“Monsieur Philippe would not dare give a decision for fear of offending the Comte,” said Jean Pierre.

“He is much in awe of his cousin?”

“More than most. If the Comte does not marry, Philippe could be the heir, for the de la Talles follow the old royalty of France, and the Salic law which applied to the Valois and the Bourbons is for the de la Talles as well. But, like everything else, it rests with the Comte.

As long as some male heir inherits he could pass over his cousin for some other relative. Sometimes I think Gaillard is mistaken for the Versailles of Louis the Fourteenth. “

“I imagine the Comte to be young … at least not old. Why should he not marry again?”

“It is said that the idea is distasteful to him.”

“I should have thought a man of his family pride would have wanted a son for he is undoubtedly proud.”

“He is the proudest man in France.”

At that moment the children returned with Gabrielle and their father, Armand. Gabrielle Bastide was strikingly lovely. She was dark like the rest of the family, but her eyes were not brown but a deep shade of blue and those eyes almost made of her a beauty. She had a sweet expression and was more subdued than her brother.

I was explaining to them that I had had a French mother, which accounted for my fluency in their language, when a bell began to ring so suddenly that I was startled.

“It is the maid summoning the children for goiiter,” said Madame Bastide.

“I will go now,” I said.

“It has been so pleasant. I hope we shall meet again.”

But Madame Bastide would not hear of my going. I must, she said, stay to try some of the wine.

Bread with layers of chocolate between it for the children, and for us little cakes and wine, were brought in.

We talked of the vines, pictures, and life in the neighbour hood. I was told I must visit the church and the old hotel de ville: and most of all I must come back and visit the Bastides. I must look in whenever I was passing. Both Jean Pierre and his father who said very little would be delighted to show me anything I wished to see.

The children were sent out to play when they had finished their bread and chocolate and the conversation turned once more to the chateau.

Perhaps it was the wine to which I, certainly, was unaccustomed, particularly at that hour of the day but I grew more indiscreet than I would normally have been.

I was saying: “Genevieve is a strange girl. Not in the least like Yves and Margot. They are so spontaneous, so natural normal, happy children. Perhaps the chateau is not a good environment for a child to grow up in.” I was speaking recklessly and I didn’t care. I had to find out more about the chateau and most of all the Comte.

“Poor child!” said Madame Bastide.

“Yes,” I went on, ‘but I believe it is three years since her mother died, and that is time for one so young to have recovered. “

There was silence, then Jean Pierre said: “If Mademoiselle Lawson is long at the chateau she will soon learn.” He turned to me.

“The Comtesse died of an overdose of laudanum.” I thought of the girl in the graveyard and I blurted out: “Not… murder!”

“They called it suicide,” said Jean Pierre.

“Ah,” put in Madame Bastide, ‘the Comtesse was a beautiful woman. ” And with that she returned to the subject of the vineyards. We talked of the great calamity which had hit most of the vineyards in France a few years ago when the vine-louse had attacked the vines, and because Jean Pierre loved the vineyards so devotedly when he spoke of them he made everyone share his enthusiasm. I could picture the horror when

the vine-louse was discovered to be attached to the roots of the vine; I could feel the intense tragedy to all those concerned when they had to face the problem of whether or not to flood the vineyards.

“There was disaster throughout France at that time,” he said.

“That was less than ten years ago. Is that not so, Father?”

His father nodded.

“It has been a slow climb back to prosperity, but it’s coming.

Gaillard suffered less than most. “

When I rose to go, Jean Pierre said he would walk back with me.

Although there was no danger of my losing my way, I was glad of his company for I found the Bastides warm and friendly a quality I had come to treasure. It occurred to me that when I was with them I myself became a different person from the cool and authoritative woman I showed to the people of the chateau. I was like a chameleon changing my colour to fit in with the landscape. But it was done without thought, so it was absolutely natural. I had never before realized how automatically I put on my defensive armour, i>ut it was very pleasant to be in company where I did not need it.

As we came out of the gate and took the road to the chateau I asked:

“The Comte … is he really so terrifying?”

“He is an autocrat… one of the old aristocrats. His word is law.”

“He has had tragedy in his life.”

“I believe you are sorry for him. When you meet him you’ll see that pity is the last thing he would need.”

“You said that they called his wife’s death suicide …” I began.

He interrupted me swiftly.

“We do not even speak of such things.”

“But…”

“But,” he added, ‘we keep them in our minds. “

The chateau loomed before us; it looked immense,

impregnable. I thought of all the dark secrets it could be keeping and felt a shiver run down my spine.

“Please don’t bother to come any farther,” I said.

“I am sure I am keeping you from your work.”

He stood a few paces from me and bowed. I smiled and turned towards the castle.

I went to bed early that night to make up for the previous night’s lack of sleep. I dozed and my dreams were hazy. It was strange, because at home I rarely dreamed. This was muddled dreaming of the Bastides, of cellars containing bottles of wine, and through these dreams flitted a vague faceless shape whom I knew to be the dead Comtesse. Sometimes I felt her presence without seeing her; it was as though she were behind me whispering a warning, “Go away. Don’t you become involved in this strange household.” Then again she would be jeering at me. Yet I was not afraid of her. There was another shady shape to strike terror into me. Monsieur Ie Comte. I heard the words as though from a long way; then growing so loud that it was like someone shouting in my ears.

I awoke startled. Someone was shouting. There were voices below and scurrying footsteps along the corridor. The chateau was waking up although it was not morning. In fact the candle I hastily lighted showed me my watch lying on the table and this told me it was only just after eleven.

I knew what was happening. It was what everyone was waiting for and dreading.

The Comte had come home.

I lay sleepless, wondering what the morning would bring.

The chateau was quiet when I awoke at my usual time. Briskly I rose and rang for my hot water. It came promptly.

The maid looked different, I told myself. She was uneasy. So the Comte had his effect even on the humblest servants.

“You would like your petit dejeuner as usual, mademoiselle?”

I looked surprised and said: “But of course, please.”

I guessed they were all talking about me, asking themselves what my fate would be. I looked round the room. Perhaps I shall never sleep here again, I thought. Then I was unhappy thinking of leaving the chateau, never really knowing these people who had taken such a hold on my imagination. I wanted to know more of Genevieve, to try to understand her. I wanted to see what effect on Philippe de la Talle his cousin’s return would have. I wanted to know how far Nounou was responsible for the waywardness of her charge. I should have liked to hear what had happened to Mademoiselle Dubois before she had come to the chateau. Then of course there were the Bastides. I wanted to sit in that cosy room and talk about the vines and the chateau. But most of all I wanted to meet the Comte not just once and briefly to receive my dismissal, but to learn more of a man who, it seemed generally believed, had been responsible for the death of his wife, even if he had not actually administered the poison dose.

My breakfast came and I felt too excited for food, but I was determined none of them should say that I was so frightened that I had been unable to eat, so I drank two cups of coffee as usual and ate my twist of hot bread. Then I went along to the gallery.

It was not easy to work. I had already prepared an estimate which Philippe de la Talle had said would be given to the Comte on his return. He had smiled at me when I gave it to him and glancing through it had remarked that it looked like the work of an expert. I was sure he was’ hoping it would please the Comte-partly, I imagined, to justify his having allowed me to stay, but there was an element of kindness in him, I was sure, which made him want me to have the job because I had betrayed how badly I needed it. I summed him up as a man who would be kind, unless being so made too many demands upon him.

I imagined the Comte’s receiving my estimate, hearing that a woman had come instead of a man. But I could not picture him clearly. All I could imagine was a haughty man in white wig and crown. It was a picture I had seen either of Louis XIV or XV. The King . the King of the Castle.

I had a note-pad with me and tried to jot down a few points which I had passed over on my previous examination If he will let me stay, I told myself, I shall become so absorbed in the work that he can have murdered twenty wives for all I care.

There was one painting in the gallery which had particularly caught my attention. It was a portrait of a woman. The costume placed it in the eighteenth century mid or perhaps a little later. It interested me not because of the excellence of the work there were better pictures in the gallery but because although it was of a later date than most of them it was in a greater state of deterioration. The varnish was very dark and the whole surface was mottled as though it suffered from a skin disease. It looked to me as though it had been exposed to the weather.

I was contemplating this picture when I heard a movement behind me. I swung round to find that a man had entered the gallery and was standing there watching me. I felt my heart pound and my legs tremble.

I knew at once that I was at last face to face with the Comte de la Talle.

“It is Mademoiselle Lawson, of course,” he said. Even his voice was unusual deep, cold.

“You are the Comte de la Talle?”

He bowed. He did not come towards me. His eyes surveyed me across the gallery, and his manner was as cool as his voice. I noticed that he was tallish, and I was struck by his leanness. There was a slight resemblance to Philippe; but there was none of Philippe’s femininity in this man. He was darker than his cousin; his cheekbones were high and this gave his face the pointed look which seemed almost satanic. His eyes were very dark sometimes they could seem almost black, I discovered later, depending on his mood; they were deeply set and his lids were heavy; his aquiline nose gave to his face the look of haughtiness; his mouth was mobile; it changed according to the man he was. But at this time I knew only one man the arrogant King of the Castle on whom my fate depended.

He wore a black riding-coat with a velvet collar and above his white cravat his face was pale, even cruel.

“My cousin has told me of your coming.” He advanced towards me now. He walked as a king might have walked through the hall of mirrors.

I had regained my poise very quickly. There was nothing like haughtiness to bring out my bristling armour.

“I am glad you have returned. Monsieur Ie Comte,” I said, ‘for I have been waiting several days to know whether you wish me to stay and do the work. “

“It must have been tiresome for you to be uncertain whether or not you were wasting your time.”

“I have found the gallery very interesting, I assure you, so it will not have been an unpleasant way of wasting time.”

“It is a pity,” he said, ‘that you did not tell us of your father’s death. It would have saved so much trouble. “

So I was to go. I felt angry because I was so miserable. Back to London, I thought. I should have to find a lodging. And how could I afford to live until I discovered a post? I looked down the years and saw myself becoming more and more like Mademoiselle Dubois. What nonsense! As if I ever should! I could go to Cousin Jane. Never, never!