The Secret of the Chateau

by Kathleen McGurl

  But there were people coming down that route now. A handful of men, armed with pitchforks. Men he knew, who’d worked on his farms. They were carrying the flag of the Revolution, the tricolour, and singing a rousing marching song. He ducked into a small barn attached to the side of a cottage on the edge of the village. It was home to a cow, tethered to her stall, and he squeezed in beside her, praying the men hadn’t seen him. If they were coming to the village by the high path, it meant they had not been taken in by the pretence that he and Catherine would hide in the priest’s house. Perhaps Madame Bernard had told them where he was taking the children, and the mob was hoping to catch him on the way back from Claudette’s mother’s.

  He held his breath as the men passed. He could hear voices, among them some he recognised. Jacques Valet. The doctor. All laughing and jeering as they spoke about what they would do when they found him, how his trial would be swift and his execution by guillotine inevitable.

  ‘All he deserves,’ shouted Jacques Valet, as they passed. ‘Done me out of my full wages. So much for equality, eh? And his wife – nothing but a cock tease. I should know!’ There was raucous laughter at his words.

  Pierre wondered what he meant. It was true he’d not paid Valet for a while – when work on the little farm had ceased. But what did he mean by calling Catherine a cock tease? Surely she hadn’t … no. He refused to believe she’d had anything to do with such a coarse man. He knew, being so much older than her, and with precarious health, that she would almost certainly outlive him. But he intended making sure that she and the children would be well provided for after his death. He loved her so much.

  The men were still shouting. ‘Valet – she’ll never have you now, after you’ve denounced her and her feeble husband!’

  ‘I wouldn’t have her now if she begged me for it!’

  ‘You won’t want her anyway, without her head on her shoulders!’

  So it had been Valet who’d betrayed them. Though how Valet had known anything about them, Pierre had no idea … unless Catherine had told the man? Pierre recalled her frequent visits to the little farm after work on it had resumed. But no. She wouldn’t have … He shook his head. Even if there had been something going on, during that terrible period after the death of little Louis, that was all in the past. Catherine loved him, and he loved her, and that was all that mattered.

  Pierre stayed in the barn until all was quiet, and debated staying longer, but someone would come to milk the cow soon, and besides, she had begun pressing up against him, pinning him between her flank and the side of the stall. Struggling to breathe, he heaved against her and at last she shifted position, releasing him. He squeezed out, checked up and down the lane, and ran once more. Not safe to go by the high path, or via the main road back to the château. There was only one other option – the path along the riverbank, which was seldom used beyond the wash house, and quite overgrown. Plenty of vegetation to hide in, if he needed to. As long as he could fight his way through the undergrowth.

  He managed to get to the river path unseen, and started along it, but there were voices behind. He’d been spotted, and the same gang, the one containing Jacques Valet, were running towards him, gaining on him. He began to sprint. The path followed the river around a bend and he’d be out of sight there – perhaps he could find somewhere to hide while they raced past?

  The wash house. It was up ahead, and Pierre would reach it before the men came around the corner. He could hide in there – it was a sturdy, stone-built structure that his father had provided for the women of the village to do their laundry in the river. He prayed there’d be no one using it now and darted inside. It was empty, but he quickly decided it was no good as a hiding place. There was no door, and anyone hurrying past only needed to glance inside to spot him.

  Looking around in a panic, he realised there was only one option. The wash house had a wooden floor that could be raised and lowered, depending on the height of the river. If he got into the water, underneath the floor, and kept very quiet, making no splashes, then anyone entering the wash house would not see him. There was no time to lose. It was his only chance. If the mob caught him, it would be the end.

  He slipped into the river, gasping as the icy water soaked his clothes. The wash house floor was a hand’s length above the surface of the river, enough space to breathe. He eased his way under the floor, slowly, trying to disturb the surface of the water as little as possible. Thankfully here it flowed fast enough to cover any ripples he might make. Under the floor he had to turn his head sideways so that his mouth and nose were both above the water, and his head was pressed against the wooden floor. It was desperately uncomfortable, and cold, so very cold! The pain in his chest intensified, feeling like an icy band tightening around his heart. He knew he could not stay like this for long, but hoped he wouldn’t need to. Once the mob passed by, he could come out again, and either get back to the château or find some better hiding place to hole up for the night.

  ‘Please God, let Catherine be safe,’ he whispered, as he heard the thumps of men’s boots, running along the path, getting closer and closer. ‘And the children. Please God, look after them.’

  And then there was the clatter of boots on the floor above his head, the shouts of the men as they checked the dark corners of the wash house and looked up and down the river.

  ‘He’ll not be in the river, this time of year,’ said a man. Pierre thought it was the doctor. ‘Cold would kill him in minutes. His heart’s weak, anyway.’

  As if responding to the doctor’s words, at that moment Pierre’s teeth began chattering with the cold, and he clamped his jaw shut. Too late – a mouthful of river water had got in, and he choked a little, trying not to make a sound that could be heard over the noise of the men and the gurgling river.

  ‘What was that?’ a voice called. The voice of a man standing directly above. ‘Thought I heard someone coughing …’

  ‘Ah, only old Giraud,’ someone else said, and whoever that was obligingly coughed, and the men laughed.

  Pierre bit his tongue, trying to stop his teeth chattering and his throat constricting in a cough, and it was cold, so very cold. His hands were numb, the right side of his face, that was in the water due to the way he’d twisted his head on one side, was freezing. The doctor was right – he could not stay like this for long. But the men were still there, he could hear their voices; if he came out of the river now, he would be caught and it would all be over.

  ‘We need to find the bugger,’ a voice said.

  ‘Ah, we have old Henri. He’ll be on trial for his part supporting them. Only thing that can help him is if he gives us information now that helps us find him, but the old fellow is keeping quiet. That won’t go well for him. Wouldn’t want to be in his shoes now.’

  They had Henri. It made no difference to Pierre – Henri did not know where Catherine was hiding, or anything about their plans to go to Switzerland. But Henri had been a faithful servant for so long – serving Pierre’s father before him, and then Pierre himself. He’d been a good friend when Pierre was a child. Pierre sent up a silent prayer that the mob would be kind to the old man. He didn’t deserve this.

  ‘Good job we caught the old priest too, before he went over the border. He’s to be executed tomorrow. I’m going to see it. Anyone else?’

  ‘Yeah, me too.’

  ‘Nah, unless we’ve caught Aubert by then. That’s more important.’

  Pierre shivered. He had hoped that Père Debroux would be found not guilty and released, or at the very worst kept in prison. What kind of new state was this, that it would execute a priest, whose only ‘crime’ was to stick to his beliefs, putting God above country?

  He had no idea of the passage of time. Had he been in the river for minutes or hours? He had forced himself to stay quiet, and stay awake, listening to the sounds above him. After an eternity, with his hands and feet and the side of his face so numb he could barely move them, there were new voices above – women’s voices,
bantering and joking with the men. And then the men were leaving, calling their farewells, blowing kisses, and the women were giggling.

  Could he leave if there were only women there? It sounded like just two women, and even if they were hostile, he’d be able to overpower them. He’d be stronger than them, despite the increasing pain in his chest. When he could no longer hear the men’s voices or boots, and judged that only the women were there, Pierre began to ease himself out from under the platform. But his coat was caught in something. In the chains at the edge of the floor, that raised and lowered it. He tugged at it, but it would not come free, and his hands were so cold he could not grip the fabric properly. He needed to slip the coat off, but it was difficult to do this, in the water, while trying to keep his head up in the tiny breathing space.

  Worse, and with horror, he realised the floor was being lowered. The women must have brought some washing, and were lowering the platform closer to the water. The pressure on his head grew, forcing his face into the water. He tried to turn onto his back to keep his nose and mouth above the surface, but still the platform lowered and still his coat would not come free, and he couldn’t get out of his coat. The water closed over his face, the wooden platform now meeting the surface of the water. He had a lungful of air. He had to get free while that lasted. The icy water numbed the whole of his face, and in a panic he thrashed around, anything to free himself, anything at all, not caring if the women heard him – if they heard him they’d raise the platform, he’d be freed – but his movements were underwater, not breaking the surface, and under the platform wouldn’t be noticed. He raised his arms and tried to bang on the underside of the floor, but forcing his numb arms through the water he could not make enough of an impact to be heard, and the water was entering his mouth, the urge to breathe was burning his lungs, great bubbles of precious air left him in a final gasp in which he took in a lungful of water. One last heave at his jacket but to no avail, and then the blackness came and the cold was no more and he slipped into oblivion, his last thoughts being of Catherine and his children.

  Chapter 27

  Lu

  Aimée phoned one evening a couple of weeks later, with the news that Monsieur Baudin had at last been discharged from hospital and settled into a nursing home. He was back on his feet, though he had to use a walking frame now. ‘He’s ready for visitors, when you have time, and I know he would love to see his friend Felix,’ she said.

  ‘Of course,’ I told her. ‘I’ll go tomorrow. I have something else I would like to chat to him about as well, if he is well enough.’

  ‘He is very well in his mind. Just an old body.’

  I told her the time I’d be able to go, and she promised to let the nursing home know. It was situated some distance from the village – down in the wide valley where the large supermarket was. Not too far from the hospital he’d been in. I wondered if he’d miss the feeling of being up in the mountains, the views, the clear fresh air. But I guessed he’d find the milder winters at those lower altitudes easier to handle.

  The following afternoon I ushered Felix into the car and set off on the drive. I stopped in the village to buy some chocolates and flowers – who knew what Monsieur Baudin would like but I guessed if they weren’t to his taste, the nursing home would be able to give them to someone else. ‘You’re what he really wants,’ I told Felix as I drove down the valley.

  The nursing home was an attractive modern building, set in landscaped gardens with small ponds, winding flat pathways and benches placed under shady trees. There was the obligatory pétanque pitch and parking for half a dozen visitors. I pulled into a space, clipped Felix’s lead on, and led him to the door where a receptionist buzzed me in. She made a fuss of Felix. ‘All the residents will be pleased to meet your dog,’ she told me, in French.

  ‘He used to belong to Monsieur Baudin, who I have come to see,’ I explained, and she grinned.

  ‘He will be the most pleased, then.’

  She led me through to a day room where a couple of ladies sat knitting, while an old gent snoozed in front of a TV turned down low. Monsieur Baudin was in a chair beside a patio door that looked out on the garden, and with a view beyond to the mountains, I noted. Felix recognised him immediately and began pulling on the lead, giving a quiet little woof of excitement that alerted Monsieur Baudin to our approach.

  ‘Felix! Mon Dieu! Mon vieil ami!’ The old man reached out his hands and I let Felix run into them, to be fussed and patted and stroked and nuzzled. Monsieur Baudin leaned down over the dog and rubbed his face against Felix’s head. I stood quietly by, watching the reunion. It had been months, but clearly neither had forgotten the other. Felix was turning in small circles, trying to get as close as possible to his old owner, pushing against his legs, head on the old man’s lap, licking any part of Monsieur Baudin’s skin that came in reach. I couldn’t help but smile at the sight, and if there was a tear in my eye, what of it?

  ‘Merci, Madame! Il a l’air si bien!’

  I nodded. Yes, he did look well. In halting French, I told Monsieur Baudin all about Felix’s regular routines, the walks I took him on, the way my four housemates all doted on him too, the way he submitted to the kittens’ will at all times. Monsieur Baudin laughed at this, and said, yes, Felix had always been a little wary of anything smaller and furrier than himself.

  We chatted happily for a while, until the tea trolley came round. I took a cup of mint tea while Monsieur Baudin had coffee. And then I broached the subject of my research, and my discoveries about his ancestry. He listened intently as I stuttered my way through my explanation, in what I suspected was very poor French. I just hoped he was understanding me.

  ‘So you see,’ I finished, ‘I think you are descended from the people who owned the château, at the time of the Revolution.’

  He nodded. ‘Oui.’

  I blinked at him – the way he’d responded was as though he wasn’t particularly surprised by my news. ‘Did you … already know something of this?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied in French. ‘There is a family legend that says our many-greats grandparents were once the Comte and Comtesse. Your château perhaps is mine, then?’ He laughed, throwing his head back as he did so, and causing Felix to bark a little in excitement. ‘Sssh, Felix! You cannot bark in here, my boy!’

  ‘You are welcome to come and visit your heritage, any time,’ I said. I couldn’t believe he already knew about this. ‘I could collect you and bring you for a visit?’

  ‘Ah, thank you, but I don’t travel so well at the moment,’ he said. ‘And I would not want to take your château. There must be hundreds of descendants since the Revolution?’

  ‘You are the only one I have managed to find. And you, I already knew!’ If he’d said something when I’d visited before, perhaps it would have shortened my research. But I’d enjoyed tracing all Catherine’s descendants down through the ages, and ending up finding someone who was already a friend was an added bonus.

  We chatted a little longer about it all, while Felix settled down for a nap across Monsieur Baudin’s feet. Maybe it was my imagination, but between the joy of seeing his dog again and the pride he showed in his ancestry, I felt the old man looked younger, happier, fitter when I left that he had when I arrived. I promised to come again with Felix in a week. Felix whined a little when it was time to go, unhappy at leaving his old master, but Monsieur Baudin whispered something in his ear and then Felix trotted obediently to heel, with a backwards glance as we left the day room.

  Felix and I became regular visitors to Monsieur Baudin’s nursing home, going to see him most weeks. The dog was always overjoyed to see his old master and would lick his face then sit leaning against his legs while we chatted. It was lovely to see. My French was improving but I still needed to resort to Google Translate every now and again. After a month the old man was able to move out of the nursing home and into his retirement flat where he could live more independently, although he still had carers visiting twice a day. W
e continued visiting him there – it was a beautiful complex with communal gardens and lounges alongside self-contained flats with a full-time warden on hand.

  Monsieur Baudin often had a small job he’d ask me to do for him. Change a light bulb, replace a clock battery, put away some laundry, buy a newspaper. I always did it happily.

  ‘You like being a carer, don’t you?’ Manda said when I returned from one visit. ‘And it’s nice that this time it is not taking over your whole life. You’re a star, you really are, for what you did for your mum, and then Phil so soon after.’

  I laughed. ‘Phil doesn’t let me care for him any more. I’m not allowed to so much as bring him a cup of tea when he’s gardening.’

  ‘He’s done so well, recovering. He’s really turned himself around.’

  ‘A health revolution. We’ve all had a revolution of sorts, since moving here, haven’t we?’

  Manda grinned. ‘We have indeed.’

  I realised she was right – Phil was as fit as any of us now, and no longer needed any special treatment. And my natural inclination to fuss around people had indeed been transferred onto Monsieur Baudin, someone who both needed and appreciated it. Add to that the satisfaction I had from my teaching job and all in all I felt happy and fulfilled. I just wished I could resolve the mystery of what had happened to Catherine Aubert. She’d really got under my skin.

  By mid-autumn, with all the main living rooms and the bedrooms that were in regular use newly painted, Steve turned his attention to the smaller, lesser used rooms. I wondered what he would do once the entire château was renovated, but Phil told me not to worry.

  ‘In a building of this age there will always be some project that needs doing. It’ll keep Steve busy for as long as he wants to be. But you never know, he might learn to relax and rest, once he’s got all the rooms done.’

  I raised my eyebrows. The thought of Steve sitting down and resting seemed entirely foreign. He was always doing something. A great flatmate to have!