“I knew of you through her letters. She told me you had come to the chateau … and the effect you had on him … and he on you…”
“I did not know that she was very much aware of me.”
“Although she stayed in her rooms she knew what was happening in the chateau.”
“And what did she say of me?”
Yvette was silent.
A messenger from the Comte arrived at Grasseville. He had letters for the Comte de Grasseville, for Margot and there was one for me.
I took it to my bedroom that I might be alone to read it. My dearest [he had written], It gives me great satisfaction to know that you are at Grasseville. I want you to remain there until I come for you or send for you. I do not know when that will be but you may be sure I shall lose no time and it will be as soon as it is possible. The situation in Paris is deteriorating fast. There have been riots and the shopkeepers are barricading their shops. People are marching through the streets wearing the tricolour.
The heroes at the moment are Necker and the Due d’Orleans . but that could change tomorrow. There is a feeling that anything can change at any moment. Sometimes I would like to see a confrontation between the King and the nobility on one side and Danton, Desmoulins and the rest on the other. What Orleans is doing with them I cant imagine. I think he may imagine they will set him up as King. My opinion is that if they dispense with the Monarchy there will be no crown. But a crowned king is a king until he dies.
My dear Minelle, how I wish you were here that I might talk of these matters with you. There is one hope that sustains me in this dismal world: One day you and I will be together.
Charles Auguste.
I read his letter over and over again. I glowed with happiness. When I held in my band a letter he had written to me nothing I heard of him could alter my feelings for him.
I had retired early that night. Supper had been a somewhat silent meal. The Grassevilles mere and pere were clearly disturbed by the news from Paris. There were times when even Grasseville had to be invaded by the unpleasant truth. Robert, of course, was less exuberant. One could not expect him to be overjoyed by the news that his wife had had a child by someone else before her marriage to him;
and he was taking a little time to assimilate the devastating revelation. Margot could always be affected by her father. I wondered what he had said to her.
As I sat at my dressing-table brushing my hair there was a knock on my door and when I called “Come in’, Yvette entered. She carried a packet of papers in her hand.
“I hope I don’t disturb you,” she said.
“No, of course not.”
“I wanted to show you something. I have been wrestling with myself for some time and I really think I should.”
I knew what she was holding in her hand before she told me.
Her letters,” I said.
The last I received,” she answered.
“She must have written them a few days before she died. In fact they were actually delivered to me on that day. The messenger came with them and neither of us knew what had happened.”
“Why do you want to show them to me?”
“Because I think there will be something in them that you ought to ‘know.”
I lowered my eyes. She would have known that letters from the Comte had arrived this day and that there was one among them for me, which was significant. If you are sure you wish me to read them . ” I began.
“I think it is important that you do.” She laid the packet on the dressing-table.
“Goodnight,” she added, and left me.
I lighted the three candles of the candelabrum by my bedside and got into bed. Propped up by pillows, I untied the letters. They were numbered one, two and three.
The handwriting was firm and I felt reluctant to unfold them and read them, for they had not been intended for me and I felt I was prying on something private. Curious as I was to learn about Ursule, I was very reluctant to read her letters, and if I were honest I would admit that that reluctance was caused by the fear of what I should find rather than a sense of correct behaviour. I was afraid of what I should read about the Comte. I opened the first of the letters. My dear Yvette, How good it is to write to you. Our letters are, as you know, a source of great comfort to me. Writing them is like talking to you and you know how I always liked to tell you everything.
Life goes on as before. Nouny with my petit dejeuner, drawing the curtains, making sure the sun doesn’t bother me and that I aim wrapped up against draughts. Not that she would allow any in my room.
Marguerite is back now after her long sojourn abroad. There is someone with her called a cousin . a fiction if ever there was. It is a new gambit with him. He has never called them cousins before. This one is English. Marguerite knew her during her stay in England. She has been presented to me. A tall, good-looking girl with rather beautiful hair-masses of it-and blue eyes of a deep and unusual shade. She seems to have a good conceit of herself, an air of independence and is not in the least frivolous. In fact I was surprised, for she is not his type at all. I watch her in the gardens with Marguerite. One always learns so much about people when they are unaware of one’s observation. There is a change in him. It has suddenly struck me that this time he may be serious.
I had an uncomfortable pain yesterday afternoon. Nouny made a great fuss about it and insisted on my taking her mistletoe cure. She went on and on about her herbs and plants as you know she is fond of doing.
I have already heard about six hundred times that the Druids called it that plant that cures all ills and it is said to produce immortality.
Anyway, Nouny’s draught soothed me and I slept most of the afternoon, I haven’t seen him for a week. I dare say he will come in to pay his duty call. It amazes me that he bothers to.
I dread his visits and I fancy it would be no deprivation to him to dispense with them.
But what I wanted to tell you was that this time he was different.
Usually he sits in the chair and his eyes keep going to the clock. I know he is asking himself how much longer he need stay. He can never hide his contempt. It is there in his eyes, in his voice and the very way he sits in the chair. He is impatient.
Nouny told him about my pain. You know how she is with him . blaming him for everything. If I cut my finger she would find some way of saying it was his faultj And then I fancied I saw something in his eyes . speculation It is something to do with this girl. She is the most unlikely one you could imagine. She was a schoolteacher;
I remember hearing something of her when I was in England not long ago. What a dreadful time that was i But he insisted on my going because we had to see Marguerite. I felt ill all the time, as you know, and I hated to be separated from Nouny. She was frantic until I came back and then started dosing me with all sorts of concoctions to purge me of the contamination of foreign parts!
But the girl . He must have seen her then, for Marguerite was at a school run by the girl’s mother. She speaks
French very well indeed.
I saw him in the gardens with her once. I couldn’t see them very clearly, of course, but there was something in his gestures, his attitude . I don’t think she is his mistress . yet. I laughed so much when I saw them in the gardens that Nouny thought I was going into hysterics. I was thinking about Gabrielle LeGrand
Ours is a very strange household. Well, what can one expect with such a man at the head of it ! It is always good writing to you, Yvette. I should be desolate without our letters. I feel so tired sometimes. Like someone outside life looking in on it. I rather like it that way.