“My dear, you should go home. I, an old woman, who sees far more than you think, tell you that. Could you be happy here? Would the Comte marry you? Would you live here as his mistress? I don’t think so. That would suit neither him nor you. Go home while there is still time. In your own country you will learn to forget, for you are still young and will meet someone whom you will learn to love. You will have children and they will teach you to forget.”

“Madame Bastide,” I said.

“You are worried.”

She was silent.

“You are afraid of what Jean Pierre will do.”

“He has been different lately.”

“He has asked me to marry him; he has convinced Genevieve that she is in love with him … What else?”

She hesitated.

“Perhaps I should not tell you. It has been on my mind since I knew. When the Comtesse fled from the revolutionaries and.

took refuge here she was grateful to the Bastides and she left with them a small gold casket. Inside this casket was a key. “

“A key!” I echoed.

“Yes, a small key. I have never before seen one like it. At one end was a fleur-delis.”

“Yes?” I prompted impatiently.

“The casket was for us. It is worth a great deal. It is kept locked away in case we should ever be in great need. The key was to be kept until it was asked for. It was not to be given up until then.”

“And was it never asked for?”

“No, it never was. According to the story which had been handed down we were to tell no one we had it for fear the wrong people should ask.

So we never mentioned the key . nor the casket. It was said that the Comtesse had talked of two keys. the one in our casket and the one hidden in the chateau. “

“Where is the key? May I see it?”

“It disappeared … a short time ago. I believe someone has taken it.”

“Jean Pierre!” I whispered.

“He is trying to find the lock in the chateau which fits the key.”

“That could be so.”

“And when he does?”

She gripped my hand.

“If he finds what he seeks that will be the end of his hatred.”

“You mean … the emeralds.”

“If he had the emeralds he would think he had his share. I am afraid that that is what is in his mind. I am afraid that this … obsession is like a canker in his mind. Dallas, I am afraid of where it will lead him.”

“Could you talk to him?”

She shook her head.

“It’s no use. I have tried in the past. I’m fond of you. You must not be hurt too. Everything here seems peaceful on the surface … but nothing is what it seems. We none of us show our true face to the world. You should go away. You should not be involved in this years-old strife. Go home and start again. In time this will seem like a dream to you and we will all be like puppets in a shadow show.”

“It could never be so.”

“Yes, my dear, it could be … for that is life.”

I left her and went back to the chateau.

I knew I could stand aside no longer. I had to act. How I was not sure.

Half past six in the morning and this was the call of vendange. From all over the neighbourhood men, women and children were making their ways to the vineyards where Jean Pierre and his father would give them instructions. At least, I told myself, for today there could be no concern for anything but the gathering of the grape.

In the chateau kitchens according to ancient custom food was being prepared to provide meals for all the workers, and as soon as the dew was off the grapes the gathering began.

The harvesters were working in pairs, one carefully cutting the grapes, making sure that those which were not perfect were discarded, while the other held the osier to receive them, keeping it steady so as not to bruise the 4 grapes.

From the vineyards came the sound of singing as the workers joined together in the songs of the district. This again was an old custom Madame Bastide had once told me and there was a saying that “Bouche qui mord a la . chanson ne mord pas a la grappe.”

I did not work on that morning. I went to the vineyards to watch. I did not see Jean Pierre. He would have been too busy to pay much attention to me, too busy-to pay attention to Genevieve, too busy to hate.

I felt that I was not part of all that. I had no job to do. I didn’t belong, and that was symbolic.

I went to the gallery and looked at my work which in so very short a time would be finished.

Madame Bastide, who was my good friend, advised me to go. I wondered whether by avoiding me the Comte was telling me the same. He had some regard for me, I was sure, and that thought would sustain me a little when I went away. However sad I was I should remind myself:

But he had some regard for me. Love? Perhaps I was not one to inspire a grande passion. The thought almost made me laugh. If I could see this clearly I should see how absurd the whole thing was. Here was this man: worldly, experienced, fastidious . and there was I: the unattractive woman intense about one thing only, her work, all that he was not! priding herself on her common sense, in which she had shown, by her behaviour, she was sadly lacking. But I should remind myself: He had some regard for me.

His aloofness was the measure of that regard and he, like Madame Bastide, was saying to me: Go away. It is better so.

I took the key from my pocket. I must give it to the Comte and tell him how I had found it. Then I would say to him: “The work is almost finished. I shall be leaving shortly.”

I looked at the key. Jean Pierre had one exactly like it. And he was searching for that lock even as I had.

I thought of those occasions when I had felt myself observed. Could it have been Jean Pierre? Had he seen me that day in the graveyard? Was he afraid that I should find what he was so desperately seeking?

He must not steal the emeralds, for whatever he told himself, it would be stealing, and if he were caught. It would be unbearable. I thought of the misery that would come to those people of whom I had grown so fond.

It would be no use remonstrating with him. There was only one thing to do: find the emeralds before he did. If they were here at all they must be in the dungeons because they were certainly not in the oubliette.

Here was an opportunity, for there was scarcely anyone in the chateau today. I remembered seeing a lantern near the door of the dungeon and I promised myself that this time I would light it, so that I could explore properly. I made my way to the centre of the chateau and descended the stone staircase. I reached the dungeons and as I opened the iron-studded door it creaked dismally.

I felt the chill of the place but I was determined to go on, so I lighted the lantern and held it up. It showed me the damp walls, the fungoid growth on them, the cages cut out of the wall, and here and there rings to which the chains were attached.

A gloomy place, dark, uninviting, still after all these years haunted by the sufferings of the forgotten men and women of a cruel age.

Where could there possibly be a lock here to fit the key?

I advanced into the gloom and as I did so was aware of that sense of creeping horror. I knew exactly how men and women had felt in the past when they had been brought to this place. I sensed the terror, the hopelessness.

It seemed to me then that every nerve in my body was warning me: Get away. There’s danger here. And I seemed to develop an extra sense of awareness as perhaps one does in moments of acute danger. I knew I was not alone, that I was being watched.

I remember thinking: Then if someone is lurking in wait for me why doesn’t that someone attack me now. But I knew that whoever was there was waiting. waiting for me to do something, and when I did, the danger would be upon me. Oh, Jean Pierre, I thought, you wouldn’t hurt me even for the Gaillard emeralds.

My fingers were trembling. I despised myself. I was no better than the servants who would not come here. I was afraid, even as they were, of the ghosts of the past.

“Who’s there?” I cried, in a voice which sounded bold.

It echoed in a ghostly eerie way.

I knew that I must get out at once. It was that instinct warning me.

Now! And don’t come back here alone.

“Is anyone there?” I said. Then again speaking aloud:

“There’s nothing there …”

I didn’t know why I had spoken aloud. It was some answer to the fear which possessed me. It was not a ghost who was lurking in the shadows.

But I had more to fear from the living than the dead.

I backed trying to do so slowly and deliberately to the door. I blew out the lantern and put it down. I was through the iron-studded door; I mounted the stone staircase and once at the top of it hurriedly went to my room.

I must never go there alone again, I told myself. I pictured that door shutting on me. I pictured the peril overtaking me. I was not sure in what form, but I believed that I might then have had my wish to remain at the chateau for ever more.

I had come to a decision. I was going to talk to the Comte without delay.

It was characteristic that at Gaillard the grapes were trodden in the traditional way. In other parts of the country there might be presses, but at Gaillard the old methods were retained.

There are no ways like the old ways,” Armand Bastide had said once.

“No wine tastes quite like ours.”

The warm air was filled with the sounds of revelry. The grapes were gathered and were three feet deep in the great trough.

The (readers, ready for the treading, had scrubbed their legs and feet until they shone; the musicians were tuning up. The excitement was high.

The scene touched by moonlight was fantastic to me, who had never seen anything like it before. I watched with the rest while the treaders, naked to the thighs, wearing short white breeches, stepped into the trough and began to dance.

I recognized the old song which Jean Pierre had first sung to me, and it had a special significance now:

“Qui sont-ils les gens qui sont riches? Sont-ils plus que moi quin’ ai rien …”

I watched the dancers sink deeper and deeper into the purple morass; their faces gleaming, their voices raised in song. The music seemed to grow wilder; and the musicians closed in on the trough. Armand Bastide led the players with his violin; there was an accordion, a triangle and a drum, and some of the treaders used castanets as they went methodically round and round the trough.

Brandy was passed round to the dancers and they roared their appreciation as the singing grew louder, the dance more fervent.

I caught a glimpse of Yves and Margot; they with other children were wild with excitement, dancing together, shrieking with laughter as they pretended they were treading grapes.

Genevieve was there, her hair high on her head. She ^ looked excited and secretive and I knew that her restless glances meant that she was looking for Jean Pierre.

And suddenly the Comte was beside me. He was smiling, as though he was pleased, and I felt absurdly happy because I believed that he had been looking for me.

“Dallas,” he said, and the use of my Christian name on his lips filled me with pleasure. Then: “Well, what do you think of it?”

“I have never seen anything like it.”

“I’m glad we have been able to show you something you haven’t seen before.”

He had taken my elbow in the palm of his hand.

“I must speak to you,” I said.

“And I to you. But not here. There is too much noise.”

He drew me away from the crowd. Outside, the air was fresh; I looked at the moon, gibbous, almost drunken-looking, the markings on its surface clear, so that it really did look like a face up there, laughing at us.

“It seems a long time since we have talked together,” he said.

“I could not make up my mind what to say to you. I wanted to think . about us. I did not want you to think me rash . impetuous. I did not think you would care for that. “

“No,” I replied.

We had started to walk towards the chateau.

“Tell me first what you wished to say,” he said.

“In a few weeks I shall have finished my work. The time will have come for me to go.”

“You must not go.”

“But there will be no reason for me to stay.”

“We must find a reason ..: Dallas.”

I turned to him. It was no time for banter. I must know the truth.

Even if I betrayed my feelings I must know it.