Philippe nodded. “See what I mean? You don’t have to put up with all that. Why, you could be a fine gardener, a master! Take a few more years.”
“No, I don’t think so, Philippe. I may never make it as a singer, but I’ve got to try.”
Philippe argued vehemently for a time, all the while sipping from the cognac bottle. Finally Colin changed the subject by saying, “The marquis is really happy, isn’t he, with this child coming on?”
“He’s a foolish man about his wife. He will be foolish about the child too.”
“I’ve never seen anyone so happy or love a woman so much.”
Philippe belched, and then scratched his behind. “It’s not good for a man to love a woman too much.”
“Why, Philippe? Why would you say that?”
“Because someone might run off with her.”
Colin suddenly grinned, his teeth looking very white against his tan. “Maybe a man should marry an ugly woman.”
Philippe stared at him. “But somebody might run off with her too.”
“But if she’s ugly, you wouldn’t care.”
Philippe was a slow thinker, particularly when drunk, but the humor of Colin’s remark finally got to him. He bellowed with laugh-ter, lunged to his feet, and pounded Colin’s arm. “By gar,” he said, “you are one funny fellow. But I still think you should be a gardener.”
Colin leaned back from Philippe’s clumsy punch. “You nearly broke my arm.” He hesitated, then asked, “Have you ever thought what it would be like if something happened to the Lady Beaufort?”
Philippe’s eyes suddenly flew open wide, and he reached out and grabbed the lapels of Colin’s coat. He lifted him off the floor and whispered, “Don’t ever say that! Don’t even say such things! It’s bad luck.”
“I guess you’re right,” Colin said. When Philippe put him down, he pulled his coat together and said, “We’ll have to pray that she’ll be all right, and the child too.”
“Yes, we do that. I will say an extra rosary for her every day. You ever say a rosary?”
“No. I’m not Catholic, you know. I’m Protestant.”
Philippe stared at the younger man and then shrugged. “Well,” he said, “nobody’s perfect.”
“You sound like a braying donkey!”
Colin had never been able to accustom himself to the harshness of the marquis’ words. Armand de Cuvier knew but one way to teach. “It’s the hard things,” he often shouted, “that teach a man! The soft ways are no good.”
“What was wrong with what I did, Monsieur?”
“What was wrong with it? Everything was wrong with it!” Armand doubled up his fists. He struck Colin three light, rapid blows in the chest and said, “It must come from in here. You are trying to sing from your throat.” He wrapped both hands around Colin’s throat and squeezed. “There is no power in the throat.” He began to pound his chest again. “From here! From here and from down here in the diaphragm!”
Colin listened silently. Armand finally quieted down enough to give him more instructions. For seven months, Colin had lived for these times when he was learning how to sing. He had been studying Italian with the help of the marchioness and had made rapid pro-gress. Her method was quite different. She was soft and gentle and could never bring herself to rebuke him. Quite a difference from her husband!
“Am I making any progress at all, sir?” Colin asked.
The marquis turned and stared at his pupil. He saw the deep-set eyes were not as bright as usual, and the broad shoulders were slumped. He put his hand on Colin’s shoulder and squeezed it. “The hard ways are best. Yes, you are making progress.”
“Really?” Colin asked, his eyes widening.
“Yes, you’re not as bad as you were when you first came here.” Colin laughed. “I think that’s the best thing you ever said to me, sir.”
“You are making progress. Now, don’t seek compliments.”
“Philippe says I ought to give up singing and become a gardener.”
“You are a good gardener. Is that what you’d like to do?”
Instantly Colin sat taller, and determination was a thread of iron in his voice. “I want to be a singer, sir, no matter how long it takes.”
“Well, you’ve already found out that it’s not easy.”
“I don’t care about that, sir, and I can never thank you enough for letting me stay and for helping me.”
The gratitude in the young man’s eyes seemed to trouble the mar-quis. He waved his hand and said, “Enough of that. Now, try it again. This time, in this passage here,” he put his fingers on the notes, “try to make it as sweet as a dove.”
For the next hour Colin sang at the direction of the marquis. Finally the marquis said, “Well, enough for today.” He hesitated, then said, “It was very good, Colin. Very good.” He picked up his coat and put it on. “It’s getting cold in here. We’ll have to have more fires when my son is born.”
“You always say ‘son.’ What if it is a daughter?”
“I will love her equally well. Of course, a man wants a son to take his name, but if it is a daughter, she will be like my dear wife. And what man could ask for more than that?”
“I’ve appreciated your teaching, sir, but one thing has meant more to me than that.”
“What, Colin?”
“I’ve learned something about how a man should love his wife. I had never seen such a thing as the love you have for Madam Jeanne.”
“When you find a woman, find one you can give your whole heart to.” Armand laughed and said, “I’ll tell you what, my boy. You have done well. I don’t commend you much, but I have a reward for you.”
“Yes, sir. What is that?”
“I’m going to take you to the opera in Paris.”
“Really, sir? That would be wonderful!”
“We’ll go next week. We’ll have to buy you some new clothes. We’ll make a holiday of it.”
Colin was stunned by the opera house. His only experience had been in the rather small and somewhat dingy opera house that he had cleaned back in New Orleans. But when he entered and saw the blaze of light from the crystal chandeliers, the red plush seats, the ceiling so high above them it seemed that there could be a cloud gathering there, the elaborate dresses of the women, and the men all dressed in the finest fashions, he could not speak.
“If you don’t shut your mouth, a fly might go in, Colin.” Armand laughed. The two were without Jeanne, who chose to stay home because of her advanced pregnancy.
“I can’t believe it. It’s so beautiful!”
“Well, the building is magnificent, but it’s nothing without the singing. They are doing your favorite tonight, The Barber of Seville. You remember? The first song you ever sang for me was from that opera.”
“I remember, sir.”
“Come along. We don’t want to miss the overture.”
Colin followed him into the box and took a seat next to him. It was raised up enough so that he had a panoramic view of the Paris Opera House. He was amazed at the beauty of the women and some-what shocked by the low-cut dresses many of them wore. There was a humming of talk, and laughter filled the air, and then the marquis said, “Now, it begins.”
Colin never forgot what followed. He missed nothing. The orches-tra, as it played the overture, fascinated him. He had never heard such playing in all of his life, and he soaked it in to his very soul.
And when the singers came on and opened their mouths, he mar-veled at the clearness and power of their voices. He was glad that he was now able to understand at least part of what they were singing.
There was an intermission, and the marquis turned and asked, “How do you like it, Colin?”
“It’s magnificent—but I’ll never be able to do what those people do.”
“Never take counsel of your fears, Colin.” Armand smiled. “Your voice is better than anyone’s on that stage. They had the advantage of early training.”
All through the rest of the opera,
Armand continued to point out the flaws as well as the skills of the singers. Finally, when it was over, Colin stood with the others and applauded until his hands hurt.
“Come along. We’ll go meet them.”
“You mean—meet the singers?”
“Why, of course.” Armand smiled. “Wouldn’t you like to?”
“Yes!”
Colin accompanied Armand down the stairs, and they made their way backstage. Many other visitors were there, but Colin saw that the marquis was so well known that the crowd parted before him. When they stood before the star tenor, Alex Chapelle, Colin was surprised to find that the singer was much older than he seemed on the stage.
“Alex, I would like for you to meet a friend of mine. This is Colin Seymour, a young American who has been studying with me.”
Chapelle was a short, rotund man with lines in his face that had been invisible from a distance. He bowed from the waist and said, “A pupil of the maestro. I would love to hear you sing, sir.”
“Oh, I’m just a beginner, Monsieur.”
“You had better watch out. This young fellow will put you out of business one day, Alex.”
Chapelle laughed and shook his head. “That is always the way of it. I envy this young man, and I trust he is properly grateful for the training you’ve given him.”
“Oh yes, sir, I am. I couldn’t be more grateful.”
Colin stood back while the marquis greeted other singers. He seemed to know everyone. They finally left the theater and got into their coach. Colin asked, “Do you really think I could sing as well as Monsieur Chapelle some day?”
“Colin, you don’t understand, do you?”
“Understand what?”
“You can already sing better than he can.”
“Oh no, sir. No, not really!”
“Your voice is better than his. It’s more powerful. It’s smoother. It just hasn’t had as much training. He has more control because he’s spent practically his whole life at it, but in another year or two, you’ll be better in that respect also.”
Colin tried to speak but could not. Finally he whispered, “I’ll do my best—my very best!”
As soon as Colin entered the kitchen and saw Philippe’s face, he stopped dead. “What’s wrong, Philippe?” he demanded.
Philippe shook his head. “Where have you been?” he asked.
“I went into the village to get some supplies. What’s wrong?”
“It’s Lady Jeanne. The child is coming.”
“But that’s good, isn’t it?” Colin spoke hopefully, but as he stepped closer to Philippe, he saw the pain on the big man’s face. “What’s wrong?”
“The doctor has been here for two hours. Our lady is having a ter-ribly hard time.”
Colin stared at Philippe and could not think how to answer him. Josephine Bettencourt entered the kitchen. Her face was pale. “Is it really bad, Miss Josephine?”
“Very bad! I heard the doctors talking. They think there’s—” She turned away quickly, but not before Colin saw the tears running down her cheeks.
Colin stood numbly, not knowing what to do. “It’ll be all right,” he whispered. “It has to be.”
Philippe shook his head. There was a dark streak of pessimism in the big gardener. He went outside, and Colin followed. Philippe pulled a flat bottle from his inner pocket and drank from it. He offered it to Colin, who shook his head.
“I’m going to get drunk.”
“Don’t. It may be all right.”
The night passed more slowly than any that Colin could remember. The seconds seemed like hours, and there was nothing to do but wait for news. Colin paced the floor in the kitchen, and Philippe contin-ued to drink. He was so numb with alcohol that he sat against a wall, his head back, his eyes glazed. Annette, Jeanne’s maid, entered the kitchen at about midnight, and Colin asked, “How is she, Annette?”
Annette shook her head and bit her lip. She could not answer, but the expression on her face told Colin the situation had not improved.
Finally Colin could not stand the stillness of the house. He poked Philippe’s arm and said, “I’m going to get more wood.” Philippe did not answer, and Colin went outside. He made ten trips to the wood pile, carrying in wood for all the fireplaces, until the boxes were full. After filling the box of the room next to Jeanne’s, he saw one of the doctors leaving.
“Doctor,” Colin said, “how is Lady Beaufort?”
The doctor, whose name Colin did not know, was a tall man with a sallow face and a thin mustache. He stroked it now with nervous fin-gers, and Colin read his answer in his eyes before it came to his lips. “She died fifteen minutes ago.”
Colin’s lips trembled, and tears came to his eyes. Jeanne de Cuvier had been more like a mother to him than any woman he had ever known. Every day he had experienced her kindness and her encour-agement. Suddenly it was as if the sun had gone out. He questioned why God would allow another terrible experience in his life. He turned blindly and walked out into the night, wondering how in the world his master would handle the greatest loss that could come to a man.
After the funeral of Jeanne de Cuvier, Armand de Cuvier refused to see anyone. He took his meals in his room and never left it. He received no visitors, and only his valet, a small man named Etienne, saw him.
“Philippe, what’s he going to do?” Colin asked. “He can’t stay in that room forever.”
Philippe was chopping wood. His mighty blows were enough to demolish most things, and he seemed to be taking out his anger on the wood. “What is he going to do? He’s going to grieve.”
“But he can’t do that forever, can he?”
“No. He may kill himself.”
“Philippe, don’t say a thing like that!”
“Why not? He’s lost what he loved best: his wife and his child. I know how he feels. I had a wife once, and I lost her.”
“You never told me that, Philippe.”
“I don’t like to think about it.”
“I wish I could help him.”
Philippe tested the ax with his thumb and was silent for a time. Finally he said, “My young friend, some things nobody on this earth can help with, and the marquis is finding out what that’s like. Only the good God can help him.”
Chapter three
Annette Jourdain paused outside the side door to the mansion, hold-ing a parcel. She bent over and stroked the head of the yellow hammer-headed tomcat that pushed himself against her feet. She stroked his coarse fur, saying, “You are a no-good fellow. I heard you out yowling last night. Did you not find a lady friend?”
The big cat growled deep in his throat and butted against Annette’s calf, begging for more attention. Laughing, she pushed him away. “I have no time for you. Go find another girlfriend, and try not to fight so much.” Straightening up, Annette looked up at the blue sky and for a moment let her gaze follow the outlines of the gardens that surrounded the house, thinking what a beautiful place Beaufort was. The tulips in bloom were Philippe’s pride and joy, and she could see the big man bending over, planting something. April had come to France, the forerunner of a glorious spring, and for a moment Annette breathed in the deep fragrance of loamy earth and of wood burning somewhere.
With a sigh she entered the kitchen. Putting down the parcel, she said, “They did not have any fresh truffles at the market, Josephine.”
Josephine had married the gardener, Philippe, and was now Josephine Gerard. Philippe had proposed a dozen times over the last two years and was refused, but he was a determined man. Finally Josephine said, “I’ll have to marry you to make you leave me alone!” It had proved to be a successful marriage, however, and the two were well satisfied. At Annette’s words, Josephine frowned and shook her head. “You would think they would keep a good stock. There’s always a market for them. Did you get the other things?”
“Yes, but I am not very good at picking out vegetables. I was trained to be a ladies’ maid. I don’t know why Monsieur Armand keeps me on. His
wife has been dead for two years now, and I have noth-ing really to do.”
“I think it’s for sentimental reasons. He still grieves for her.”
Annette took vegetables out of the sack and placed them on the table in front of the housekeeper. “He’s much better than he used to be. I thought for the first year after Madam died that he would die also. I never saw a man grieve so much.”
“Yes, you are right. You know, Annette, I think if it had not been for Colin, he might have taken his own life.”
“He’s grown very fond of Colin.”
Josephine looked inquisitively at the younger woman. Annette was now twenty, a little plump and bright-eyed with curly auburn hair and dancing brown eyes. A beauty indeed. “What is this with ‘Colin’?”
“What am I supposed to call him—Monsieur Seymour?”
“I think you have eyes for him, Annette.”
“He’s a handsome man, and oh, when he sings those love songs, it makes me melt inside, you know?”
“I do not melt inside,” Josephine said sternly, “and I do not think it wise for you to be so familiar with him.”
“Why not? We’re both young. I like him a great deal, and after all, the marquis has no children. It may be he will adopt Colin. If I marry him, I would be the marchioness. I would be your employer. You would have to do what I say.” Annette laughed at the thought, then went over and put her arm around the older woman. “I’m just teasing.”
“Is there anything between you two?”
“No.” Annette sounded miffed. “He thinks only of singing. That’s all he does, sing, sing, sing, night and day!”
“Yes. Philippe was upset when Monsieur Armand took Colin away from his gardening work and made a full-time pupil of him. He says it ruined a fine gardener.”
“He wasn’t made to be a gardener like Philippe.”
“No, that’s true enough. Well, get about your work. I’ve got to start thinking about the evening meal.”
Annette left the kitchen, and as she passed down the long hallway that divided the house into two parts, she heard the pianoforte in the music room. She stopped, tiptoed over to the door, then opened it cautiously. This was where the marquis gave singing lessons to Colin, but there had been no sound of singing, only the piano. She poked her head inside and saw Colin with his back to the huge window that admitted yellow beams of light. A smile turned up the corners of Annette’s lips, and her eyes sparkled. Stepping inside, she walked up silently behind him. She put her head next to his and whispered in his ear, “Oh, you play so wonderfully, Colin!”
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