Chateau Despair

by Red Rose Publishig

  She made her way upstairs to her old room. The bed was still there, but any idea of staying here for a few days had fled as soon as she saw the filth and decay all around her. Yet she sensed that it was the perfect place to hide her treasures. The Germans would not come to this wretched place.

  There wasn’t so very much to hide really. Just her pictures, a miniature gilt clock that been Grandmere’s and a few pieces of silver. But at least one of the pictures was valuable. It would be something to fall back on if she ever needed it.

  She lodged the suitcase in the wall cavity she had discovered years before, slid the panel back in place and moved the bed in front of it. The wardrobe that had once stood there had gone, taken for firewood by the villagers she supposed.

  But they must believe that they had stripped the chateau of everything of value by now. It was unlikely anyone would bother to come here for years. One day, when the war was over, someone might decide to pull the whole place down. Clothilde would return long before that to retrieve her things.

  She was relieved to leave and closed the door behind her with finality. She would not come here again except to retrieve her suitcase. Walking swiftly away, she did not look back, for its hold on her was finally broken.

  She was afraid that she would not be able to find her garden again. It was so long since she had been to the woods, and nothing seemed the same. What had seemed mysterious and special was now simply bleak and lonely. She was not sure whether the change was in her or her surroundings.

  However, after some searching, she found the garden. In contrast to the chateau it looked neat and tidy, as if someone had been tending it regularly.

  Could it be Madame Fanchot? Grandmere’s letter had given her the name of the woman who had placed her in the church when she was a baby, and Clothilde believed she must be the woman who had made this garden – and given her that heavy gold ring when she stopped coming here.

  Clothilde decided she would ask Father Caillebotte if he knew of the woman’s whereabouts. Perhaps it was time she asked a few questions. She ought to have done so before she left for Paris, but she had been too shocked and stunned by Grandmere’s revelations to think clearly.

  She wondered if Father Caillebotte still lived in the modest house near the church. She walked from behind the church as she had when a child, memories of Sundays past vivid in her mind when the priest had walked with her. His garden looked bright and well tended with pots of herbs and masses of lavender. Her heart raced as she walked round to the side door and knocked. Would he remember her?

  “Yes? What do you want?” The question was grudgingly asked by the woman who opened the door.

  Clothilde remembered the priest’s housekeeper, though she doubted the woman knew her. Eyes as cold as winter skies peered at her suspiciously from a face wrinkled with age.

  “May I speak with Father Caillebotte please?”

  “He is sick. He went away months ago.”

  “Oh, then who…?”

  Clothilde left the question unasked. If Father Caillebotte had gone away the new priest would probably not know Madame Fanchot – even if she was still living.

  “It doesn’t matter. I am sorry to have troubled you.”

  “Who is it, Marie?”

  Clothilde halted as she heard that voice and then the young priest came to the door and her heart stood still. Andre! It was Andre. She was sure of it even though he looked older and more serious than she remembered.

  “Can I help you, mademoiselle?”

  Clearly he did not remember her. Clothilde was not sure whether to laugh or cry.

  “I wanted to speak to Father Caillebotte.”

  “Perhaps I can help you. Please come in, my child. We shall talk in private.”

  Clothilde followed him into the small parlour at the back of the house. It was warm and neat and had hardly changed since her last visit, except that she thought there were even more books on the shelves by the fireplace.

  “Is Father Caillebotte very ill?”

  “He had pneumonia last winter, and it left him with a weak chest. We believe he is recovering but he cannot work for the moment – which is why I have taken his place.”

  Clothilde stared at him in silence. “You do not know me, Andre. Have I changed so much?” She took off her hat, shaking out her long hair. It was soft and straight and hung like a curtain about her face, giving off a faint perfume. “We played together in the woods once…”

  “Clothilde?” A dawning recognition showed in his face, followed by pleasure. “What a surprise! I have often thought of you as I tended your garden. I am afraid I could do nothing at the house – the damage was done soon after you left. Madame Sanclere was not liked, and I believe her husband was hated by many in the village.”

  “It does not matter about the house. I shall never live there again.” She looked at him uncertainly. “So it was you who tended the garden. I thought it might have been someone else.”

  “The woman who gave you the ring? You told me she made the garden and then passed its care to you.”

  Clothilde inclined her head in assent. He had remembered the things she had told him even if he had not recognised her at first – so he had not forgotten her completely.

  “Her name was Madame Fanchot. She was the woman who left me in the church – where Grandmere found me.”

  “So you were not Madame Sanclere’s blood kin. Father Caillebotte told me he suspected something of the sort, though he was never certain. Did your grandmother tell you that herself?”

  “In a letter I found after her death.”

  “She let you find out like that? It was a wicked thing to do. Have you no idea who your mother was?”

  “I – I am not sure. I wanted to speak to Madame Fanchot, to ask her if she knew anything…” Clothilde saw the expression in his eyes and knew at once. “I am too late?”

  “She died last winter. She too had an inflammation of the chest, but she was not able to survive the cold weather in that wretched hut of hers. Father Caillebotte told me that she had confessed to something he had long suspected, but he could not tell me more than that. I believe he was troubled by her confession, but his illness came upon him suddenly. Perhaps you should talk to him when he returns? He may be able to ease your mind.”

  “Will he come back here?”

  “He is determined to return when the doctors say he is well enough. Perhaps in a few weeks…”

  “Yes, I shall come again.” Clothilde was aware of a tightness in her chest. She had loved Andre for almost as long as she could remember, but he had given his life to God. “I think I should go now.”

  “Will you not stay and eat with me?” For a moment a fire seemed to burn deep in his eyes, but then his lashes were lowered, hiding it from her. He turned aside, picking up the bible that lay on his desk. “I have prayed for you, Clothilde. Are you well – are you happy?”

  “I am well,” she replied. “Happiness is something I do not truly understand. I am content most of the time. Are you happy, Andre?”

  “I am known as Father Lombard, Clothilde – and yes, I am happy. Most of the time.”

  “Then I am pleased for you,” she said. “I must go now. I shall come to see Father Caillebotte one day.”

  “He will be glad to see you. I know he remembers you in his prayers, Clothilde.”

  She nodded and turned away, leaving the room immediately and with tears in her eyes. What a fool she was to have kept her memories of Andre enshrined in her heart. He did not care for her. That moment in the woods when he’d kissed her had been merely an impulse, giving her false hopes.

  She was just one of Father Caillebotte’s parishioners to Andre, no more or less important than anyone else.

  She would not think of him again, Clothilde decided as she set out on the long walk to the nearest town and the railway station. Auguste had begged her yet again in his letters to marry him, and perhaps she would.

  “You did not stay away long,” Madame Robards
said when Clothilde returned to work on the Monday morning. “I did not expect you back so soon.”

  “It was a mistake to go. Sometimes things are not what you hope or believe. I may have to visit someone in a few weeks time but for the moment it does not matter.”

  “Just tell me when you want to go.” She sighed. “I had a letter from Leon. He says he is well and I should not worry for him – but I do.”

  “I am glad he is well, madame. Perhaps the Allies will win this latest round of the struggle and Leon will come home again.”

  “We shall see.” Madame Robards looked at the bags and boxes Clothilde had brought to the showroom. “Did you take all this away with you?”

  “No. I am leaving my lodgings. There has been some trouble – yellow paint and words of hate on my door.”

  “Mercy on us!” Madame Robards turned pale. “People are so vicious when things go wrong. But why have they picked on you? You are not Jewish.”

  “They think Auguste is - but I am sure it is a lie.”

  “I heard something about his grandmother, just a whisper…but that was so long ago. You would not think people would remember such things.”

  “People always remember the bad things. They like to believe the worst of others. They whispered things about Grandmere…terrible things…”

  “You were close to your grandmother?”

  “She was all the family I had. My mother died when I was born.”

  “Ah yes…” Clothilde had mentioned something of the kind before, but she was aware of something more…something that pressed on the girl’s mind. “But these things people said…” She broke off as the door opened and the girl from the front desk downstairs came in. “Yes, Annette – what is it?”

  “A telegram, madame.”

  “Give it to me.” Her face was white with terror. “Leon…”

  “It is for Clothilde, madame.”

  “Clothilde? Addressed here?” She frowned as she took it and passed it to her. “Who would send you a telegram here?”

  “I have no idea. Thank you for bringing it up, Annette.”

  Clothilde opened the telegram.

  “It is from Helene Picard. Her father has…Auguste has been killed in action. He had gone up to the front line to inspect one of the field hospitals and his car was attacked by a German fighter plane. Helene says he was killed instantly.”

  Her hand was trembling as she held the telegram out to Madame Robards. “She says she is writing to me and asks if I would like to attend the funeral, which will be at the chateau next week.”

  “Oh, my dear…” Madame Robards scanned the message and then looked at her white face. “Sit down, Clothilde. This is a great shock to you. You were looking forward to Auguste’s visit…”

  Clothilde sat heavily on the nearest chair. She felt sick and shaken, bewildered. How could this have happened? Auguste was too old for active duty. He should have been safe at his chateau, meeting with officials and members of the Government.

  “I was going to tell him…” she whispered but she could not go on. The tears were trickling down her cheeks. She could not seem to take it in. “No…not Auguste. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He loved me…he was coming back to me…”

  She had been going to tell him that if he still wanted her she would marry him. Her dreams of Andre had been foolish. Father Caillebotte had tried to warn her, but still she had clung to them…and now it was too late to tell Auguste that she cared for him.

  She had wanted to make him happy, to take the sadness from his eyes, but now she never would. He was dead…killed by a man in a plane who probably didn’t even know who he was shooting at. Her head was whirling. She did not know where she was or what had happened. She felt faint, clinging to the back of a chair to steady herself.

  “Bring brandy,” Madame Robards said to Annette. “She is in shock, poor girl.”

  Clothilde was vaguely aware of them fussing around her. She drank the brandy, gulping it straight down as she was told. It made her choke, but it also warmed her and after a few moments she was aware of her surroundings again, and of the pain inside. She had not felt such pain since Grandmere died.

  “I am sorry,” she whispered. “It is so foolish.”

  “It is not foolish at all. He was good to you – you loved him. I would send you home but you have no home. You must stay here. You can use Leon’s room for the moment.”

  “I do not wish to be a trouble to you, madame.”

  “You are no trouble, Clothilde. Come, child, I shall take you upstairs. You should try to rest for a while. When you have slept things will seem better.”

  “I never told him…” Clothilde said brokenly as she allowed the older woman to lead her upstairs. “And now it is too late…”

  She stood next to Helene as the coffin was taken down the steps to be interred in the Picard family crypt. The sun was shining but that only made what was happening seem more unreal – how could the sun shine when Auguste could no longer see it? She wanted to protest that it was unfair, wrong…

  She wanted to tell Auguste that she loved him. She had thought she could not love anyone other than Andre, but it was not true – she had cared for Auguste more than she’d realized, and now it was too late.

  Madame Picard had followed the priest. Clothilde hesitated, and Helene laid a hand on her arm.

  “No. Let her go alone. She wants to make her peace with him. They did not always agree…”

  “I was not sure. Perhaps I should not have come? Madame Picard does not want me here.”

  “It is not up to Grandmere. My father’s Will says that he wanted you here – and he wanted you present at the reading. He has made some provision for you in the event of his death.”

  “He should not have done. It was not necessary.”

  Helene shrugged. She seemed unmoved. She had not cried at all during the ceremony in the church, her face pale but emotionless.

  “It was his wish. I intend to see that his wishes are carried out – all of them.”

  “You must hate me…”

  “You were his mistress. I might have hated you if you had taken my mother’s place here – but he told me that you had refused him.”

  “I might have said yes if he had asked again.”

  “Then I might have hated you – but perhaps not. You made him happy for a time, and I am grateful. At the moment I hate only the Germans. This stupid war ruined everything.”

  “You are speaking of your intended marriage?”

  “My fiancé was an Austrian. He did not want this war – but Papa forbade the marriage. He said it would make things too difficult for us all.”

  “That was wrong of him, Helene. I am sorry he did that to you.”

  Helene did not answer for a moment; her eyes held a queer blind look as she stared at a spot in the distance.

  “It is finished. Now all I want is for the war to be over.”

  “We all want that, Helene.”

  “Perhaps.” The younger girl looked at her then. “Papa put money in a trust for you. It is with a bank in England, because the laws here are sometimes difficult about leaving money outside the family. The estate is mine, of course. If you should ever need to leave Paris you are welcome to come here.”

  “Thank you. I shall remember that. You have been…generous.”

  “I am glad you did not say kind. I am not a kind person, Clothilde. I either love or I hate. I loved Papa. He loved you.”

  “He loved you too, Helene.”

  “Did he? I have sometimes wondered – but it does not matter now. Now I have only hate. If the Germans come here I shall kill as many of them as I can.”

  Did Helene know what she was saying? She was so pale and serious in her black clothes, dark shadows under her eyes.

  Clothilde hated what had happened to Auguste. She was fearful of what would happen if the Germans broke the Belgians and marched into Paris – but to talk of killing as Helene did was foolish.

  “You are
very young. What they have done hurts, but you will feel better in time. Grief does ease as time passes. You would be foolish to think of killing simply to avenge Auguste’s death.”

  “You do not understand,” Helene said, giving her a look of scorn. “There will be those who seek to appease the enemy – but many of us will resist. We shall fight on even if Paris falls…even if we die for it.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Penhallows 1945

  “What was it you wanted to say to me?” Simon stared at Christine across the small parlour where she had asked him to meet her so that they could have a private conversation.

  “It’s about Helene. I don’t think you’re being fair to her. You’ve been rude to her several times recently and…” she faltered as she saw the look in his eyes.

  “That doesn’t sit with your notion of fair play I suppose?”

  “You make me sound priggish.”

  “Do I – then perhaps you are,” he glared at her. “You don’t understand what you’re talking about, Christine, so please stay out of my business.”

  “That’s right, treat me as if I were a child again!”

  “You certainly behave like one.”

  “You didn’t seem to think so the other night at that nightclub. You behaved in exactly the same way as you are accusing Helene of doing, Simon. I know you love her and I know she hasn’t been fair to you but…well, you talk about how much you’ve been through. But what of her? It occurs to me that Helene may have been through as much, perhaps even more than you.”

  “Thank you for telling me,” he said a sneer on his lips. “I’ll bear that in mind next time I feel like strangling her – and you too for that matter!”

  “Simon! I didn’t mean to interfere, merely to ask you to be a little nicer to her this evening.”