Виктория Холт: King of the Castle

“You are right, of course,” said Mademoiselle Dubois meekly.

“This is the gallery where the pictures are.”

I forgot her then. I was in a long room lightened by several windows, and on the walls . the pictures! Even in their neglect they were splendid, and a quick look was enough to show me that they were very valuable. They were chiefly of the French school. I recognized a Poussin and Lorrain side by side and was struck as never before by the cold discipline of one and the intense drama of the other. I revelled in the pure golden light of the Lorrain landscape and wanted to point out to the woman beside me that light and feathery brushwork which might have been learned from Titian, and how the dark pigments had been used over rich colour to give that wondrous effect of light and shade. And there was a Watteau . so delicate, arabesque and pastel. and yet somehow conveying by a mood the storm about to break. I walked as if in a trance from an early Boucher painted before his decline set in and a perfect example of the rococo style, to a gay erotic Fragonard.

Then I was angry because they were all in need of urgent attention.

How was it they had been allowed to get into this state! Some I could see had darkened badly; there was a dull foggy film on others which we called ‘bloom’. A few were scratched and streaked with water. The brown acid left by flies was visible; and in some places the paint had flaked off. There were isolated burns as though some one had held a candle too closely.

I moved silently from picture to picture forgetful of everything else.

I calculated that there was almost a year’s work in what I had seen so far and there was probably a great deal more than that as there always was when one began to examine these things more closely.

“You find them interesting,” said Mademoiselle Dubois rapidly.

“I find them of immense interest, and certainly in need of attention.”

“Then I suppose you will get down to work right away.”

I turned to look at her.

“It is by no means certain that I shall do the work. I am a woman, you see, and therefore not considered capable.”

“It is unusual work for a woman.”

“Indeed it is not. If one has a talent for this kind of work, one’s sex is of no importance whatever.”

She laughed that foolish laugh.

“But there is men’s work and women’s work.”

“There are governesses and tutors, aren’t there?” I hoped I made it clear that I had no intention of continuing this aimless conversation, by changing the subject.

“It depends of course on the Comte. If he is the man of prejudice”

A voice not far off cried: “I want to see her. I tell you, Nounou, I will see her. Esquilles has been ordered to take her to the gallery.”

I looked at Mademoiselle Dubois. Esquilles! Splinters! I saw the allusion; she must have heard herself called that often enough.

A low soothing voice and then: “Let go, Nounou. You silly old woman.

Do you think you can stop meY The door of the gallery was flung open and the girl whom I at once recognized as Genevieve de la Talle stood there. Her dark hair was worn loose and was almost deliberately untidy; her beautiful dark eyes danced with enjoyment; she was dressed in a gown of mid-blue which was becoming to her dark looks. I would have known immediately, even if I had not been warned, that she was unmanageable.

She stared at me and I returned the gaze. Then she said in English:

“Good afternoon, miss.”

“Good afternoon, mademoiselle,” I answered in the same tongue. She seemed amused and advanced into the room. I was aware of a grey-haired woman behind her. This was obviously the nurse, Nounou. I guessed she had been with the girl from babyhood and helped with the spoiling.

“So you’ve come from England,” said the girl.

“They were expecting a man.”

“They were expecting my father. We worked together, and as he, being dead, is unable to come, I am continuing with his commitments.”

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“Shall we speak in French?” I asked in that language.

“No,” she replied imperiously. f! can speak English well. ” She said, ” I am Mademoiselle de la Talle. “

“I did assume that.” I turned to the old woman, smiled and said good day.

“I find these pictures most interesting,” I said to her and Mademoiselle Dubois, ‘but it is obvious that they have been neglected.”

Neither of them answered, but the girl, evidently annoyed to be ignored, said rudely: “That will be no concern of yours since you won’t be allowed to stay.”

“Hush, my dear,” whispered Nounou.

“I will not hush unless I want to. Wait until my father comes home.”

“Now, Genevieve …” The nurse’s anxious eyes were on me, apologizing for the bad manners of her charge.

“You’ll see,” said the girl to me.

“You may think you are going to stay, but my father …”

“If,” I said, ‘your father’s manners resemble yours, nothing on earth would induce me to stay. “

“Please speak English when you address me, miss.”

“But you appear to have forgotten that language as you have your manners.”

She began to laugh suddenly and twisted herself free of the nurse’s grasp and came up to me.

“I suppose you are thinking I’m very unkind,” she said.

“I am not thinking of you.”

“What are you thinking of then?”

“At the moment of these pictures.”

“You mean they are more interesting than I am?”

“Infinitely,” I answered.

She did not know what to reply. She shrugged and turning away from me said pettishly in a lowered voice:

“Well, I’ve seen her. She’s not pretty and she’s old.”

With that she tossed her head and flounced out of the room.

“You must forgive her, mademoiselle,” murmured the old nurse.

“She’s in one of her moods. I tried to keep her away. I’m afraid she’s upset you.”

“Not in the least,” I answered.

“She is no concern of mine … fortunately.”

“Nounou,” called the girl, imperious as ever.

“Come here at once.”

The nurse went out, and raising my eyebrows I looked at Mademoiselle Dubois.

“She’s in one of her moods. There’s no controlling them. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry for you and the nurse.”

She brightened.

“Pupils can be difficult but I have never found one quite so …” She looked furtively at the door and I wondered whether Genevieve added eavesdropping to her other charming characteristics.

Poor woman, I thought, I didn’t want to add to her difficulties by telling her I thought she was foolish to suffer such treatment. I said: “If you care to leave me here I’ll make an examination of the pictures.”

“Can you find your way back to your room do you think?”

“I’m sure I can. I took careful note as we came along. Remember, I’m used to old houses.”

“Well, then, I’ll leave you. You can always ring if you want anything.”

“Thank you for your help.”

She went out noiselessly, and I turned to the pictures, but I was too disturbed to work seriously. This was a strange household. The girl was impossible. What next? The Comte and the Comtesse? What should I find them like? And the girl was ill-mannered, selfish and cruel. And to have discovered this in five minutes of her company was disconcerting. What sort of environment, what sort of upbringing had produced such a creature?

I looked at those walls with their priceless neglected pictures and in those few moments I thought: Perhaps the wisest thing would be to leave first thing in the morning. I might apologize to Monsieur de la Talle, agree that I had been wrong to come, and leave.