My picture was talked of, and in the notices which were given of the exhibition, I was mentioned at length.

“Noelle is the pick of the bunch.” “Noelle takes the palm.” “Study of a young girl who has a secret to hide. Deserted by her lover?” “What is Noelle trying to tell us? It is an arresting portrait.”

Madame Garnier was commented on, too. “A fine study.” “Full of character.” “Gerard du Carron has come far in the last years and should go farther.”

I was pleased when someone wanted to buy my portrait and Gerard refused to sell it.

“It’s mine,” he said. “I shall always keep it.”

After the exhibition, we went back to La Maison Grise. I had written to Lisa telling her about my stay in Paris. I did not hear from her for some time, so I presumed she was back at work and busy.

When I first returned, Marie-Christine was inclined to be aloof, but I soon realized that was because she had been hurt by my long absence.

One day, when we were riding together and walking our horses side by side through a narrow lane, she said: “I believe you liked being in Paris better than you do here.”

“I did enjoy being in Paris,” I said, “but I enjoy it here, too.”

“You won’t stay here always, though, will you? You’ll go away.”

“I know you have all made me very welcome, but I am really only a guest. This isn’t my home.”

“It feels like it to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“It feels as though you are part of my home … more than anyone else.”

“Oh … Marie-Christine!”

“I’ve never had anyone like you before. You’re like my sister. I always wanted a sister.”

I was deeply touched. “That’s a lovely thing you have said.”

“It’s true. Grand-mere is kind, but she is old, and she never really liked my mother, and when she looks at me, she thinks of her. My mother noticed me sometimes, and then she seemed to forget. My father didn’t notice me much either. My mother always wanted to be in Paris. My father was always there as well. Uncle Robert is kind … but he’s old, too. I’m just ‘the child’ to him. They’ve got to look after me. It’s not really that they want to. It’s a duty. What I want is a family … people to laugh with and quarrel with. People you can say anything to … and you feel they’re there, however horrid you are to them … they can’t get away because they are family.”

“I did not realize you felt like that, Marie-Christine.”

“You, too. You’ll go away, I know you will. Look how you went to Paris. We used to have fun doing English and French. Your French was very funny.”

“So was your English.”

“Your French was a lot funnier than my English.”

“Impossible!”

She was laughing. “You see? That’s what I mean. We can be rude to each other and we still like each other. That’s what I want, and then you go off to Paris. I reckon you’ll be going there again soon.”

“Well, if I do, I don’t see why you shouldn’t come, too. There’s room in the house there.”

“And what about Mademoiselle Dupont?”

“She could come, too. You could do your lessons there and learn something about the history of the city … right on the spot.”

“My father wouldn’t want to see me, though.”

“Of course he would.”

She shook her head. “I remind him of my mother, and he doesn’t want to be reminded.”

For a few seconds we rode in silence. We came to the end of the lane and she broke into a canter. I followed her. I was a little shaken by our conversation, during which she had revealed the intensity of her feelings for me.

She called over her shoulder: “I want to show you something.”

She pulled up sharply. We had come to a lych-gate. She leaped from her saddle and tethered her horse to a post at the side of the gate. I dismounted. There was a similar post on the other side of the gate, so I tied my horse to this.

She opened the gate and we went through.

We were in a graveyard, and she led the way along a path. All around us were the graves with their elaborate statues and an abundance of flowers.

She paused before one which was presided over by an elaborate carving of the Virgin and Child.

I read the inscription on the stone: “Marianne du Carron. Aged 27 years. Departed this life, January 3, 1866.”

“That,” said Marie-Christine, “is where my mother is buried.”

“It’s beautifully tended.”

“We never come here.”

“Who looks after it?”

“Nounou mostly. Tante Candice perhaps. But Nounou is here every week. She comes on Sundays. I’ve seen her often. She kneels down and prays to God to care for her child. She calls my mother her child. I’ve been close to her and heard. I never let her see me, though.”

I felt a great tenderness towards her. I wanted to protect her, to help to make her happy.

I took her hand and pressed it, and we stood in silence for a few seconds.

Then she said: “Come on, let’s go. I just wanted to show you, that’s all.”

Not long after my return, Gerard came to La Maison Grise. He had been very busy, he told us. Following the exhibition, he had several commissions.

“It was due to your portrait,” he said. “It attracted so much attention, so I have you to thank.”

“It was you who did the work. I only sat there.”

“I could not have done it without the sitter.” He went on: “I shall be busy here. I’ve brought some work with me. I can do it just as well here as in Paris, and it will be a change to be in a different environment.”

He spent a lot of time in the north tower. Angele was delighted to have him home. I knew that she worried about him. She confided to me that she thought his rather disorganized way of living had many disadvantages. She was sure he did not have regular meals, nor did he get enough to eat.

“And,” she added, “he has never got over the shock of Marianne’s death. I am sure that is one of the reasons why he likes to be in Paris. It brings it back too vividly here.”

“Yes, Marie-Christine has shown me where it happened.”

“So close to her old home. It was terrible. The old nurse came out of the house and found her lying there. It was a terrible shock for her. She was devoted to Marianne.”

“It must have been terrible for her.”

“Well, he is home for a while, and I am glad of that.”

So was I.

I could talk to him about his work and his friends, of whom by now I had met so many. Sometimes he would ride with Marie-Christine and me in the afternoons. I noticed he always avoided the road that led to Carrefour.

Robert was pleased that he was there. He would become quite animated over the dinner table. They discussed politics, and I acquired a certain insight into affairs of which I had known nothing before.

I discovered that Robert admired their Emperor Napoleon III, nephew of the notorious Napoleon, who had married the glamorous Empress Eugenie. Gerard was slightly less enthusiastic.

“He understands what the people need,” insisted Robert.

“He is obsessed by making France great,” retaliated G6rard. “He wants power. He is his uncle all over again.”

“His uncle made France a great power,” Robert insisted.

“And finally ended up in Elba and St. Helena.”

“That was ill luck.”

“It’s always ill luck,” said Gerard.

“You must admit the Emperor has promoted public works. He has brought in good things. For another thing, he has lowered the price of bread.”

“Oh yes, he cares for France. I don’t dispute that.” He turned to me. “Are we boring you with our politics?”

“Far from it,” I assured him. “I am discovering my ignorance and am delighted to learn something.”

“It is just that some of us are a little uneasy. I don’t like what is happening with Prussia. I think the Emperor is inclined to underestimate their strength.”

“Nonsense,” said Robert. “A petty German state! To think it can stand up to France!”

“The Emperor is well aware of the humiliations heaped on us by the Congress of Vienna.” Gerard turned to me. “That was just after the defeat of Napoleon I. We were at our lowest ebb at that time.”

“That is so,” added Robert. “And the Emperor wants to make France great again. He wants to change the European balance of power.”

“He was pleased to have an alliance with your country after the Crimean War,” said Gerard to me. “And after that, there followed war with Austria, in an attempt to expel that country from Italy.”

“He proved himself a great military commander at Solferino,” Robert reminded Gerard.

“I am afraid he will go too far.”

“He has brought prestige to our country,” insisted Robert.

“Don’t forget, Louis Philippe fell because he let France slip into becoming a minor power in Europe.”

“The present Napoleon is determined not to do that, but I am afraid his attitude with Prussia may get us involved in trouble.”

“Prussia!” said Robert contemptuously.

“To be reckoned with. Aren’t they trying to put a Hohenzollern on the throne of Spain?”

“This is something the Emperor will certainly not allow.”

“If he can stop it,” said Gerard. “Well, let us hope it will all blow over. We don’t want trouble with Prussia. This wine is good, Uncle Robert.”

“I am glad you appreciate it. How is the work going?”

“Not too badly. I shall have to go back to Paris soon. By the way, Noelle, Petersen is really serious about doing your portrait.”

“Why don’t you agree?” said Angele. “You enjoyed sitting for Gerard. It would be interesting to see what he did.”

“He can’t bear that my portrait of you has brought me some credit,” said Gerard. “He wants to show that he can do better.”

“Give him a chance to prove that he is wrong,” said Angele.

I said I should like to. “I wonder whether Marie-Christine could come to Paris with me. Mademoiselle Dupont could come, too, so that Marie-Christine could have her lessons. She was very put out about being left behind.”

“She has taken a great fancy to you,” said Angele. “I am glad of that. I can’t see why she shouldn’t go.”

“I shall look forward to it very much,” I said.

“Then,” said Angele, “that’s settled. When do you want to leave, Gerard?”

“At the beginning of next week, I think. Does that suit you?”

I said that it did.

When I saw Marie-Christine and told her that I was going to Paris the following week, her face fell. I quickly added: “Would you care to come? Mademoiselle would of course accompany us, and I am sure you would find it very educational.”

She threw her arms round me and hugged me.

“I suggested it,” I said, “and they all agreed that it would be a good idea.”

Lars Petersen was delighted that I had agreed to sit for him.

“From the moment I saw you, I wanted to paint you,” he said. “That is how it happens. I knew at once.”

“Well, I suppose I should be flattered.”

“You know you have an interesting face.”

“I didn’t, but it occurs to me that you noticed it after Gerard’s success.”

He looked at me roguishly. “I cannot allow him to steal a march on me, now can I? He painted a good picture. I must paint a better one.”

“I see there is a great deal of rivalry.”

“But of course. There is more rivalry in art than in anything else. We are watching those around us. Each of us wants to be the great artist who will live forever, whose name is known to millions. That is the great achievement. So naturally we are watchful of our rivals.”

His conversation was racy and amusing. I learned a good deal about Lars Petersen. He was without doubt extremely attractive and lived a merry life. He was not serious about anything but his art; he was immensely ambitious, determined to make a name for himself and to enjoy himself on the way to success. It was impossible not to like him.

I watched the progress of the portrait. It was good but it lacked that subtle quality which Gerard had brought to his. Perhaps that was because I had not opened my heart to him as I had to Gerard. There was not the same rapport between us.

Gerard used to come in at the end of the morning sittings, and the three of us would eat together. After that, I would go back to the house and spend the rest of the day with Marie-Christine. We went sightseeing with Mademoiselle Dupont. I learned a great deal of French history, for Mademoiselle Dupont had a habit of turning every jaunt into a history lesson. Marie-Christine and I exchanged secret glances, and sometimes we found it hard to restrain our laughter.