Philippe began to protest, but Armand interrupted. “Never mind, Philippe. All he can do is run away, and that might solve the problem.”
“He’ll cut our throats. You’ll see!” Philippe said, glaring at Seymour. “Give me the word, and I’ll have Merle go for the sheriff.”
“Come inside, young man,” Jeanne said.
“Go on. Do what she tells you,” Armand commanded.
Colin followed the woman, aware that Philippe was glaring at him as he left. He had no intention of escaping, however. When they reached the kitchen, the housekeeper, Josephine Bettencourt, stared at them. “Who is this?”
“Another one of your mistress’s injured creatures.”
“Sit down there, young man,” Jeanne said. “Josephine, get some-thing that we can clean this blood off with, and perhaps a plaster to put over it.”
“Sit down there,” Armand commanded fiercely, pointing at a stool. He stood back and studied the young man as the two women cleaned the blood off his face. He could not help but smile when he saw the tender expression in his wife’s eyes. I think she would be kind to Judas, he thought. He watched as they carefully put a plaster over the cut, and then he stepped forward. “Now that you’ve saved his life, I have a few questions for him.”
Jeanne went to her husband and took his arm. “He’s only a boy. How old are you, Colin?”
“I’m twenty-one, ma’am.”
“‘Ma’am’? What is ‘ma’am’?”
“That’s what we call ladies in America.”
“Ma’am! What a hideous word! Everything from America is ugly,” Armand said, but kindness had begun to show in his expression. “Why did you come to France?”
“I came all the way here to meet you, sir.”
“To meet me!” Armand exclaimed in surprise. “But I don’t know you.”
“But I know you—at least, I know your music.”
Armand suddenly slapped his forehead with his open palm. “Oh no, don’t tell me! Not another genius who has come to let me expose his talent to the world.”
“Armand, be quiet. Let him talk,” Jeanne said firmly. “Tell us about yourself.”
“I want to sing in the opera,” Colin said simply.
Armand stared at him and shook his head, laughing cynically. “So do about one million other people the world over. It seems half the people I meet want to be in opera. What do you know about music, anyway? Have you studied?”
“Not exactly.”
“Not exactly? What does that mean? You’ve either studied, or you haven’t.”
“I’ve never been to a singing school, but I want to learn.”
Armand was amused. Indeed, he had been besieged for years by budding operatic hopefuls. He could no longer attend a party with-out someone saying, “I have a nephew who has great talent. If you would only take him in hand, Marquis . . .” Armand had developed a hard shell when such requests were thrown at him. Sometimes he lost his temper. One lady had produced her son with a statement: “I believe my son has a great career inside him.” Armand had replied shortly: “That’s a good place for it, Madam.” His wife, of course, had chastised him for his rudeness.
Armand had a surefire system for eliminating such applicants as young Seymour. “Can you sing right now?” he demanded. Usually this was enough to shut down the request, for most singers required music, an instrument to accompany them, the right setting, and the right mood, and when they were challenged directly, many were simply unable to sing a note.
“Well, you say you want to be a singer. Can you sing?”
“Yes sir.”
Jeanne giggled and put her hand on her stomach that was just beginning to swell with the child she was carrying. “He is a young man with much confidence.”
“Confidence doesn’t fill operatic houses. Voices do that,” Armand said sternly. “Very well,” he said, “sing.”
Instantly Colin Seymour opened his mouth and began to sing. It was an aria from The Barber of Seville, by Gioacchino Rossini, a rather demanding piece for any tenor. The room was filled with the sound of the song, which was a rousing piece of music.
Seymour’s eyes were alight, and despite the ugly, purplish lump that was developing on his forehead, he seemed completely uncon-scious of anything except the song. It was not a trained voice, as both Armand and Jeanne saw at once, but it had power that most tenors never even dreamed of. At one point it practically rattled the dishes on the shelves, and Josephine Bettencourt’s eyes flew open, and she cov-ered her mouth with her hand.
Finally the song ended, and Seymour said nothing. He simply stood waiting.
“Well,” Armand said slowly, “you certainly are loud.”
“Oh, he’s more than that, Armand!” Jeanne protested. “He has such a sweet sound in his voice.”
“You speak Italian, then?”
“No, sir, I do not.”
“How do you know the words?”
“I memorized them from hearing them onstage. I have some idea what they mean, but even without being sure, I love to sing them.”
Armand hesitated. Jeanne reminded him, “I’ve heard worse voices at the opera house in Paris.”
“You never heard one as ill-trained, though. He has a thousand faults.”
“Oh, I know that, sir! That’s why I’ve come all the way to France. If you’ll just teach me, I’ll work. I’ll do anything. I’ll clean the stables. Just tell me what to do.”
“I don’t have time for that. I’m too busy composing. You’ll have to leave.”
“Are you hungry?”
Seymour looked at the mistress of the house. “I . . . am a little hungry.”
“When did you eat last?” Jeanne asked.
“I think it was two days ago. I found some turnips in a field.”
“Nothing but raw turnips! Josephine, quick. We must feed this young man.”
Josephine laughed. “Yes, Madam, I think we must. He’s skinny as a plucked chicken.”
Armand, despite his harsh verbal judgment, was interested in the young man. As Josephine moved around the kitchen, he pulled Jeanne off to the side and said, “I know you, my dear. Your mind is already spinning webs in which to catch me.”
“He’s such a sweet young man.”
“How do you know that? He may be totally depraved.”
“With those innocent blue eyes? Of course he’s not!”
Armand suddenly laughed. “I understand that some of the most vicious criminals in the world have blue eyes and look innocent as babies.”
“You just made that up. You always make up things when you don’t want me to do something.”
“Well, he does have potential, but I can’t take on a student. I’m right in the middle of this opera, and it’s very difficult. I keep getting interrupted.” He continued to argue fervently.
Finally Jeanne pleaded, “Please, Armand, let’s at least hear his story.”
“All right, I’ll listen, but I’m telling you now I can’t help him.”
They moved over to the table where the young man was eating. He obviously was ravenously hungry, but both noticed that he had at least the rudiments of good manners.
When Josephine had removed his plate, Jeanne said, “Tell us about yourself, Colin.”
“Well, there’s not much to tell. My parents died in an epidemic before I was six. I was raised by a distant cousin of my father, a man named Silas Winters. He was a fisherman who lived outside New Orleans.”
“Was he good to you?”
“Well, ma’am, he was a hard man, and fishing is a hard job.” He put out his hands, and both of them saw that they were scarred and covered with calluses. They looked strong, however, and he said, “He died about a year ago.”
“Did you get any education at all?” Jeanne asked softly.
“Just what little I could pick up. I learned to read and write.”
“What did you do then,” Armand asked, “after your relative died?”
“I got a job cleaning
the opera house in New Orleans, and oh sir, I have never heard anything like it! I stayed for all the perform-ances. It didn’t pay much, but I loved the music. I’d never heard any-thing like it.”
“And so that’s what you did? You memorized the music?”
“Yes, ma’am, I did.” Colin’s eyes were bright, and despite the pur-plish wound, he looked eager. “I don’t want to beg, but if you could let me stay, and just once in a while tell me a little about singing, I can garden for you or take care of your horses. I can fix most things. I’ll do anything, my lord!”
“I’m sorry. It’s just impossible. I don’t have the time.” He expected the young man to argue, but he saw that the eager light seemed to be extinguished in the young man’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But we have a room overhead in the stable. You can stay there tonight, and I’ll do something about getting you back to America.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The young man was so meek that Armand felt terrible. He turned and walked out of the room, saying, “Come with me.” When the young man followed, they went outside where Philippe was still work-ing on the yard. “Philippe, this young man will be staying in the room over the barn tonight. See that he has a bath, and perhaps you can find some better clothes for him.”
Philippe stared at the American. “He’ll cut our throats, sir.”
“Oh, I don’t think he’s dangerous. Do as I tell you.”
“Yes, sir.” Philippe nodded. “Come along, fellow.”
Armand went at once upstairs and tried to work on his score again. He cleaned up the mess he had made and was not surprised to find that he had lost his train of thought. He struggled with it for over an hour, then finally muttered, “Blast it! Now I’ll have to wait until it comes back.” He heard the door open and turned to see Jeanne enter. She walked over and put her arm around him. “Are you having diffi-culty with the composition?”
“Don’t I always?”
“You’ll do it, and it’ll be magnificent.”
Armand laughed. “When you’re this nice, I know you want some-thing. It makes me suspicious.”
“I think you might guess what it is.” She put both arms around him, and he stood up and turned to embrace her. He loved the woman with all of his heart and looked forward to the birth of their first child with great expectation. “I think I can guess all right.”
“Please, Armand, let the boy stay. He’ll work hard for his keep, and he’s so hungry to learn.”
“He’s too old to learn everything an opera singer needs to know.”
“No, he’s not. He’s only twenty-one, and he has really a fine voice—just untrained.”
Armand sat down and pulled her onto his lap. She cuddled up against him and put her face on his chest. “Please, Armand.”
“You know I can never refuse you anything.”
“That’s because you’re the most wonderful husband in the world.”
“I suspect you’re right about that, and the handsomest too.”
Jeanne laughed and straightened up. She put her hand behind his neck, pulled his head down, and kissed him. “You’re a good man, the best I know.”
“Before you start buttering me up, listen to my terms. He can stay, and he can help Philippe with the grounds and muck out stables for Perin and do anything else that needs doing. I’ll try him out for a month. If he has the ability to learn, we’ll see. But I have no time for petty talents. If I see he has no potential, he’ll have to go.”
Jeanne patted his cheek and smiled. “You do have wonderful ideas.”
“I haven’t had an idea of my own since I married you. You put them all in my head.”
“It’s going to be wonderful!” Jeanne laughed and threw her arms around him and put her cheek against his. “He’s going to be a great singer, and one day you’ll be proud to say, ‘Colin Seymour was my pupil!’”
Chapter two
Philippe Gerard looked like a huge bear as he approached Colin, who was covering some young roses with dead leaves. Philippe wore a cap pulled down over his ears, and his nose was red, a certain indication that he had been sampling the cognac of which he was so fond. For a moment he watched silently, then asked, “What you do that to her for?”
Colin looked up and grinned. Philippe’s English was worst when he was drunk.
The big gardener read the young man’s expression. “My English is ver’ good! The English language is hard. What you doing?”
“I’m covering up these roses so that storm that’s coming won’t freeze them.”
Philippe stared at the younger man for a moment, then he leaned forward and struck Colin a blow on the arm. It was meant to be a friendly punch, but Philippe never knew his own strength, and Colin staggered backward. Catching his balance, he grinned and said, “Don’t hit me because you can’t learn English.”
Philippe laughed, exposing his enormous teeth, and said, “Come on in the house. I have something you will like there.”
“I know what it is. You’re trying to get me drunk.”
“Why not you get drunk? We celebrate.”
“Celebrate what?”
“You don’t know?” Philippe stared at Colin with astonishment. “This is your birthday.”
“No, it’s not. My birthday’s in May.”
“I mean, you come here seven months ago today. Don’t you rememer nothing?”
“Has it been that long?” Colin asked softly, as if speaking to him-self. He looked around the chateau grounds, which were now dead and brown, but he had seen them when they were emerald green and bright with every kind of flower that France offered. He had dug and trenched and hauled fertilizer and done the other dirty jobs that Philippe heaped on him. Now he looked up and laughed. “I remember that first month well enough, Philippe. You tried to kill me with work.”
“Work never hurt nobody,” Philippe said firmly. “Come on. We’ll have a drink.”
Colin stuck the shovel down in the frozen earth and accompanied Philippe to his house. Philippe was not married, and the house gave evidence of it: clothes thrown everywhere, dirty dishes piled up, dust enough to write one’s name on any flat surface.
“Why don’t you clean this place up, Philippe?”
“What for? Who’s gonna see it?”
“Well, I see it, for one.”
“You came here looking like a ragpicker, and now you gonna tell me my house isn’t nice? She’s nice enough for me.”
Moving swiftly to the cabinet, Philippe opened the door and took out a square, brown bottle. He pulled the cork out with his teeth, and then picked up two dirty glasses and sloshed the amber liquid in both of them. “Here, you drink this. It make a man of you.”
“Philippe, you know I don’t like to drink.”
“This is a celebration. You drink when I say so.”
“All right, but just a taste.” Colin took the liquor bottle, poured most of his drink back in, then took a swallow. He shivered and gasped as the f iery liquor bit his stomach. “I don’t know why anyone drinks. It tastes awful, it burns your stomach, and it rots your insides eventually.”
“She makes me feel good.”
“Not she—it makes you feel good.”
“What difference it make?”
“I thought you wanted to learn English.”
“I never go to that country. Nothing but barbarians there. I bet the gardens there look like a pigpen.”
It was an old argument between the two, Philippe maintaining that France was the only decent place for a human being to live on planet earth, and Colin trying to tell him that other countries had something to offer as well.
“Sit down. We eat some of this cake that Josephine made. She is very good.”
“The cake or the woman?”
Philippe took several swallows from the bottle. Colin could see the liquor going down the thick throat of his friend. The two had indeed become friends during the period that Colin had been there. The big gardener had been a hard and demanding sort
of fellow, but when he saw that Colin was not afraid of work or of asking questions, Philippe warmed up to him.
“You know, Colin, I think? I think I marry Josephine Bettencourt.”
“You in love with her?”
“In love? No! She is a wealthy woman. She will be able to take care of me in my old age.”
“But you’re older than she is.”
“Mens lasts longer than womens.”
“I think you’re dreaming. Women live longer than men.”
“Josephine will not dare to live longer than me. It would not be proper.”
Leaning back in his chair, Colin listened as Philippe rambled on. The big man had strange ideas and was totally unreliable where liquor was concerned. But he was amusing and had been a good friend to Colin.
“You know, you look better than you did when you come here. You looked like a skinny tramp dressed in rags.” Philippe stared at his friend with glassy eyes and noted with approval how the young man had filled out. He had a naturally deep chest, and now muscle had formed in the shoulders, the chest, and the arms. His face had filled out, too, so that his fair skin had been burned by the hot summer sun and still held some of that golden color.
Philippe leaned forward and said, “I like you, Colin. I am going to tell you what you should do with your life.”
Colin grinned. It seemed that Philippe had a different plan for his life from week to week, sometimes from day to day. “What have you got on your mind now?”
“Forget all of that singing nonsense. You could be a fine gardener. Maybe as good as me someday.”
“You’ve taught me a lot, Philippe. I’ve enjoyed working for you.”
“With all this singing: la, la, la, la, la! Who care about that?”
“Well, I do for one, Philippe.” Colin smiled. “It’s what I want to do.”
“It’s no fit thing for a real man. A man should use his hands to make his living, not go tra-la-la-ing all over the place. And besides, the master treats you worse than I do.”
“You’re right about that. You put blisters on my hands, but he puts them on my soul.”
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