“You are very knowledgeable about me. And you are right. I married Philip.”
“And you are now a widow.”
“Yes, I have been a widow for twelve years.”
The scarf which I was carrying had caught in a bramble. It was dragged from my hands. He retrieved it. It was silk, pale lavender, and similar to those we sold in the salon.
He felt its texture and looked at it intently.
“It is beautiful silk,” he said. He kept it in his hands. “Forgive me. I am very interested in silk naturally. It is our life here.”
“Yes, of course.”
He still kept the scarf. “This is the best of all silks. I believe it is called Sallon Silk.”
“That is true.”
“The texture is wonderful. There has never been a silk on the market to match it. I believe your husband discovered the process of producing it and making it the property of the English firm.”
“It is true that it was discovered by a Sallonger, but it was not Philip, my husband. It was his brother, Charles.”
My uncle stared at me incredulously.
“I was always of the opinion that it was your husband. Are you sure you were not mistaken?”
“Certainly I am not. I remember it well. We were amazed that Charles should have come up with the formula because he had always given the impression that he was by no means dedicated to the business. My husband was … absolutely. If anyone should have discovered Sallon Silk it should have been him. But it was most definitely Charles. I remember it so well. It was a brilliant discovery and we owe it to Charles.”
“Charles,” he repeated. “He is the head of the business now?”
“Yes. It was left to the two of them, and when my husband … died … Charles became the sole owner.”
He was silent. I noticed how pale he was and his hands shook as he handed me back the scarf.
He lifted his eyes to my face and said: “This is my daughter’s grave.”
I bowed my head in sympathy.
He went on: “It was a great grief to us all. She was a beautiful gentle girl… and she died.”
I wanted to comfort him because he seemed so stricken.
He smiled suddenly: “It has been interesting talking to you. I wish … that I could invite you to my home.”
I said: “I quite understand. And I have enjoyed meeting you.”
“And tomorrow you are leaving?”
“Yes. I am returning to Paris tomorrow.”
“Goodbye,” he said. “It has been most… revealing.”
He walked slowly away and I made my way back to Marron.
Our last evening was spent with Ursule and Louis in their little house on the Carsonne estate. It was a pleasant evening. Ursule said how she always looked forward to Henri’s visits and she hoped that now I had come once I would come again.
I told them how interesting it had all been. I mentioned to them that I had been to the graveyard to see my mother’s grave and had there met Rene. At first my father was taken aback but then he was reconciled.
“Poor Rene,” he said. “Sometimes I think he wishes he had had the courage to break away.”
“He is our father’s puppet,” replied Ursule rather fiercely. “He has done all that was expected of him and his reward will be the St. Allengere property in due course.”
“Unless,” said Louis, “he does something to earn the old man’s disapproval before he dies.”
“I am glad I chose freedom,” said Ursule.
Later they talked about the Comte.
“He’s a good employer,” said Louis. “He gives me a free hand and as long as I keep the Carsonne collection in order I can paint when I will. Occasionally he arranges for me to have an exhibition. I don’t know how we should have come through without his father and now him.”
“He does it all to spite our father,” said mine.
”The Comte has a fine appreciation of art,” said Louis. ‘ ‘He respects an artist and I think he is not unimpressed by my work. I owe him a great deal.”
“We both do,” said Ursule. “So Henri, do not speak harshly of him in our household.”
“I admit,” said my father, “that he has been of use to you. But his reputation in the neighbourhood …”
“That’s a family tradition,” insisted Ursule. “The Comtes of Carsonne have always been a lusty lot. At least he doesn’t assume the mask of piety like our own Papa … and think of the misery he has caused.”
“I daresay de la Tour has caused discomfort in some quarters.”
“Now, Henri, you are referring to Heloise and you don’t really know that he had anything to do with that.”
“It’s clear enough,” said my father. “He has been making himself agreeable to Lenore.”
“Then,” said Ursule to me, “perhaps you should beware.”
“Katie has formed a friendship with his son Raoul,” went on my father. “She has been over there today. He sent the carriage for her. I’d like to tell him to keep away.”
“Oh, you must be more diplomatic than that,” said Ursule. “In any case you with Lenore and Katie are leaving for Paris tomorrow, so you will all be out of harm’s way.”
I was interested to hear what they had to say about him. In fact, it is all I remember of that last evening with Ursule and Louis.
The next day we left for Paris.
The Countess was there. Grand’mere and Cassie were still in London.
“Why,” cried the Countess embracing me. “You look rejuvenated. What has happened to you?”
I found myself flushing.
“I enjoyed seeing the place,” I said.
“We went to the chateau,” Katie told her. “There was a falcon there and ever so many dogs … little puppies some of them. They have an oubliette which they push people into when they want to forget them for ever more.”
“I wish we had one here,” said the Countess. “Madame Delorme has brought the mauve velvet back. She says it is too tight. She could be the first one to go in, if I had my way.”
“If you leave them there they will die,” said Katie.
“Good idea!” replied the Countess. “But we want to hear all about this visit.”
Katie burst into a vivid description of the vendange.
“The best one was at the chateau. They danced in the tubs, Countess. Great big tubs and the juice was all over their feet and legs. But they scrubbed them before they started. It was a purple mess.”
“As Madame Delorme’s velvet will be by the time we have altered it to fit her increasing bulk.”
She talked a great deal about what had been happening in the salon during our absence, and I noticed that she kept watching me as though she thought I was harbouring some secret.
I had not been back three days when there was a caller at the salon. The Countess received him and came hurrying to me, beaming.
“A gentleman to see you. He wouldn’t give his name. He said he wanted to surprise you. What manners! What an air! Who is this man?”
“I had better go and see,” I said; but I knew before I saw him.
He was smiling at me almost sardonically.
“My dear Madame Sallonger, I was in Paris and I coald not return to Carsonne without looking you up.”
The Countess was beside me, bubbling over with excitement.
“The Countess of Ballader,” I said. “The Comte de Carsonne.”
“Well, I am delighted to meet you,” said the Countess.
“And I you, Countess.”
“You would like some refreshment?” she said. “A little wine?”
”The Comte is a connoisseur of wine,” I said.’ ‘He produces his own. I don’t think we have anything suitable for his palate.”
“Whatever you offered me,” he said, “would be nectar. I am so happy to be here in Paris.”
“A favourite city of yours, Comte?” asked the Countess.
“At the moment… my favourite.”