”I will never believe that he killed himself. Sometimes I wonder if someone killed him.”
“Why?”
“Because if he did not kill himself that was the only solution.”
I told him about Lorenzo’s death.
“You see,” I went on, “I sometimes think … although I didn’t at the time, of course … only after that happened to Philip … that someone was going to kill Philip and mistook Lorenzo for him.”
I could see mat he was astonished.
“It certainly throws a different light on everything,” he said. “Do you think you will ever forget?”
“I think I never shall.”
”Have you ever tried to probe the mystery?”
”I have pondered on it endlessly, but there seems no reason. I had to come to the conclusion that there could only be one answer, but knowing him, that seemed impossible.”
”No one will ever match up to him. He will be in your memory always … just as he was in those weeks of your marriage. You were not long enough together to discover the flaws. They say those whom the gods love die young.”
“Do you believe that?”
“It means that they have eternal youth because that is how they live on the minds of those who knew them.”
“You speak enviously. Surely you are not regretting living on?”
“Not I. I would take all the risks of my sins being revealed. You have told me about your husband. I will tell you about my wife. You know that in families like mine these things arc arranged.”
“I had imagined so.”
“When I was eighteen a wife was found for me.”
“I am surprised that you allowed yourself to accept such a situation.”
“I rebelled. I was not enamoured of the young lady. But she was a daughter of one of the greatest houses in France. We still have our great houses, you know, in spite of Liberte, Egalite and Fraternite. We still keep up the old traditions. There are a few of us who escaped the holocaust of the last century. Car-sonne was lucky. Perhaps we were too tucked away. Perhaps our local peasants were too lethargic. The chateau was untouched. After all, we are almost on the Italian border. We survived and so did some others. These families stick together, as they did through the days of the Napoleons … till the end of the monarchy and so on. So I must marry one who was chosen for me. My father explained that I should not be downhearted. I must do my duty and produce the heir to Carsonne and he must have the requisite amount of blue blood in his veins. Once that was done, I could, as my father said, take my pleasure where I would. All French noblemen must do their duty by their wives and are then free to enjoy their mistresses. It is a way of life.”
“Very acceptable by your sex, I am sure.”
“You are right. So I married. My poor Evette. She was only a child, barely seventeen, hardly suited to childbearing … no more fit to be a mother than I was a father. However, we did our duty and Raoul duly appeared. Alas in doing hers, Evette lost her life. And so I became a widower.”
“Did they not think you should marry again and produce more blue-blooded heirs?”
“They did. But I did not. I had done my duty. I was now my own master for my father had died. The married state was not for me. I enjoyed my freedom.”
“But surely you would not have allowed marriage to have impaired your freedom?”
“I suppose not. I am one who will go his own way. But still, I am content to remain as I am enjoying being pursued by those who fancy the title of La Comtesse and have a respect for an ancient chateau. But always I elude the capture.”
“I daresay the pursuit is hot and strong.”
”It varies. And you, dear Madame Sallonger, you, too, prefer the solitary state?”
“I think it preferable to an unhappy married life.”
“Surely there must have been much pursuit in your case?”
I was silent thinking of Drake. On this night he seemed more remote than he had for a long time.
“I see I have aroused unpleasant thoughts. Forgive me.” He attempted to fill my glass.
“No thanks,” I said, “I have had enough.”
“My special vintage?”
“It is quite potent.”
“You find it so? Perhaps it is the night air, the scent of the flowers, the company?”
“Perhaps,” I said.
“I should like your grandfather to see you sitting here with me now. It gives me great pleasure to contemplate how angry he would be.”
“So that pleases you?”
“Enormously. I do not need anything to make me enjoy your company more, but if I did, that would.”
“Do you dislike him so very much?”
“Infinitely more,” he assured me. “There is a feud between our families. A vendetta. I dislike him more than anyone I know. There are some sinners whom I find tolerable … myself for instance. What I cannot endure is the virtuous villain. Your grandfather is one of those. He is cruel, ruthless, selfish. His work people live in fear of him—and so does his family. He believes that he and God are the greatest friends and allies. He thinks his place in Heaven is secure. He will oust Jesus Christ from his place on the right hand of Lord God Almighty when he gets—as he is sure he will—to Heaven. In fact, I expect he believes they will send a special company of angels down to fetch him. He takes Mass once a day; his household is subject to long prayers while he reminds them of their evil ways and how he—as God’s emissary—is waiting to spring on every misdemeanour and to make sure that the sins they do by two and two are paid for one by one. In his own chapel he communes with a god who is made in his own image and is therefore as unpleasant as he is. I assure you the Devil’s Own are preferable to such a man.”
I found myself laughing.
“He has been our enemy for years,” he went on, “and my father passed his loathing on to me. Viva Vendetta.”
“How you hate him. Surely he must have some redeeming features?”
”I can think of only one. He is your grandfather and therefore indirectly responsible for your existence.”
I was silent and he went on: “You are fortunate that he does not wish to see you. Have you met your aunt Ursule?”
”Yes, and her husband.”
“Ursule had the courage your father lacked at the time. He broke away afterwards but he should have done so in time to live happily ever afterwards with Marie Louise. Just imagine if he had! You and I might have known each other long ere this. Ursule certainly had courage. My father helped her and Louis Sagon. He gave Sagon work restoring his pictures and they had a house which my father said went with the job. He did it all to spite old Alphonse. They are a tragic family and it can all be traced back to that old man. Then there was the matter of He-loise. That is not so long ago. She was Rene’s daughter. He had two daughters—Heloise and Adele. He also has a son Patrice. Patrice is like his father, obeying the old man without question. Patrice is the heir to the St. Allengere properties … after Rene, of course. They have worked hard for it, which means never offending the tyrant and absolute obedience to his commands. Perhaps they think it worth it.”
“Tell me of Heloise.”
“She was so pretty … a gentle girl. She drowned herself in the river. It is quite shallow so there was no question of an accident. She just gave up. It was said that she was betrayed by a lover. It was a great blow to Rene. He doted on her. She meant more to him than Adele. There was nothing gende about her. She was close to her sister … had always protected her. Mon Dieu, one would need protection in that household. She went away to Italy. She was very interested in the silk production. They said that although she was a girl she played a big part in the business so she went away to study Italian methods. It was while she was away that this happened to Heloise.”