Did she know that he had murdered his wife? “

The desire to know was becoming an obsession. But it was more than a desire to know; it was a desperate need to prove him innocent. We were riding when Genevieve, speaking in her rather slow English, told me that she had heard from Esquilles.

“Such an important person she seems to have become, miss. I will show you her letter.”

“I am so pleased that she is happily settled.”

“Yes, she is companion to Madame de la Condere and Madame de la Condere is very appreciative. They live in a fine mansion, not as ancient as ours but much more comme il faut. Madame de la Condere gives card parties and old Esquilles often joins them to make up the number. It gives her an opportunity of mixing in the society to which by rights she should belong.”

“Well, all’s well that ends well.”

“And, miss, you will be glad to hear that Madame de la Condere has a nephew who is a very charming man and he is always very agreeable to Esquilles. I must show you her letter. She is so coy when she writes of him. I do believe she has hopes of becoming Madame Nephew before long.”

“Well, I’m very pleased. I have thought about her now and then. She was so suddenly dismissed, and it was all due to your naughtiness.”

“She mentions Papa. She says how grateful she is to him for finding her such a congenial situation.”

“He … found it?”

“Of course. He arranged for her to go to Madame de la Condere. He wouldn’t just have turned her out. Or would he?”

“No,” I said firmly.

“He wouldn’t turn her out.”

That was a very happy morning.

The atmosphere lightened considerably during the next weeks. The black measles had been defeated and there was rejoicing throughout the vineyards and the towns which depended on their prosperity.

Invitations came to the chateau for the family to a wedding of a distant connection. The Comte said he was too bruised to go he continued to walk with a stick and that Philippe and his wife must represent their branch of the family.

I knew that Claude was resentful and hated the idea of going and leaving the Comte at the chateau. I was in one of the small walled gardens when she walked past with the Comte. We did not see each other but I heard their voices hers quite distinctly for it was high-pitched and very audible when she was angry.

“They’ll expect yowl”

“They’ll understand. You and Philippe will explain about my accident.”

“Accident! A few bruises!” He said something which I did not hear and she went on: “Lothair … please ” You don’t listen to me now. You seem as if . “

His voice was low, almost soothing, and by the time he had finished speaking they were out of earshot. There was no doubt of the relationship which existed between them, I thought sadly.

But to Paris went Claude and Philippe, and I thrust aside my doubts and fears and prepared to enjoy Claude’s absence.

The days were long and full of sunshine. The vines were in bloom. Each day I rose with a feeling of anticipation. I had never been so happy in my life; yet I knew that my happiness was about as dependable as an April day. I could make some alarming discovery; I could be sent away.

In a moment the skies could darken and the sun be completely blotted out. All the more reason to bask in it while it was there.

As soon as Philippe and Claude had left, the Comte’s visits to the gallery had become more frequent. Sometimes I fancied he was escaping from something, searching and longing to discover. There were times when I caught a glimpse of a different man behind his teasing smiles.

I even had the idea that he enjoyed our interviews as much as I did.

When he left me I would come to my senses and laugh at myself, asking:

How far are you prepared to delude yourself?

There was a simple explanation of what was happening:

There was no one at the chateau to amuse him; therefore he found me and my earnestness for my work diverting. I must remember that.

But he was interested in painting, and knowledgeable too. I recalled that pathetic entry in Francoise’s diary. She must try to learn something of the things which interested him. Poor frightened little Francoise! Why had she been afraid?

There were times when his face would darken with a cynicism which I imagined could be alarming to a meek and simple woman. There might even be a touch of sadism, as though he delighted in mockery and the discomfort it brought to others. But to me those expressions of his were like a film which something in his life had laid over his true nature just as lack of care will spoil a picture.

I was arrogant. Governessy, as Genevieve would say. Did I really think that because I could bring its old glory back to a painting I could change a man?

But I was obsessed by my desire to know him, to probe beneath that often sardonic mask, to change the expression of the mouth from a certain bitter disillusion. But before I could attempt this . I must know my subject.

How had he felt towards the woman whom he had married? He had ruined her life. Had she ruined his? How could one know when the past was engulfed in secrecy?

The days when I did not see him were empty; and those encounters which seemed so short left me elated and exhilarated by a happiness I had never in my life known before.

We talked of pictures; of the chateau; of the history of the place and the days of the chateau’s glory during the reigns of the fourteenth and fifteenth Louis.

“Then there was the change. Nothing was ever the same again. Mademoiselle Lawson. Some saw it coming years before.

“Apres moi Ie deluge,” said Louis XV. And deluge there was, with his successor going to the guillotine and taking so many of our people with him. My own great-great-grandfather was one of them. We were fortunate not to lose our estates. Had we been nearer Paris we should have done so. But you read about the miracle of St. Genevieve and how she saved us from disaster. ” His tone lightened.

“You are thinking that perhaps we were not worth saving.”

“I was thinking no such thing. As a matter of fact I think it’s a pity when estates have to pass out of families. How interesting to trace one’s family back hundreds of years.”

“Perhaps the Revolution did some good. If they had not stormed the chateau and damaged these pictures, we should not have needed your services.”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“If the pictures had not been damaged, they would not have needed restoration certainly. They might have needed cleaning.”

“But you might not have come here, Miss Lawson. Think of that.”

“I am sure the Revolution was a greater catastrophe than that would have been.”

He laughed; and he was different then. I caught a glimpse of the light-hearted person through the mask. It was a wonderful moment.

I joined him and Genevieve for dinner each night during the absence of Philippe and Claude. The conversation was animated between us, and Genevieve would look on in a kind of bewilderment; but attempts to draw her in were not very successful. She, like her mother, seemed to be afraid of him.

Then one evening when we went down to dinner he was not there. He had left no message that he would not be in, but after waiting for twenty minutes, dinner was served and we ate alone.

I felt very uneasy. I kept picturing him lying hurt or worse in the woods. If someone had tried to kill him and failed wasn’t it plausible that they should have another attempt?

I tried to eat, tried to disguise my anxiety, which Genevieve did not share, and I was glad when I could go to my room to be alone.

I walked up and down; I sat at my window; I could not rest. There was a mad moment when I thought of going to the stables and taking a horse to look for him. How could I do so at night and what right had I to concern myself in his affairs?

Of course, I reminded myself, the Comte who had been such a gracious companion to me had been the invalid. He had been recuperating from his accident and while he was confined to the chateau found me a substitute for his friends.

Why hadn’t I seen it?

It was daylight before I slept and when the maid brought my breakfast to my room I looked at her in surreptitious anxiety to see if she had heard any terrible news. But she was as placid as ever.

I went down to the gallery feeling tired and strained and in no mood to work; but I had told myself that if anything had happened I should have heard by now.

I had not been there very long when he came into the gallery. I started when I saw him and he looked at me strangely.

I said without thinking: “Oh … you are all right then?”

His face was expressionless, but he regarded me intently.

“I’m sorry I missed seeing you at dinner last night,” he said.

“Oh … yes. I… wondered …”

What was the matter with me? I was stammering like the foolish girls I so despised.

He continued to look at me and I was certain he had detected the signs of sleeplessness. What a fool I had been! Did I expect him to explain to me when he went out visiting his friends? Of course he would go out. He had only confined himself to the chateau because of his accident.

“I believe,” he said, ‘you were concerned for my safety. ” Did he know the state of my feelings as well as or perhaps better than I knew them myself?

“Tell me, did you imagine me shot through the heart… no, the head, because I believe you secretly think. Mademoiselle Lawson, that I have a stone where my heart should be. An advantage in a way. A bullet can’t pierce stone.”

I knew it was no use denying my concern so I tacitly admitted it in my reply.

“If you had been shot once it seemed plausible to imagine that it might happen again.”

“It would be too coincidental, don’t you think? A man shooting a hare happens to shoot my horse. It’s the sort of thing that could only happen once in a lifetime. And you are expecting it twice in a few weeks.”

“The hare theory might not be the true one.”

He sat down on the sofa beneath the picture of his ancestress in emeralds and regarded me on my stool.

“Are you comfortable there, Mademoiselle Lawson?”

“Thank you.” I could feel animation coming back into my body; everything was gay again. I had only one fear now. Was I betraying myself?

“We’ve talked about pictures, old castles, old families, revolutions, yet never about ourselves,” he said almost gently.

“I am sure those subjects are more interesting than I personally could be.”

“Do you really think that?”

I shrugged my shoulders a habit I had learned from those about me. It was a good substitute for the answer expected to a difficult question.

“All I know is that your father died and you took his place.”

“There is little else to know. Mine has been a life like many others of my class and circumstances.”

“You never married. I wonder why.”

“I might reply as the English milkmaid, ” Nobody asked me, sir, she said”.”

“That I find extraordinary. I am sure you would make an excellent wife for some fortunate man. Just imagine how useful you would be. His pictures would always be in perfect condition.”

“What if he had none?”

“I am sure you would very quickly remedy that omission.”

I did not like the light turn of the conversation. I fancied he was making fun of me; and it was a subject about which, in view of my new emotions, I did not care to be mocked.

“I am surprised that you should be an advocate for marriage.” As soon as I had spoken I wished I hadn’t. I flushed and stammered: “I’m sorry”

He smiled, the mockery gone.

“And I’m surprised that you are surprised. Tell me, what does D stand for? Miss D. Lawson. I should like to know. It is such an unusual name.”

I explained that my father had been Daniel and my mother Alice.

“Dallas,” he repeated my name.

“You smile?”

“It’s the way in which you say it… with the accent on the last syllable. We put it on the first.”

He tried it out again, smiling at me.

“Dallas, Dallas.” He made me feel that he liked saying it.

“You yourself have an unusual name.”

“It’s been used by my family for years … since the first King of the Franks. We have to be royal, you see. We throw in an occasional Louis, a Charles, an Henri. But we must have our Lothairs.

Now let me tell you how wrongly you pronounce my name. “