‘Lisette can take care of herself, I think.’
‘You know her better than any of us. You and she became friends right from the time you came here … you and she more than Sophie.’
‘Lisette was always easier to know. She and I had a good deal of fun together.’
‘Well, you know who she is now. Lottie, I don’t think it would be wise to let her know the story. Much better to let her go on believing that she is the child of a conventional marriage, which I agreed with her aunt was what she should be told.’
‘I shall say nothing of what you have told me. I can see no good in bringing it up now.’
‘No. She is a proud girl and might be upset to know she is the daughter of, well … not a prostitute but a poor girl who took the occasional lover in order to make ends meet.’
‘I think you are right. Poor Lisette! But she was fortunate really. I wonder what would have happened to her if Tante Berthe had not come along, and you too. Tante Berthe I suppose would have taken her to that farmhouse from which Colette ran away. One can imagine what sort of life Lisette would have had there. I think you can be pleased with what you did for Colette and her daughter.’
‘It has relieved me to talk to you of Lisette.’
Yes, I thought, and it has taken your mind off your own tragedy for a little while at least.
Of course he could not stay at Tourville indefinitely, and it was with great reluctance that he left. I told him that I would bring the children to visit him and whenever he felt the need to be with me he must come. I would welcome him at any time.
On that note he left—a poor, sad, broken man.
The months slipped past quickly. I went to stay at Aubigné. It was a sad house now. My father had become morose, though, Armand told me, he was in a much better mood since I had come. He and his father quarrelled a good deal and it was certainly not always Armand’s fault. Armand was a man deeply concerned with his personal affairs; he interested himself in the estate but not too much; he liked to go to Court; he was the sort of man who, because he had been born into the aristocracy, considered that those who had not been were beneath him. Such an attitude was not accepted as readily as it had once been; and my father told me that one or two members of the great families were beginning to wonder whether something should not be done to raise the condition of the poor. My father was one of these people.
He was a very honest man and he admitted to me that such thoughts had not come to him until he had realized that it might be expedient to have them.
Marie Louise was still barren and entirely devoted to her religion, which took the form of long prayer sessions and frequent celebrations of Mass in the château chapel. Sophie had become more of a recluse than ever, and with those rooms in the tower being more or less apart from the rest of the household, there was beginning to be attached to them one of those legends which spring up in such places. Some of the servants said that Jeanne was a witch who had arranged for Sophie’s mutilations so that she could have power over her. Others said that Sophie herself was a witch and her scars were due to intercourse with the devil.
What disturbed me was that no attempt was made on my father’s part to stifle such rumours. Tante Berthe did her best and that was very good, for she was one who was accustomed to being obeyed; but although the stories were never repeated in her presence that did not mean they were not in the maids’ bedrooms and the places where the servants congregated.
So it was not a very happy household.
Lisette enjoyed being there—for I had taken her with me—but she did not altogether relish coming under Tante Berthe’s scrutiny. ‘I am a married woman now,’ she said, ‘and even Tante Berthe must remember that.’ At the same time she loved the château, and said it was such a grand old place and Tourville was nothing compared with it.
My father took such pleasure in my company and talked most of the time about what he and my mother had done together; how they had been completely happy in each other’s company. As though I did not know!
‘We were singularly blessed to have such a daughter,’ he said, but I believed that when they had been together they had thought of little else but each other. It was only now that he had lost her that he turned pathetically to me.
He visited us at Tourville and I was inclined to think that he was happier there than when at Aubigné. There were not so many memories. Besides, the children were there and it was not always easy to travel with someone as young as Claudine. So I prevailed on him to come to us, which he often did.
It pleased me. It meant that I did not have to be in that grim house with Sophie brooding in her turret. The Tourville family were always happy to see him. I thought then that I had been very lucky marrying into such a family. They might not be so grand as the Aubignés but they were most certainly kindly, and the atmosphere at Tourville was in complete contrast to that of Aubigné, bland, comfortable; Lisette called it flat and unexciting, whereas at Aubigné she felt that anything might suddenly happen.
Amélie was happily married; her husband was a gentle, rather meek man, colourless but extremely kind … rather like Amélie herself. My father-in-law, I imagine, got on better with his son-in-law than he had with his less predictable son. Charles was of a fiery temper; he might be more significant as a person but not always so easy to live with and my parents-in-law, who liked to live in peace, were very happy with present arrangements.
We talked often of Charles. We had heard nothing of him. It was not possible to get news. He was so far away for one thing and how letters could be sent from a country engaged in war I could not imagine.
From time to time we had visitors at Tourville and some of them had returned from America so they were able to give us a little news of what was happening there. One or two of them had been with Charles, so we knew he had arrived safely.
They were earnest young men, those returning warriors. They talked enthusiastically about the struggle for independence.
‘Men should be free to choose who governs them,’ one young man said. He was very young, idealistic, and his pleasant features glowed with enthusiasm.
My father was with us at the time this young man came and years later I was to remember the manner in which he answered him.
‘I believe,’ said my father, ‘that you young men, when you return from America, preach freedom for the oppressed.’
‘That is so, Comte,’ said the young man. ‘There is a wonderful spirit abroad and this war has made it clear. Monarchs and governors have no right to oppress those whom they rule. The oppressed must stand up and fight for their freedom.’
‘And these are doctrines you are preaching here? Is that so?’
‘Assuredly, sir. They are the doctrines of truth and honour.’
‘And the doctrines which are inciting the mobs to riot?’
The blood flamed into my father’s face. I knew he was seeing my mother coming out of the milliner’s shop to face the mob whose fury killed her. It seemed that everything we discussed led to that dangerous subject.
‘We are only telling people that they have rights,’ said the young man.
‘Rights to kill their betters!’ cried my father.
‘No, sir, no, of course not. Rights which should be given them and if they are not … to fight for them as the Colonists are doing.’
I changed the subject hastily. It was what I had to do continually. I liked best to be with my father on our own and if then he talked of the war I could make sure that he was not reminded of the troubles in France.
He thought Charles was a fool to have gone to fight. First he said the quarrel had nothing to do with France; secondly it meant that Frenchmen were coming back with revolutionary ideas; thirdly France was paying heavily for her support of the Colonists … and in more than money, which it could ill afford in any case.