“Very well,” I replied, perhaps too eagerly.
“I shall be there.”
He bowed and left us.
I looked at my father. I thought he seemed very tired. He said: “The light is so strong.”
“It is what we must have.”
I studied the work he had done. It was not bad but I could detect an unsure stroke here and there.
I said: “I have been studying him closely. I know his face well. I am sure I can work from what you have done and what I know of him. I think I had better start immediately and perhaps work always as soon as he has gone so that I have the details clearly in my mind. We’ll have to see how it goes. It will not be easy to work without a living model.”
I started my picture. I could see his face clearly and it was almost as though he were sitting there. I was revelling in my work. I must get that faint hint of blue reflected from the coat into those cold steely eyes. I could see those eyes . alight with feeling. love of power, of course. lust. yes, there was sensuality about the mouth in abundance. Buccaneer, I thought.
Norseman pirate. It was there in his face.
“Ha! Rollo!” sailing up the Seine, pillaging, burning, taking the women . oh yes, certainly taking the women . and taking the land . building strong castles and holding them against all who came against him.
I don’t think I ever enjoyed painting anyone as much as I enjoyed painting him. It was because of the unusual method, I suspected; and because I had a strong feeling of dislike for him. It was a great help to feel strongly about the subject. It seemed to breathe life into the paint.
My father watched me while I worked.
I laid down my brush at length.
“Oh, Father,” I said.
“I do want this to be a great success. I want to delude him. I want him to have the Collison of all Collisons.”
“If only we can work this together …” said my father, his face breaking up in a helpless sort of way which made me want to rock him in my arms.
What a tragedy! To be a great artist and unable to paint!
It was a good morning’s work and I was very pleased with it.
After dejeuner which my father and I took alone as Bertrand had been summoned to go off somewhere with the Baron and Nicole, I suggested that my father take a rest. He looked tired and I knew that the morning’s work had been more than a strain on his eyes.
I conducted him to his room, settled him on his bed and then, taking a sketch-pad with me as I often did, I went out.
I went down to the moat and sat there. I thought of how Bertrand and I had come here and how we had talked and what a pleasant day it had been. I hoped we should see more of each other. He was so different from the Baron - so kind and gentle. I could not understand why women like Nicole could demean themselves as she had done for the sake of men like the Baron. I found him far from attractive. Of course he had great power and power was said to be irresistible to some women.
Personally I hated all that arrogance. The more I saw of the Baron the better I liked Bertrand. It seemed to me that he had all the graces.
He was elegant, charming and above all kindly and thoughtful for others-qualities entirely lacking in the mighty Baron. Bertrand’s task had been to put us at our ease on our arrival and this he had done with such perfection that we had become good friends in a very short time, and instinct told me that our friendship had every chance of deepening.
While I had been thinking I had been idly sketching, and my page was full of pictures of the Baron. It was understandable that he should occupy my thoughts as I had to paint a miniature of him in a manner I reckoned no miniature had ever been painted before.
There he was in the centre of my page-a bloodthirsty Viking in a winged helmet, nostrils flaring, the light of lust in his eyes, his mouth curved in a cruel and triumphant smile. I could almost hear his voice shouting. I wrote below the sketch “Ha! Rollo.”
Round the page were other sketches of him . in profile and in full face. I wanted to know that face from every angle and in several moods. I had to imagine those I had not seen.
Then suddenly I heard a laugh and turning sharply, I saw him. He was leaning over my shoulder. His hand shot out and he took the paper from me.
I stammered: “I didn’t hear you.”
“My grass is thick and luxuriant here by the moat. I confess … seeing you there so absorbed … sketching away … I crept up to see what could be of such interest to you.”
He was studying the paper.
“Give it to me,” I commanded.
“Oh no. It’s mine. Man Dieu, you are a very fine artist, Mademoiselle.
Ha! Rollo. Why, that is magnificent. “
I held out my hand pleadingly.
“I feel as though I have been stripped bare,” he said accusingly, but his eyes had lost their steely grey. He was amused and pleased.
“I did not realize that you knew me so well,” he went on.
“And to draw this without a model! Why, you are a draughts man Mademoiselle. I often say that the reason so many artists today are mediocre is because they never learned how to draw. How did you come to know me so well?”
“I don’t know you. I know a little of your face. But I was with you this morning during the sitting.”
“I noticed how you kept your gimlet eye on me. Mademoiselle Collison’jioy should be painting a miniature of me.”
“That is for my father,” I said.
“You can destroy that paper.”
“Destroy it! Never! It’s too good for that. I shall keep it. It will always remind me of you, Mademoiselle Collison. I have something else to remind me too. The miniature of which I was telling you. You must see it. I can’t wait any longer to show it to you.”
He held out a hand to help me to my feet.
I said: “My father is resting. I thought he should do so.”
“Well, after a trying morning …” he said almost mischievously.
“Now you and I will go and see the miniatures, shall we? I refuse to wait a moment longer before showing you your double.”
I went with him into the castle. He was carrying my sketch-pad.
Fortunately there was nothing else on it but a few sketches of trees and the moat.
He took me to a part of the castle where I had not been before.
“This section was restored in the mid-eighteenth century,” he told me.
“It’s rather elegant, don’t you think?”
I agreed it was.
“Entirely French,” I commented, and I could not help adding: “Rather different from the comparatively crude aspect of Norman architecture.”
“Precisely,” he replied, ‘but lacking the antiquity. Why, it is not a hundred years old yet. So modern! But a fine piece of architecture all the same. What do you think of the furniture? It was made by Gourdin and Blanchard Gamier. “
“Delightful,” I said.
“Come with me.” He opened a door and we were in a small chamber, the ceiling of which was painted with a celestial scene. Angels floated across a heaven of exquisite blue dotted with golden stars.
The walls were panelled and on these hung the miniatures. There must have been about fifty of them and they were all exquisite and of great value. They were of all periods dating back to the early fourteenth century and many of them were on supports of vellum and parchment, metal, slate and wood which was largely used at that time.
“They are beautiful,” I cried.
“I think so too. It’s a delightful expression of art. More difficult to execute, I imagine, than a large canvas. The artist must be restricted. You must have very keen eyes for such work.” He hesitated and my heart started to beat very fast. For a moment I thought: He knows! Then he went on: “I should have liked to be a painter myself, Mademoiselle Collison. I love art. I understand it. I can criticize it… see what is wrong … even feel I know how it should have been done… but I can’t paint. That’s rather a tragedy, don’t you think?”