“You are an artist manque,” I said.
“Yes, I do think that is rather sad. It’s better I think to be born without the urge to paint than to have it and not be able to use it.”
“I knew you would understand. I lack the divine spark. Is that what it is? I could mix the paints. I have an eye for colour … but alas, the spirit which makes painting great is lacking, But let me show you my Unknown Woman.”
He took me to it, and I was startled. It could have been a painting of me. The reddish tint in the fine abundant hair escaping from the jewelled snood which held it. the tawny eyes . the firm chin . they might well have been mine. The Unknown Woman was dressed in green velvet and the colour of the dress brought out this striking tint in her hair.
He laid a hand on my shoulder. There! Now you see what I mean. “
“It’s extraordinary,” I agreed.
“And it really is a Collison?”
He nodded.
“Nobody knows which one. You tiresome people always call yourselves K. If only you had had a variety of initials what a lot of trouble you would have saved.”
I couldn’t stop looking at the picture.
“It’s always been a favourite of mine,” he said.
“Now I need no longer call it the Unknown Woman. It now has a name for me: Mademoiselle Kate Collison.”
“Have you had it long?”
“It has always been in the family collection for as long as I can remember. I think in the past one of my ancestors must have been on very friendly terms with one of yours. Why otherwise should he have wanted a miniature of the lady? It’s a very interesting thought, don’t you agree?”
“It could have come into his possession in some other way. You don’t know the identity of several of the people portrayed, I am sure. It is certainly a collection you can be proud of.”
“I shall hope to add two more to it shortly.”
“I thought the one… my father was painting was for your bride elect.”
“It is. But she will live here, and our two miniatures will be hung side by side on this wall.”
I nodded.
“I hope,” he went on, ‘that I shall have the pleasure of showing you other treasures of mine. I have some fine pictures as well as furniture. You are an artist, Mademoiselle
Collison. Oh fortunate Mademoiselle CoHison . a real artist. not an artist manque such as I am. “
“I am sure you are the last person to feel sorry for yourself.
Therefore you cannot expect other people to be. “
“Why so?”
“Well, you happen to think you are the most important person not only in Normandy but throughout the entire country, I imagine.”
“Is that how you see me?”
“Oh no,” I said.
“It is how you see yourself. Thank you for showing me the miniatures. They are most interesting … Now I think I should return to my room. It is time to dress for dinner.”
The days which followed were the most exciting of my life-up to that time. I had made two discoveries which could not be denied-one sad, the other exhilarating beyond my expectations. My father would not be able to paint miniatures again. I could see clearly that the necessary deftness of touch had deserted him. He could not see well enough, and to be the smallest fraction of an inch out of place in such a small area could change a feature entirely. He might go to larger canvases for a while but in time even that would be over for him. The other discovery was that I was a painter worthy of the name of Collison. I could put those initials on my miniatures and none would be able to question the fact that they had not been done by a great artist.
I could not wait to get to work every morning. I don’t know how I sat through those sessions while my father worked and the Baron sat there smiling a rather enigmatic smile, making lively conversation with me or sometimes lapsing into what seemed like a brooding silence.
I would dash to the drawer in which I kept my work and take out that picture. It was growing under my hands; it laughed at me; it mocked me; it was cruel; it was amused; it suggested power and an immense ruthlessness. I had captured this man and shut him up in my miniature. To have brought all this into such a small space was an achievement, I knew.
My father gasped when he saw it and said he had never seen anything of mine—or his for that matter—to equal it.
I began to think that this way of working was perhaps more rewarding than conventional sittings. I felt I knew the man. I could almost follow his thoughts. My excitement was so intense that I would find myself gazing at him during meals or whenever I was in his company.
Several times he caught me at it; then he gave me one of those enigmatical smiles.
What strange days they were! I felt as though I had stepped outside the life I had known into a different world. The Farringdons, the Meadows, the Cambornes seemed miles away . on another planet almost.
This could not last, of course. I think perhaps it owed its fascination to the fact that it was inevitably transient.
I should go away from here. Forget the Baron who had obsessed me all these days; but the time I had spent here would in a way be caught up and imprisoned in the miniature.
Then there was Bertrand de Mortemer. Our friendship was progressing at unusual speed. It was a great joy to be with him. We rode together often. He described the family estate which was situated south of Paris.
“Not a big one,” he said.
“Nothing like Centeville … but it is pleasant… with the Loire close by and all those beautiful castles to make one feel proud every time one catches a glimpse of them.”
“I should love to see them.”
“They are far more beautiful than this stark old Norman fortress. They are built for living in, for celebrations, ban yes, for enjoying life,
not fighting for it as they did in this grey stone castle. I feel so different when I’m at Centeville. “
“Are you here often?”
“Whenever I am sent for.”
“You mean by the Baron?”
“Who else? His father set himself up as head of the family and Rollo has inherited the crown.”
“Still, I suppose you could escape from the yoke.”
“Rollo would frown on that.”
“Who cares for Rollo … outside the precincts of the Castle ofCenteville?”
“He has a way of showing his displeasure which can be uncomfortable.”
“Does that matter very much?”
“It’s usually a practical displeasure.”
I shivered.
“Let’s talk about more pleasant things. How is the miniature going?”
“Very well, I think.”
“Is your father pleased with it?”
“Very.”
“I dare say we shall be seeing it soon. What does Rollo think?”
“He hasn’t seen it yet.”
“I should have thought he would have demanded to.”
“He doesn’t exert the same power over visiting artists as he does in his family circle, you see.”
He laughed and then was serious.
“Kate,” he said-for some time he had called me by my Christian name.
“When it is over, you will go away from here …”
“If our work is approved we shall go to Paris to paint the Princesse.”
“But you will go from here …”
“And you?”
“I shall hear what I am expected to do. There is always something. When Rollo asks me here it is for a reason. He has not yet explained that to me.”
“Can’t you ask him?”
“He has not precisely said there is something. I am merely surmising there is because when I am invited here it is usually because I am going to be asked … no, told… to do something.”
“The more I hear of the mighty Rollo, the more I dislike him.” My lips curled. I was thinking of that gleam of acquisitiveness I was going to get into his eyes cold grey with a hint of blue reflection from the coat he was wearing.