“Candice didn’t marry.”
“Well … she lived under the shadow of her twin sister. It was always Marianne whom people noticed. Without her sister, she would have seemed a very nice-looking girl. She ought to have married some nice young man. But there was always Marianne. And then this artist came down to see Monsieur Gerard, and he took one look at her and wanted to paint her. That was the start for her, and when Marianne wanted something, there was no stopping her. So she went to Paris. First one wanted to paint her and then another. She was famous. They were all talking about Marianne. Then she married Monsieur Gerard.”
“You were pleased about that?”
“It was a good match, of course. The Boucheres were always the big people round here. Well, there it was … what you’d expect of our beauty. He was always painting her.”
“So it was a happy marriage?”
“Monsieur Gerard … well, he was as proud as proud could be. He’d got the prize, hadn’t he?”
“And they lived mainly in Paris?”
“Oh, they were here now and then. She was always coming over here. Couldn’t desert her old Nounou. She was always my girl. She’d tell me things.”
“So you knew a great deal about what was happening?”
Nounou nodded sagely. “I could see there were things going on, and she was only going to tell me half of them. Oh, she was a wild one. Then, for that to happen to her … to see her there, dead at my feet! I felt I would die … I wished I had before I’d seen that. I just can’t bear to think of it … even now.”
We were silent for a while. I could hear the clock on the mantelpiece ticking away the seconds … reminding me that time was passing. I must leave before Candice returned and Marie-Christine finished her lessons.
“Come again whenever you feel like it, my dear,” said Nounou. “It’s good to talk to you … though it brings it all back. Still, it makes me feel she is close to me … like she used to be.”
I said I would come again to see her soon.
We were in Paris again. Marie-Christine was always excited by these visits, and Robert and Angele thought it was good for us to make them; and as the house was there, they said why not use it. I always felt an upsurge of my spirits when I came into the city. When I was away from it, I missed the free and easy way of life lived by Gerard and his friends. The studio had become part of my life, and I believed that there I was more able to put thoughts of Roderick out of my mind.
I looked forward to our lunches, particularly when they were uninterrupted. Gerard was becoming one of my best friends. There was a bond between us: I had lost Roderick; he had lost Marianne. That made for a deep understanding which no one else could quite give.
I talked to him about Roderick. I told him about the Roman remains and the fearful adventure when Lady Constance and I had come near to being buried alive, and how Mrs. Carling had removed the warning notice.
He listened with the utmost interest.
“You have been through a great deal,” he said. “It seems that it all began with the death of your mother. My poor Noelle, how you have suffered!”
“You, too,” I said.
“Differently. Do you think you could ever forget Roderick?”
“I think I shall always remember.”
“Always with regret? Even if … there were someone else?”
“I think Roderick would always be there.”
He was silent for a moment, and I said: “And you … and your marriage?”
“I shall never forget Marianne,” he answered.
“I understand. She was so beautiful. She was unique. No one else could take her place. You loved her … absolutely. I understand, Gerard.”
“Noelle,” he said slowly, “I have been on the point of telling you several times. I have to talk to someone. It is like a great burden on my mind. I hated Marianne. I killed her.”
I gasped. I could not believe I had heard him correctly.
“You … killed her?”
“Yes.”
“But she was thrown from her horse!”
“Indirectly … I killed her. It will haunt me all my life. In my heart, I know I was responsible for her death. I killed her.”
“How? Her nurse told me she found her in the field near Carrefour. She had been thrown from her horse. Her neck was broken.”
“That’s true. Let me explain. I quickly learned how foolish I’d been. She never cared for me. I came from a rich family. All she wanted was flattery, admiration and money. There was plenty of the first two.”
“How can you say you killed her?”
“We were at La Maison. We quarrelled. There was nothing strange about that. She taunted me. She repeated that she had never cared for me. She had married me because I was a good match for an artist’s model. She hated me, she said. She was mocking … taunting me in every way. I said to her: ‘Get out of this house! Get out of my life! I never want to see you again!’ She was taken aback. She thought she was so desirable that she could act as she pleased and still be irresistible. She changed immediately. She said she had not meant what she said. She did not want to leave me. We were married and we must be together. We must make the best of things. I said to her: ‘Go! Go! Get out of my life! I never want to see you again.’ She started to cry. ‘You don’t mean that,’ she said. Then she went on: ‘Forgive me. I’ll be different.’ She knelt and clutched at me. I did not believe in her tears. She wanted to stay with me because life was easy and comfortable … but at the same time she wanted to go her own way. I had had enough. I could endure no more. I saw her beauty as evil. I knew my only chance of a peaceful life was to be rid of her. I wanted to forget I had married her.”
His face was distorted with grief and pain.
He went on: “I said: ‘Get out of here. Go … go anywhere … but keep away from me.’ She said: ‘Where could I go?’ ‘I don’t care,’ I told her. ‘Only get out before I do you some harm.’ She was crying, begging me to forgive her. Then suddenly she ran out. She ran down to the stables. She took her horse and was gone. The next thing I heard was that she was dead.”
“She had had an accident.”
“She had an accident because she was in such a state of despair. She was galloping madly and she came suddenly to the crossroads. She was not caring where she went because she was so upset … I had upset her … turned her out … and she was thrown. You see, I killed her. It haunts me and I know it will throughout my life.”
“So … you did not love Marianne.”
“I hated her. And I am responsible for her death.”
“That’s not true, Gerard. You did not plan to kill her.”
“I told her to get out … out of my life, and she was so distraught that she lost hers in doing it.”
“You are wrong to blame yourself.”
“I do blame myself, Noelle. I should not have been so harsh with her. I should have said we would try again. I had married her … made my vows. I drove her away because I was tired of her … and because of her state of mind, she died. Nothing will convince me that I am not responsible for her death.”
“Gerard,” I said, “you have to forget this. You must stop blaming yourself.”
“Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you.”
“I’m glad you did. I understand more now. It was not your fault. You must see that. Lots of people quarrel. You have explained it to me, and I must tell you that, as a looker-on, I think it is ridiculous to blame yourself.”
“No, Noelle, I was there. I saw her stricken face. I know she was superficial, heartless … but her position meant everything to her. She liked being secure. And when she was in danger of losing that, she went off … riding recklessly. She could have wild moods, she could be fiercely unreasoning and angry. She was killed because of what I had done to her. That is murder, as surely as taking a gun and shooting someone.”