.”

“I know. So has mine. Tell me, how did your mother die? She was young, wasn’t she? Well … not old. My mother wasn’t old either.”

“She had been ill. It was nothing much … just something she had eaten. The doctors thought it was a plant which grew in our garden.”

“A poison plant!”

“Yes. It was called caper spurge. It grows wild. If you get the juice on your hands and taste it … it can make you ill.”

“How terrible!”

“It’s nothing much. It just upsets you. It makes you sick and giddy. Well, she was feeling sick and giddy. She got out of bed and fell over. She struck her head against a piece of furniture and that killed her.”

“How strange … because my mother died … not by falling against a table but by falling off a horse. It is a bit like your mother, is it not? They both fell. They were both young. They were both beautiful. Perhaps that is why we are friends.”

“I think it is more than that, Marie-Christine.”

“You still think a lot about your mother, do you not?”

“Yes.”

“I do of mine. I think about her a lot and the way she died.”

“Marie-Christine, we have to try to forget.”

“How can you make yourself forget?”

“I suppose by looking ahead and trying to put what is past behind you. Stop thinking about it.”

“Yes. But how?”

It was a reasonable question. How did one forget?

I had been at La Maison Grise for four weeks and I had no desire to leave it. I had come no nearer to making a decision as to what I should do with my life; and I was now beginning to remind myself that I could not be a permanent guest, however hospitable my hosts.

Robert went to Paris fairly frequently on banking business. He had a small house there and would stay for several days at a time. Both he and Angele said I must certainly pay a visit to the capital. I could shop and see some of the sights.

I asked Robert if he would see much of his nephew while he was there.

“I doubt it,” he said. “He seems to be working all the time and I imagine does not want interruptions. I don’t think he’s aware of anything else at such times, so I shall wait for him to invite me to the studio. Then he may come and stay here for a week or two. He does that now and then. It gets him away from Paris for a while.”

“Then he works in the north tower?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Robert, do you realize I have been here for a month?”

“Well?”

“I can’t go on taking your hospitality.”

“That sort of talk makes me angry. You are taking nothing that we do not want to give you. You are very welcome. Angele says Marie-Christine is so fond of you. She has been far less difficult since you have been here. Mademoiselle Dupont says you have done excellent work on her English … something she never could have done. So please, don’t talk like that anymore. You are feeling better, are you not?”

“Yes, I am. I forget … for periods … then it all comes rushing back. But there are moments when I am happy.”

“That’s good. I knew it was right for you to come here. You should have come in the first place.”

“You are good to me, Robert. I know how you felt about my mother, but that does not mean you have to extend that devotion to me.”

“I beg of you to stop talking nonsense, Noelle, or I shall be really angry, and I do not like to be angry. Tell me about Marie-Christine. How have you managed to change her?”

“I think we got off to a good start with the language.”

“And now you are together riding or something every day?”

“She takes pleasure in introducing me to the life here … and I tell her about my childhood.” I paused and he nodded, realizing there must be omissions. “It makes an interest for her.”

“Then please do not talk of leaving.”

“I don’t want to go, Robert.”

“That is the best news I could hear.”

So I was lulled into a sense of security. There need be no decisions yet.

I was beginning to realize that it was not easy to know Marie-Christine. She had her moods and could be full of high spirits one moment and fall into near melancholy the next. It was this trait in her character which intrigued me. From the beginning of our acquaintance I sensed there was some secret matter which troubled her—but only at times.

Once I said to her: “Marie-Christine, is there something on your mind?”

She pretended not to understand, as she did now and then when I asked a question which she was not eager to answer.

Now she said: “On the mind? What is that?”

“I mean, is something troubling you?”

“Troubling me? Oh yes, Mademoiselle Dupont says my mathematics are terrible.” She pronounced the word in the French manner, drawing it out to make it sound horrific.

I laughed at her. “I think it is something more important than mathematics.”

“Mathematics are of the utmost importance, Mademoiselle Dupont says.”

“What I mean is, Marie-Christine, is something worrying you … something that you might like to talk about?”

“Nothing is worrying me,” she said firmly. “As for those silly old mathematics, who cares?”

But still I wondered. But I understood. Had I not secret sorrows of my own which I could not bring myself to discuss with anyone?

One day she said: “I am going to take you to see my Aunt Candice.”

I was surprised, because I had never heard Robert or Angele mention such a person.

“She’s my mother’s sister,” Marie-Christine told me as we walked our horses out of the drive.

“She lives near here?”

“Not far. It takes about half an hour. She and my mother were twins.”

“She doesn’t visit La Maison very often, does she?”

“No, she doesn’t. Grand-mere Angele has asked her. So has Grand-oncle Robert. At least they used to. They don’t anymore. She doesn’t really want to come. I suppose it brings it all back … and she wants to forget. In any case, she does not come.”

“But you see her often?”

“Not often. I go there, though … sometimes. I think I remind Tante Candice of my mother too much and she doesn’t like to be reminded.”

“You’ve never told me about your aunt before.”

“Well, I can’t tell you everything … yet. There has to be time.”

We rode on and very soon were taking a direction which was new to me.

We came to a stream.

“The mill is not far from here,” said Marie-Christine.

“The mill?”

“Moulin Carrefour. That’s the name of the house. It’s on the crossroads, really. That’s where it gets its name. It’s not a mill anymore. It was my great-grandfather who was the miller.”

“I’m finding all this a little hard to follow. It might be helpful if you explained a little to me about the place and the people you are taking me to.”

“I told you, I was taking you to see my Aunt Candice, and she lives at Moulin Carrefour, which was once a mill on the crossroads.”

“I have already gathered that, but …”

“Well, my great-grandfather was the miller, but my grandfather made a lot of money gambling or something, and he said he wasn’t going to be a miller all his life. So he closed the mill down and became one of the nobility. But he disgraced himself by marrying a gypsy girl from nowhere. She had two daughters, Candice and Marianne. Marianne was the most beautiful woman who ever lived. She went to Paris and became an artist’s model. She married my father and I was born … and when I was nine years old she died. Tante Candice lived on at Carrefour with Nounou.”

“With whom?”

“Their old nurse, of course. Nounou would never leave Candice. She will be there, too.”

“And Candice … she did not marry?”

“No. She and old Nounou just live together. I don’t think they will ever forget Marianne.”

“It is strange that they don’t visit the house.”

“It’s not strange at all … really. Not when you know them. Candice hasn’t been for three years.”

“Not since her sister died.”

“Yes, that’s right. Come on. I’ll show you the place where my mother fell. It’s an unlucky place. Someone’s horse threw him there at exactly the same spot where my mother died. It’s called the coin du diable. You know what that means?”

“Devil’s Corner. There must be a reason for these accidents.”

“They say it is because people come galloping across the field and forget they come out suddenly at the crossroads and have to pull up sharply. Look. It’s just here.”

She had drawn up suddenly. I did the same. We were looking across a stretch of grass. There were the crossroads by a stream which could have been the tributary of a river flowing nearby. And there was the mill house. The windmill dominated it, and behind the house were what I presumed to be barns.