The Chateau on the Lake (19 page)

‘But I’ve got a household to feed! Don’t you recognise me? I’m Madame Thibault, the cook at Château Mirabelle.’

‘Madame, it wouldn’t make any difference if you was Queen Marie Antoinette herself, it’s still only one loaf.’ He chuckles. ‘In fact, if you was Marie Antoinette, I’d tell you to go and eat cake.’

Grumbling under her breath, Madame Thibault tucks the loaf into her basket.

‘Have you any flour for sale?’ I ask the baker.

Somewhere in the distance I can hear a drum begin to beat.

The baker shakes his head. ‘You might try the dry goods store but I know Monsieur Albert was running low.’ He looks over my shoulder. ‘Next!’

Madame Thibault and I push through the throng and step outside into the square again.

‘We’d better see if there’s any flour,’ she says, her expression grim. ‘This loaf won’t go very far.’

‘What’s happening at the church?’ I ask.

A large group of men are gathered in front of the building, which is bedecked with red, white and blue flags. Soldiers, a dozen or so, all wearing blue coats, white breeches and with revolutionary cockades in their hats, are mingling with the public. Another soldier beats a drum with an insistent rhythm.

‘Look, there’s the mayor,’ says Madame Thibault, pointing to a man standing at the top of the church steps, framed in the doorway.

The man steps forward, holds up his hand for attention and begins to speak.

We step closer to listen.

‘Citizens, until the enemies of France have been chased off the territory of the Republic, every French person must stand ready to serve and support our armed forces. Young men will go to fight…’

‘Huzzah!’ shouts a man in the crowd.

The mayor smiles and bows to him. ‘Young men will go to fight, husbands will forge weapons and manage the transport services, wives and daughters will make tents and uniforms and serve in the hospitals, old men will inflame the bravery of our soldiers and preach the hatefulness of kings, the unity of the Republic…’ His words are drowned by the roar of patriotic approval from the crowd.

One of the soldiers fires his musket into the air and the noise subsides. ‘Now let’s see what you are made of!’ he shouts. ‘Come forward and volunteer and together we’ll see off our enemies with their tails between their legs.’

A man steps forward, waving his fists in the air, and his friends whistle and clap him on the shoulder.

A cry of ‘Long live the Republic!’ is heard over the shouts. One by one, the men come up to volunteer and each is greeted by rousing cheers and the furious banging of the drum.

I swallow a surge of bile and close my eyes as, just for a moment, the noise of the drum and the clamour of the crowd remind me of standing in the square and witnessing the execution of King Louis.

Madame Thibault catches hold of my arm and pulls me away. ‘Perhaps we’ll find the queue for flour is shorter while this is going on.’

Glancing over my shoulder at the crowd, I catch sight of Madame Viard watching the men join up. I follow Madame Thibault as she walks briskly across the square to the dry goods store. The owner is standing in the doorway watching the volunteers but steps aside to allow us to enter.

‘Do you have flour?’ asks Madame Thibault.

‘I have the new
égalité
flour,’ says the merchant. ‘It’s not possible to buy white flour. All flour is mixed brown and white so everyone eats the same quality.’

‘We’ll take a sack each,’ I say.

Monsieur Albert purses his lips. ‘It’s rationed.’ He bends down to lift two small bags of flour on to the counter. ‘One each.’

Madame Thibault looks at me, aghast. ‘We’re all going to starve.’

‘Thousands are already doing so.’ Monsieur Albert turns his hands palm up. ‘If I don’t ration the little flour I can get hold of, there’ll be riots.’

‘When will you have more?’ I ask.

‘Try next week.’

‘We can’t wait that long!’ Madame Thibault is pale with shock.

Monsieur Albert raises his eyes to the heavens. ‘We none of us have any choice in the matter.’

‘Have you any sugar or dried beans?’ I scan the almost empty shelves behind him. ‘Or oil?’

The corners of Monsieur Albert’s mouth are turned down.

‘What do you have?’ I ask, in desperation.

‘There are still some chestnuts and, yes, a few haricot beans.’

A short while later Madame Thibault and I leave the shop with a few pitifully small packages in our baskets.

Madame Viard is waiting for us outside. ‘Is that all you’ve bought?’

‘I can’t go on like this,’ says Madame Thibault, shaking her head. ‘Rationing indeed! I shall have to make enquiries about other sources of supply. Madame Viard, will you go into the shop, too, and buy whatever the grocer will let you have or there won’t be enough to feed everyone?’

‘There’s one other call I want to make,’ I say. ‘I’ll meet you back at the
charrette
.’

I hurry away across the square, my footsteps beating in time to the soldier’s drum until I reach the gate in the wall. Rapping my knuckles on it, I wait. I’m just about to knock again when I hear slow footsteps on the gravel. The bolt scrapes back and the gate opens a fraction.

‘Yes?’ says a quavering voice.

‘It is I, Mademoiselle Moreau.’

The gate swings open and the former priest is peering out at me. ‘What is it?’

‘Please, don’t be alarmed, Père Chenot.’ The poor man is pale and shaking.

He glances both ways into the square and then steps back to allow me to enter. ‘Forgive me for my lack of welcome. The mayor and his men called on me yesterday.’ He bolts the gate behind me with trembling fingers. ‘I’m under house arrest. If I am seen outside these walls…’

‘What?’

Père Chenot runs his finger across his neck in a slicing motion. ‘Apparently I’m a dangerous counter-revolutionary.’ A flicker of a smile races across his face.

‘But that’s terrible!’

‘Far worse happened to Our Lord. Meanwhile, is there something I can do for you?’

‘I wondered if you had any spare vegetable seed for sale?’

Père Chenot smiles. ‘The season is advancing so you’ll have to act quickly.’ He hobbles away towards the tiny wooden shed in the corner of the garden.

Ten minutes later I shake the old priest’s hand and slip out of the garden gate with another handful of cabbage leaves, and carrot, lettuce, turnip, bean and marrow seeds in my pocket.

 

 

The children are restless. I’ve been a teacher for long enough to know when trouble is brewing. Out of the corner of my eye I see Emile elbow little Lisette Marchand in the ribs and she bursts into noisy tears.

‘What is the matter, Lisette, apart from Emile being very naughty?’

‘It’s Papa!’ Lisette begins to howl in earnest.

Hurrying to her side, I take a handkerchief from my pocket to wipe away her tears.

‘He’s gone to be a soldier and Emile says he’s going to die and never come back!’ She buries her face in her arms.

Shocked, I pull Emile to his feet by his collar. ‘That’s a very unkind thing to say to Lisette.’

He shrugs off my hand. ‘My papa’s gone to beat the bastard British, too. And he said he might not come back.’

I bite my lip while I consider the best way to deal with the situation. ‘A war is an unhappy and worrying time for whoever is involved in it,’ I say. ‘But the British are people like us, you know. Their children are just as frightened as you when their papas have to fight for what they believe in.’

Emile stands in front of me, hands on hips and his face mutinous. ‘I’m not frightened but my papa says the British are stupid.
And
they eat babies.’

Lisette and two other girls scream.

‘That’s utter nonsense, Emile!’

‘My papa doesn’t lie.’ There’s a dangerous glint in his eye.

‘I’m not suggesting he does but…’

Emile kicks the table leg and runs from the schoolroom, only to come to a sudden stop in the doorway.

‘Are you causing trouble again, Emile?’ says Jean-Luc.

‘No, it’s her!’ Emile points at me, rage turning his face crimson.

‘I tell you what,’ says Jean-Luc, gripping the boy’s shoulder, ‘why don’t we go and have a talk, man to man?’

Emile’s eyes are brimming with tears but he nods.

‘Any of you other boys want to come with us?’ Jean-Luc asks the rest of the class. ‘Women think about war in a different way from us men.’

One at a time, the other boys stand up and gather around Jean-Luc.

‘We’ll be a little while, Mademoiselle Moreau, if that is agreeable to you?’ Jean-Luc raises one eyebrow and looks at me with a wry smile.

Grateful that he appears to have handled a difficult situation in such a sensitive way, I nod.

‘After we’ve had our discussion, I’ll accompany the boys back to the village.’

‘Thank you, Monsieur Viard.’ It’s comforting to know that I can rely on him in times of difficulty.

The boys’ footsteps clatter away and I go to soothe the weeping girls.

On my way home after school I visit the kitchen garden. The wooden door in the wall is ajar and, as I’ve never ventured inside before, I’m curious. Shivering a little, I look around me. There couldn’t be a greater contrast to Père Chenot’s
potager
. The garden is large and must have been very fine, once. Now it’s neglected and the espaliered fruit trees have become overgrown. Loose branches wave unrestrained in the wind. The earth is crowded with weeds and only one small area of ground has been dug. A glasshouse leans drunkenly against the south-facing wall and a wooden barrow rests on its side, the wheel missing.

A drift of smoke is rising from the glasshouse and I hurry towards it, anxious that it might be on fire. Much of the glass in the windows is broken and the door hangs off its hinges, grating across the ground as I push it open. Smoke clouds the inside of the glasshouse and I wave my hands in front of my face to dispel it. Dead vines hang in thick curtains from tangled wire supports and I have to push them aside as I walk.

The source of the fire is a brazier sulkily belching out smoke. Since there is little glass in the roof above, it doesn’t seem to be any danger to the structure. Wryly, I smile to myself, thinking that the glasshouse is so dilapidated that burning it might be the best answer.

It’s as I make to leave that I see Marcel Viard lying on a bale of straw nearby. He sits up and scratches his head, a bottle of wine clutched to his chest.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asks, bleary-eyed.

‘I saw the fire.’

‘It’s cold today.’

I nod in agreement. ‘I wonder if there’s a spare garden fork I might borrow?’

‘You?’ Viard’s expression is incredulous.

‘I have some seeds to plant.’

He scratches his head again. ‘You can help yourself.’ He nods at the far corner of the garden. ‘There’s a shed.’ He takes a swig of wine from the bottle and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘It’s dark in the shed. D’you want me to come and help you?’ His face twists into a leer.

‘I can manage,’ I say, and escape as fast as I can.

 

 

Later that afternoon Sophie is sitting warmly wrapped in a shawl on the garden bench under the apple tree while I start to clear the weeds from the little vegetable patch at the end of the orchard. The delicate perfume of apple blossom surrounds us as Alouette and Agnes strut around my feet, contentedly pecking at the freshly turned earth and squabbling now and again over a juicy worm. They have grown plump and sleek and their combs have turned scarlet.

The day is cool but digging has made me very warm and I stop to lean on the spade for a moment while I push a strand of hair off my forehead. Then I notice Etienne standing under the apple tree, watching me, and my heart begins to race.

‘I knocked on the front door,’ he says, ‘but Babette told me to let myself in through the side gate.’

‘How lovely to see you,’ says Sophie. ‘I’m languishing for want of company.’

‘Are you keeping well, Madame Levesque?’

‘The country air suits me.’

Etienne carries a lidded basket and holds it out to me. ‘I have brought you these, if you would like them?’

Curious, I lift the lid and cannot help smiling. Inside, curled up fast asleep, are a ginger and a tabby kitten.

‘Aren’t they adorable!’ says Sophie.

‘Delightful,’ I agree, stroking the soft fur.

The ginger kitten yawns widely, showing the pink inside of its little mouth, all lined with teeth as sharp as needles.

‘I hope they’ll keep you company,’ says Etienne to Sophie.

‘Oh, they will!’ She lifts the ginger kitten to her breast, her eyes shining.

‘Thank you, Monsieur d’Aubery,’ I say.

He reaches out and swiftly runs his thumb along my cheekbone. ‘A smudge of earth,’ he says.

His touch makes me quiver and I force myself to look away.

‘So you’re planting a garden?’

‘It’s a waste of good land not to grow vegetables.’

‘I agree.’ He sighs. ‘Our kitchen garden is in a deplorably neglected state. When I was a child it was so orderly that a weed dared not show its face. But then we had an army of gardeners. Two years ago we reduced the number by half. Now, since so many of the estate workers have joined the army, we can only spare Marcel Viard.’

‘I saw him today when I went to borrow the garden tools.’

Etienne’s mouth lifts in an ironic smile. ‘And no doubt he was working hard to plant the seeds that will save us from starvation this summer?’

‘No doubt.’

Suddenly Sophie squeals. ‘Quick! He’s running away!’

The ginger kitten is clinging to the trunk of the apple tree. Before we can stop him, he’s run up into the branches.

‘He’ll come down when he’s hungry,’ says Etienne.

‘But we can’t leave him there!’ cries Sophie.

The kitten peers down at us, framed by leaves, and then begins to mew.

‘Please, Monsieur d’Aubery, will you fetch him?’ Sophie looks up at him imploringly.

Etienne sighs, unbuttons his coat and hands it to me. Then he steps up on to the bench and heaves himself into the canopy of the tree.

Etienne’s coat retains his warmth as I hug it to my chest. It smells faintly of the stable, overlaid with a hint of the vetiver pomade he sometimes wears.

Apple blossom showers down on us like fragrant snow as he climbs higher and higher while the kitten continues to mew pathetically.

Sophie slams the basket lid shut as the tabby kitten reaches out an inquisitive paw.

There’s a muffled curse from above. ‘Come here, you little hellcat!’ mutters Etienne, and then there’s a triumphant cry. ‘Got you!’

A moment later he jumps down from the tree and lands, crouching, on the ground with a thump. There is a leaf in his tousled hair and blood beads up from a long scratch on his wrist. He looks impossibly handsome.

‘Where is he?’ asks Sophie.

Etienne reaches into his shirt and retrieves the squirming kitten.

I take the cat from him, while he sucks blood from his hand.

‘Come into the house and I’ll wash it,’ I say.

He shakes his head. ‘It’s only a scratch. Besides, I’m on my way to the vineyard. The first leaves are beginning to unfurl. Would you like to accompany me?’

I’m sorely tempted but I have determined not to break my heart by becoming involved with a man who may be married. ‘I’ve too much to do here,’ I say.

The smile fades from Etienne’s face. ‘As you wish.’ He bows to us both and walks away without looking back.

I pick up my spade again and begin to hack viciously at the stony ground.

 

 

As spring moves towards early summer I continue to work in the vegetable garden, weeding and watering and waging a bitter battle with the slugs that dine upon my delicate seedlings. Sophie accuses me of cruelty as I collect the slugs every evening and drop them into a bucket of salted water. But, eventually, as food in the shops becomes even more scarce, she joins me in my hunt for the enemy.

I’m hoeing the beans one sunny morning and worrying about how Sophie and I are going to find a home for her baby when I hear a footstep on the path and Jean-Luc comes through the garden gate. He’s carrying a basket over his arm.

I tuck a stray curl behind my ear and smile a welcome.

‘You’re working as hard as a peasant,’ he says. ‘But today I’m going to row you over the lake to the island where we’ll have a picnic.’ He holds up his hand. ‘And don’t argue with me as I won’t take no for an answer.’

‘I have no intention of arguing with you,’ I say. The prospect of Jean-Luc’s amusing company is very welcome. ‘I have a blister on my palm and I’ve been trying to think of an excuse to cease my labours. I must wash first, though, and see if Sophie wants to join us.’

Jean-Luc’s smile fades a little and I realise that she hadn’t been included in his invitation.

Sophie, however, is resting with the kittens curled up beside her on the bed and merely bids me to enjoy myself.

I scrub the earth from under my fingernails, change into a clean dress and tie a ribbon in my hair.

‘You look delightful,’ says Jean-Luc as I come downstairs.

His compliment pleases me. I’m looking forward to an hour or two when I can cast aside my cares in favour of simple, uncomplicated pleasures.

He picks up the picnic basket again and offers me his arm.

We come to the jetty and go inside the boathouse, where Jean-Luc climbs the rickety ladder up to a makeshift platform between the roof trusses. He throws down a couple of cushions and I brush off the dust and spiders’ webs.

A rowing boat is tied up at the jetty beside the little boathouse and the lake is as smooth as green glass. Jean-Luc places the cushions on the seats and steadies me as I step into the boat. Taking off his coat, he rolls up his shirtsleeves before beginning to row us towards the little island.

I relax in the sunshine, trailing my fingers in the limpid water and watching the muscles rippling in Jean-Luc’s strong arms as I listen to the rhythmic squeak of the oars. Drops of water sparkle prettily in the light as they drip from the oars and a moorhen runs across the surface of the lake in its haste to remove itself from our course.

Soon the boat scrapes on to the shingle beach. Jean-Luc pulls off his shoes, jumps into the shallow water and drags the boat out of the water. ‘We’ll have our picnic in the temple, shall we?’ he says. He carries his shoes in one hand and the picnic basket in the other, and we amble along the path that winds amongst the scrubby undergrowth.

Crowning the highest point of the island and set in a grove of silver birches, the temple is open to the elements at the front. Four columns support a pediment and as we grow closer I notice classical carvings on the frieze beneath it. We climb half a dozen wide steps and go inside. The flagstone floor is unswept and a few dead leaves rustle as they drift in the breeze.

‘No one has been here since last summer,’ says Jean-Luc. ‘It’s been too cold for picnics until now.’ He puts the picnic basket down on one of the stone benches built against the back wall and unfolds a metal table.

I open the basket, shake out the embroidered tablecloth and align the starched creases neatly across the table. Soon a feast of cheese, olives, rolls, apples and slices of raisin cake is laid out before us. Jean-Luc opens a bottle of Château Mirabelle and pours the golden wine into two glasses.

‘What a delightful place,’ I say, wondering how on earth Madame Thibault had been able to provide us with such a spread given the current shortages.

‘Etienne’s grandfather travelled in Italy and Greece to study architecture as a young man. You may have noticed the marble busts in the hall?’

‘The ones that look like Roman emperors?’

‘The old comte brought them back with him. He found some of them around ancient ruins and local peasants sold him others. He was very taken with the classical style and determined to build a folly as soon as he came into the title. The lake and the island were made first and then he planted the grove of silver birches as a setting for the temple.’

‘What a big project!’

‘He had plenty of serfs to do the work for him, while he drifted about in his curled wig and velvet coat giving orders.’

‘You sound as if you didn’t like him very much.’

Jean-Luke shrugs. ‘He was typical of the
ancien régime
. Once the temple was built he used to bring his mistresses here. Sometimes he exercised his
droit du seigneur
and brought the prettiest serving maids where no one could hear their screams.’

‘His poor wife!’ I put down my piece of bread, suddenly no longer hungry.

‘Once she’d produced the requisite heir, I daresay she had lovers of her own.’

It’s uncomfortable to imagine Etienne’s grandmother behaving in such a way, though perhaps things were different then.

‘More wine?’ Jean-Luc holds the bottle over my glass.

I shake my head.

He crosses his legs, resting one ankle on his knee as he eats a piece of cake.