The Rainbow Bridge (19 page)

‘Now, Gaston my friend. Tell me about that picture you brought back from Holland …’

As M. Brouchard showed Gaston to the door, he suffered a
small pang of conscience. He had told Colette that he would send Gaston to the Count a day or two before the proposed meeting of the rebels. In the end the temptation to have Gaston burst in on the meeting and find the Count and the rebels in cahoots had proved too much. Because Gaston might have scruples about spying on the Count, he had of course told him nothing about the rebel meeting. Soldiers are used to surprises and Gaston knew enough about the dangers of official involvement to deal with the situation discreetly and on his own. Brouchard’s pang of conscience was that he hadn’t told Colette about the change of plan, but perhaps it was for the best; she would only worry.

It was with a heavy heart that Gaston rode back to the winery in time for the evening meal. How could Brouchard know that a painting he had pulled from a canal in Holland mattered more to him than all his other possessions put together? How could he explain to Louise that he was going to sell her?

Over dinner in the winery the family talked about the weather, how the grapes were coming on, and Gaston’s journey from Auxerre. Then, as if to fill a gap in the conversation, Madame turned to Colette and said:

‘By the way, Colette, I told Gaston’s two cadets to take that picture that’s been cluttering up your room and clean the case up for Gaston.’

Colette was flabbergasted. Gaston looked apprehensive. ‘But Madame, it is perfectly clean … You mean you sent them … but that’s my room!’ The thought that they had gone in and just taken Louise without asking her was an affront. What would Louise think?

‘Oh, don’t worry, my dear, Margot showed them up. They won’t have disturbed anything.’ Colette’s anger was
rising like milk about to boil over. She had been bracing herself for Louise’s departure, but not like this. Her room was her refuge. She looked at Gaston for support, but he wouldn’t meet her eye. She turned back to Madame, guns ready to blaze, but saw Louise standing behind Madame, one finger to her lips. With a monumental effort, Colette got herself under control and turned away.

Gaston cleared his throat. ‘Listen, everyone,’ he said, straightening his back. ‘I must explain something. I am persuaded that we owe it not just to ourselves but to the village to secure the future of the winery by buying your portion, Mother. When I was here in the spring and tried to work out a way of raising the money it seemed that we had exhausted every possibility. However, there is one item that I overlooked.’

Madame threw up her arms. ‘What can that be? We have no gold, no secret hoard?’

‘It’s something that none of us has considered, Mother. It is the picture of the girl in the green dress.’

Madame Morteau started. ‘The picture? But surely it cannot be worth that much? Mon Dieu, and I got those boys to take it!’

‘You needn’t worry, Mother, the boys have guarded that picture since the day I took it out of the canal in Holland. They are far more of a danger to themselves than to it. And, yes, it is valuable, very valuable. Pierre overheard an expert who examined the picture in their barracks in Paris give it a price. It is worth a small fortune.’ He paused and looked beyond his mother’s head to where Louise stood. ‘It was never my intention to part with her, but we have responsibilities. I will take the portrait to the Count tomorrow and offer it, at least as security, until we can raise the money.’

As Colette gazed at Louise, tears began to move slowly down her cheeks. What would she do without her friend? Madame was struggling with her own emotions. She felt a little ashamed. She had been jealous of the portrait, perhaps because she had sensed that it had provided Colette with the very things she had been so unsuccessful in supplying: love and support. M. Morteau looked uncomfortable, as he always did when there were suggestions that he should become a landowner. Louise’s eyes were fixed on Gaston, who was staring, not at her now, but at Colette. Perhaps it was the tracks of the tears on the girl’s cheek that were affecting him, perhaps it was her look of vulnerability, but if Louise had still harboured ambitions for Gaston for herself this would have been the moment when she would have given them up.

That evening, after everyone else had gone to bed, Gaston and Louise sat alone at the table in the dining room. He had retrieved her portrait from Marcel and Pierre immediately after dinner. Louise thought that this might well be the last time that she and Gaston would sit like this, quietly talking. Tomorrow they would ride off together, but that would be a different chapter in her life. So they reminisced, going over all the things that had happened to them, and all the things they had done together.

‘I will come and get you back Louise, as soon as I have the money,’ Gaston promised.

Louise shook her head. ‘No, Gaston, you don’t understand. This is the price I have to pay for the fact that you have given me life; it’s something I didn’t want to accept, but I must, and so must you. I am a point in time, Gaston, created by you from the Master’s portrait. I am sixteen years old, and I will always be sixteen years old. I can’t grow old with you even if I wanted to; it is you who
will move on.’ She wanted to hold him. He seemed vulnerable and lost. ‘Colette loves you, Gaston, and I love her almost as much as I love you. When I think of you both together I feel brave enough to face the future … but that future is not here. There is no room for three in the practicality of love. And with Colette you have all you need. Gaston, you have no idea of the quality of that girl!’

Colette had gone to sleep worrying that Gaston and Louise might be in danger when they rode off tomorrow. M. Brouchard had said, that day at the mill, that he would send Gaston to negotiate with the Count before the meeting of the insurgents took place, but there had been delays, and yesterday the miller seemed to be avoiding her when he came to talk to Gaston. In the end she went to sleep, realising that there was nothing she could do about it.

Sometime later she woke, feeling that Louise had called her. She looked around the bedroom for the painting. Then she remembered – it was below in the kitchen. She put a dressing gown about her shoulders and lifted her hair so that it fell in a dark cascade over the collar. Moving silently, she slipped down the stairs and stood hesitantly at the bottom. Gaston and Louise were talking, heads together. For an instant she felt betrayed, excluded from their tête-à-tête. Then she realised that they were talking about her. Louise was telling Gaston how wonderful she was and how she had almost taken over the running of the winery. She stepped down and interrupted them.

‘Don’t listen to her, Gaston, she exaggerates most terribly.’ Louise stopped in mid-sentence, and they both turned to her.

Gaston’s jaw dropped. ‘Colette! You mean you can see Louise … like I can?’

‘Of course she can. We’ve been friends all summer!’ Louise laughed. ‘You see, Gaston, you’re outnumbered.’

Gaston, clearly bewildered, managed a bow. ‘I yield to fairer forces,’ he said gallantly.

Louise beckoned. ‘Come, Colette, please.’ She rose to her feet. ‘You have both been seeing me in the clothes you devised for me. As this is a special occasion, I want to wear my green dress. So please, both of you, concentrate hard on my portrait, and I will come back to you.’

A hundred and forty one years previously, Pieter and the Master had gasped in appreciation when Louise shed her cloak and the green silk dress had cascaded about her. Now, both Gaston and Colette took an involuntary step towards her as she stepped forward. Wouldn’t it be wonderful, Louise thought, if Pieter and the Master could be here to see the effect of their creation?

‘My dear friends, the one thing that I find unbearable about going is leaving you behind. How can I live without ever having gone through the grape harvest with you, Colette, and how will I see all those wonderful places and interesting things that we were going to see when we rode together, Gaston? I ask just ask one thing. Think of me at the grape harvest, and if you have to go back to war, Gaston, think of me when you see something beautiful, or curious, or grand. I can’t be certain, but I hope that I will at least know that you are thinking of me, and perhaps even see something of what you are seeing.’

Louise held out her hands, one to each. ‘On the day when my portrait was conceived,’ she explained, ‘there were three of us in Master Haitink’s studio: the Master, Pieter and me. The moment came when the Master had
finally captured the image that you see in my portrait, and he slumped forward with exhaustion. Pieter and I hurried to help him to his feet. Then for a moment we all three stood like this holding hands in a circle.’

Colette and Gaston could never remember precisely when it was that Louise was no longer there, because that was the moment when they both discovered that they had no other wish in life than to be holding hands with each other here alone in the kitchen of the winery of Les Clos du Bois.

It was mid-morning before they set off. They had discarded their cloaks; M. Brouchard had said that their uniforms alone would act as a deterrent. As far as the troop was concerned they were on active service so strict discipline was imposed. Marcel and Pierre rode within the troop where Gaston could keep an eye on them. Ever since Pierre had challenged Marcel, there had been friction between them, and Gaston liked to have them under control. Written orders had come for him that morning; he recognised General Bonaparte’s seal, but chose not to read them until this day’s work was done. The letter lay unopened in his sabretache, the pouch that hung beneath his sabre. He felt annoyed with Brouchard for putting him under pressure to close a deal with the Count, and devastated at the thought of losing Louise, but in his heart he knew it was the only thing to do. Louise’s portrait was packed in its box and strapped to the remount they had brought from Auxerre. It restored Gaston’s feeling of gallantry to be giving Louise an armed escort.

The forest had once been well tended, but now ancient and tired oaks dipped mistletoed branches close to the forest floor. The carriage road played tip and run with a stream that still carried last year’s leaves on a final twirl back down towards the valley. Louise had decided she
could join Gaston, and she sat straight in her saddle as she rode silently beside him.

‘I am glad you’ve come,’ he said. They rode in silence for a while. ‘You know that this is not what I want, Louise, but thank you for what you did for us last night. Colette has told me about your summer together; I wish I had been there. I never realised how awkward the situation has been for Colette at home. I will talk with Mother, she really wants to love her, you know, but somehow they seem to spark off each other.’

‘The best thing you can do, Gaston, is to come home, both for Colette and for the family. She needs you. She understands the business and she understands your father, but without you she has no authority.’

Gaston grimaced. ‘It may not be as simple as that. I got orders this morning, I haven’t opened them yet …’

‘Bonaparte? I recognised the seal.’

‘It is not possible these days to leave the army simply because you feel like it. Conscription is general for all but the wealthiest. But whatever happens, I swear I will try to get you back from the chateau.’

‘I don’t know if I want to go back, Gaston; I don’t know what I want. The explosion that killed me cut me off before I had a chance to experience life, to become a woman. I feel I am incomplete. Now, I’m torn between wanting to go back to my old life and to Pieter, and wanting to go forward, to see if there is completion for me there. I chose reality rather than heaven because I loved the world, but I’m only now realising the cost of love. I must go on, Gaston. You will secure your land, and in time you will get my picture back. And there may be something I can do in the chateau; your father has given me a small commission–’

‘My father?’ exclaimed Gaston, but before Louise could
answer, an ear-splitting call rang out from somewhere near them in the forest.

‘Holy God almighty! What was that?’ Gaston stared about him. A more distant call answered the first. He turned to his troop. For some reason Pierre had pulled up without warning, causing Marcel to rear his horse. Gaston could hear the corporal growl with irritation as the troop crowded to a standstill. Suddenly all discipline seemed to break down. The troop was backing off; the two boys were circling each other. To his horror and fury Gaston saw the flash of steel. With a roar of anger he spurred his horse down on them, drawing his sabre as he rode.

Order was restored. The two cadets, disarmed and flanked by a trooper each, sat on their horses, heads bowed.

‘Now, Cadet Colbert,’ Gaston said to Pierre. ‘It was you who pulled up without warning. Why? Have you never heard a wildcat before?’

‘With respect sir,’ Pierre said in a low voice, ‘It wasn’t a wildcat, it was a call like us lads in Normandy use when we are in the forest, sir.’

‘Speak up, Colbert! You mean it was human? Did the sound mean something, then?’

‘Yes, sir…’ said Pierre, encouraged, ‘we use calls like that during the mock fights we have between our villages, sir. That call sounded like a warning, sir, like when a rival gang is coming into our territory… Sir… Marcel called me…’

‘Forget about Marcel. That’s an order! But what in God’s name are boys from Normandy doing here in Burgundy?’

‘Sir …?’ Pierre wasn’t sure if he still had licence to speak. ‘Could they be Chouans?’

‘Chouan rebels, you mean? I suppose it’s possible. Good heavens, Chouans, who use the call of an owl – chat-huant
– as a signal. Perhaps there is something in Brouchard’s rumours then. What did the call say?’

‘I didn’t catch it all, sir, but it ended with the words “in the chateau.”’

‘Well, well, I wonder if my precious cousin is in trouble?’ Gaston sat and thought, his horse shifting her feet contentedly in the leaves. ‘Our orders were to look out for “spies”, but I must admit I never quite believed in them. Do you think that shout will have warned the people in the chateau?’

Pierre nodded. Louise could see that he had forgotten his disgrace and was already vibrating with excitement. This was a game he understood.

Gaston continued: ‘It would be useful if we could keep the leaders in the chateau while we take a look.’ He stared at the eager face of the boy in front of him. ‘All right, here’s a chance for you to redeem yourself, Colbert. Listen carefully, we’ll try it this way.’ Pierre’s face lit up.

Louise moved away. So … Brouchard had said nothing to Gaston about the Count’s plot, and neither apparently had Colette. Could it be that the meeting was actually today? Louise smiled to herself; Brouchard was no fool.

The soldiers were busy tying Pierre to his horse, albeit loosely. Pierre’s ‘escape from captivity’ was sudden and dramatic. Stripped of his shirt, and with his hands still apparently tied, his horse burst from the knot of soldiers and headed straight for Louise. A shout went up from his ‘captors’. Hands reached out to grab him and a sabre flashed in the sun as they wheeled about, deliberately getting in each other’s way. For a terrifying moment Louise thought that Pierre was going to ride straight into her. She heaved at her reins to get out of his way. For a second, as he thundered past, their eyes met. Then he was gone, but
the flash of recognition had been there. Soon, from the woods behind her, she heard Pierre’s triumphant call and her hair stood on end. It was a wild feral utterance made more eerie by the fact that there appeared to be human words embedded in it. Gaston was making a convincing show of anger with his men, calling back the chasers and barking them back into squad formation. There were other calls now, near and far, but it was impossible to say where they came from. The party rode on, with Gaston riding clear, leading his troop from the front, as he liked to do. Louise, having recovered from the confrontation with Pierre, rode up to join him. She wanted to hear what he was planning.

‘Pierre is telling the lookouts that we are the first of a much larger force that is spreading out through the forest to catch them. But he will tell also them that the chateau will not be searched because the caretaker is a renowned Jacobin.’

‘Will Pierre be all right?’ Gaston didn’t answer, but she saw the muscles at the angle of his jaw bunch up.

‘Please, Louise,’ he said. ‘I must concentrate.’

She had to bite her tongue. After about half a mile the forest ahead grew lighter and the road forked. Gaston reined back and checked the priming in his pistols as his men rode up. ‘Corporal, I want you to take your men to the right here. That will bring you past the front of the chateau. Don’t even look in the windows; as far as you are concerned, the house is empty. Make plenty of noise while you spread your men out, then set off, as if to search the forest to the west. Beauchamp and I will investigate the caretaker’s entrance at the back.’

‘What about other entrances, sir?’

‘We will have to take a chance on those. They should still
all be closed with the government seal. The only reason the Count, sorry – “Citoyen du Bois,” is there is because he’s wangled himself the job of caretaker. He’ll want to preserve those seals at all costs. Give me five minutes, and then double back. I want the chateau surrounded. I don’t know how you will do it with just eight men, but that’s how I want it to look from inside.’

Gaston watched the soldiers move off. Then, beckoning to Marcel, he took the fork leading to the rear of the chateau. They kept to the soft margin of the road so that their horses’ hoofbeats were muffled. Gaston wasn’t aware of Louise following, but guessed she was there. As they passed a small woodsman’s hut the scent of freshly cut logs filled the air. At the back of the chateau, farm buildings extended out, facing into a courtyard accessed by a high stone arch. Gaston saw that the heavy wooden doors stood open, and leant back in his saddle to murmur to Marcel.

‘They must have someone to relay the calls inside, so look out for the messenger. I’ll take care of any guard they have set.’ Over the chateau roof they could hear the corporal cursing his men into line. ‘Come on!’ Gaston drew his pistol and spurred his mare forward. The horse’s hooves slipped on the cobbles beneath the arch. He had to steady her, trying at the same time to scan the yard. Two once fine carriages were drawn up. Their horses, tethered nearby, were still nosing hay that had been recently forked out for them. What drew Gaston’s attention, however, was a covered cart; the cart itself, its horse, and even the buckets and baskets that hung beneath it were black. Even as he wondered what that might mean, he caught the unmistakeable smell of old burned wood. Of course – charcoal burners. But what on earth was his cousin doing entertaining charbonniers? Surely they weren’t inside? The
back door, the caretaker’s entrance, stood ajar. Perhaps his arrival had already been reported? Gaston leaned forward and rolled from his saddle. He landed on his feet, a pistol ready in his hand. Leaving his mare to look after herself, he ran for the door. As he did so there was a sudden flurry behind him and two objects shot past him, converging in a tangle of arms and legs at his feet. One was Marcel, the other a child of about twelve, his features soot black from charcoal. Gaston had no choice but to leap over the struggling pair. As he did so, the mounting wail of the boy’s warning call was cut short; Marcel had clapped his hand over the lad’s mouth.

‘Damn, he bit me!’ Gaston didn’t wait to sympathise; if he paused now, he would lose the element of surprise. He had been to the chateau before. He knew the way: down the corridor, through the kitchens, past a baize door. He tiptoed across the tiled hall to the door of the banqueting room – still no guard. He listened and could hear a murmur of voices inside.

‘Cousin,’ he murmured, ‘Are you keeping bad company, or are you a captive?’ Controlling his breathing with difficulty, he eased the door open. Light streamed in at the partly curtained windows and reflected off the vast mahogany table. He could see papers and maps strewn across its surface. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the bright light. There were eight men, all with their backs to him, staring out between the curtains, craning forward to see the last of the soldiers disappear into the forest. He felt carpet under his feet and slipped silently in. In a second they would turn and see him. He raised both pistols.

‘Don’t move gentlemen, and don’t touch anything on the table.’ Their heads turned as one; only two of them reacted with speed, sidestepping so that Gaston had to adjust his
aim, while their hands dipped to their pockets, revealing where pistols were concealed. Gaston covered them immediately. ‘Raise your hands! I didn’t realise that charcoal burners carried pistols these days.’ Without taking his eyes from them, he eased the flints on his pistols back to full-cock. They, at any rate, would know that his triggers were now on a hair. ‘Pistols on the table please. One at a time.’ They placed their weapons on the table and stepped back. Gaston looked at the pair with interest. Their disguises were perfect down to the last detail, only the pink of the hands that they had washed, presumably to handle the papers in front of them, betrayed them. Gaston was impressed, what perfect cover! Charcoal burners – always a law unto themselves – migrant workers who moved through the forests, different but not alien, would never be questioned. The eyes that challenged him now were not, however, the eyes of woodsmen. Gaston had seen such faces before, gentlemen perhaps, but also fanatics. His determination hardened against them. It was people like these who, for their own ideals, had been leading poor peasants in their thousands to certain death.

The rest of the party were a strange mix; five were in the motley garb of gentlemen who were doing their best to look like ordinary citizens. He recognised several of them, members of the local aristocracy who had evaded prison and the guillotine by slipping into the mass of the citizenry and declaring openly for the Republic. He had to smile at the incongruity of these once mighty men doing their damnedest now to look insignificant. In complete contrast to all of them stood his cousin, the Count du Bois. Here, in the apparent safety of his home, he had donned a wig over his peasant crop, put on an embroidered coat, and even sported the hated culottes and silk stockings of his class.

Louise had slipped in behind Gaston and now surveyed the gathered company. The two ragged charcoal burners were a mystery to her; she would have to ask Gaston about them. The others, though they had the manners of gentlemen, seemed unnaturally self-effacing. It was the Count that caught her eye. His elaborate clothes drew her attention, but it was his face that held her. She could see a family likeness between Gaston and him. He was older than Gaston, of course – about forty – but strikingly handsome in a way that both attracted her and repelled her. For all his relaxed suavity there was something predatory about him.

‘Gentlemen,’ the Count began. ‘What a fortunate coincidence. Do let me introduce my cousin, Gaston Morteau, a lieutenant now, if I’m not mistaken? My congratulations on your promotion, Gaston,’ he gave a reassuring smile.