Gerald Durrell - The Picnic and Suchlike Pandemonium

“I do not,” he said, and then, as if he feared that he had been too abrupt and perhaps rude, he smiled and raised his glass. “Your very good health, Mr Letting.”

We drank. He rolled the wine round his mouth and then raised his eyebrows.

“May I compliment you on your cellar,” he said. “This is an excellent Margaux.”

“Thank you,” I said, flattered, I must confess, that this aristocratic Frenchman should approve my choice in wine. “Won’t you have a chair and perhaps explain to me how I may be of service to you.”

He seated himself elegantly in a chair by the fire, sipped his wine and stared at me thoughtfully for a moment. When his face was in repose you noticed the size and blackness and lustre of his eyes. They seem to probe you, almost as if they could read your very thoughts. The impression they gave made me uncomfortable, to say the least. But then he smiled and immediately the eyes flashed with mischief, good humour and an overwhelming charm.

“I’m afraid that my unexpected arrival so late at night and on such a night . . . must lend an air of mystery to what is, I’m afraid, a very ordinary request that I have to make of you. Simply, it is that I should like you to catalogue a library for me, a comparatively small collection of books, not above twelve hundred I surmise, which was left to me by my aunt when she died last year. As I say, it is only a small collection of books and I have done no more than give it a cursory glance. However, I believe it to contain some quite rare and valuable things and I feel it necessary to have it properly catalogued, a precaution my aunt never took, poor dear. She was a woman with a mind of cotton wool and never, I dare swear, opened a book from the start of her life until the end of it. She led an existence untrammelled and unruffled by the slightest breeze of culture. She had inherited the books from her father and from the day they came into her possession she never paid them the slightest regard. They are a muddled and confused mess, and I would be grateful if you would lend me your expertise in sorting them out. The reason that I have invaded your house at such an hour is force of circumstances, for I must go back to France tomorrow morning very early, and this was my only chance of seeing you. I do hope you can spare the time to do this for me?”

“I shall be happy to be of what assistance I can,” I said, for I must admit that the idea of a trip to France was a pleasant thought, “but I am curious to know why you have picked on me when there are so many people in Paris who could do the job just as well, if not better.”

“I think you do yourself an injustice,” said my visitor. “You must be aware of the excellent reputation you enjoy. I asked a number of people for their advice and when I found that they all spontaneously advised me to ask you, then I was sure that, if you agreed to do the work, I would be getting the very best, my dear Mr Letting.”

I confess I flushed with pleasure, since I had no reason to doubt the man’s sincerity. It was pleasant to know that my colleagues thought so highly of me.

“When would you wish me to commence?” I asked.

He spread his hands and gave an expressive shrug.

“I’m in no hurry,” he said. “Naturally I would have to fall in with your plans. But I was wondering if, say, you could start some time in the spring? The Loire valley is particularly beautiful then and there is no reason why you should not enjoy the countryside as well as catalogue books.”

“The spring would suit me admirably,” I said, pouring out some more wine. Would April be all right?”

“Excellent,” he said. “I would think that the job would take you a month or so, but from my point of view please stay as long as it is necessary. I have a good cellar and a good chef, so I can minister to the wants of the flesh at any rate.”

I fetched my diary and we settled on April the fourteenth as being a suitable date for both of us. My visitor rose to go.

“Just one other thing,” he said as he swirled his cloak around his shoulders. “I would be the first to admit that I have a difficult name both to remember and to pronounce. Therefore, if you would not consider it presumptuous of me, I would like you to call me Gideon and may I call you Peter?”

“Of course,” I said immediately and with some relief, for the name de Teildras Villeray was not one that slid easily off the tongue.

He shook my hand warmly, once again apologized for disturbing me, promised he would write with full details of how to reach him in France and then strode off confidently into the swirling yellow fog and was soon lost to view.

I returned to my warm and comfortable drawing-room and finished the bottle of wine while musing on my strange visitor. The more I thought about it the more curious the whole incident became. For example, why had Gideon not approached me when he first saw me at Sotheby’s? He said that he was in no hurry to have his library catalogued and yet felt it imperative that he should see me, late at night, as if the matter was of great urgency. Surely he could have written to me? Or did he perhaps think that the force of his personality would make me accept a commission that I might otherwise refuse?

I was in two minds about the man himself. As I said, when his face was in repose his eyes were so fiercely brooding and penetrating that they made me uneasy and filled almost with a sense of repugnance. But then when he smiled and his eyes filled with laughter and he talked with that husky, musical voice, I had been charmed in spite of myself. He was, I decided, a very curious character, and I determined that I would try to find out more about him before I went over to France . Having made this resolution, I made my way down to the kitchen, preceded by a now hungry Neptune, and cooked myself a late supper.

A few days later I ran into my old friend Edward Mallenger at a sale. During the course of it I asked him casually if he knew of Gideon. He gave me a very penetrating look from over the top of his glasses.

“Gideon de Teildras Villeray?” he asked. “D’you mean the Count . . . the nephew of the old Marquis de Teildras Villeray?”

“He didn’t tell me he was a Count, but I suppose it must be the same one,” I said. “Do you know anything about him?”

“When the sale is over we’ll go and have a drink and I’ll tell you,” said Edward. “They are a very odd family . . . at least, the old Marquis is distinctly odd.”

The sale over we repaired to the local pub and over a drink Edward told me what he knew of Gideon. It appeared that, many years previously, the Marquis de Teildras Villeray had asked my friend to go to France (Just as Gideon had done with me) to catalogue and value his extensive library. Edward had accepted the commission and had set off for the Marquis’s place in the Gorge du Tarn.

“Do you know that area of France ?” Edward asked.

“I have never been to France at all,” I confessed.

“Well, it’s a desolate area. The house is in a wild and remote district right in the Gorge itself. It’s a rugged country, with huge cliffs and deep gloomy gorges, waterfalls and rushing torrents, not unlike the Gustave Doré drawings for Dante’s Inferno, you know.”

Edward paused to sip his drink thoughtfully, and then occupied himself with lighting a cigar. When it was drawing to his satisfaction, he went on. “In the house, apart from the family retainers of which there only seemed to be three (a small number for such a large establishment) was the uncle and his nephew whom, I take it, was your visitor of the other night. The uncle was — well, not to put too fine a point on it, a most unpleasant old man. He must have been about eighty-five, I suppose, with a really evil, leering face, and an oily manner that he obviously thought was charming. The boy was about fourteen with huge dark eyes in a pale face. He was an intelligent lad, old for his age, but the thing that worried me was that he seemed to be suffering from intense fear, a fear, I felt, of his uncle.