The Devil in Love (Bantam Series No. 24)

by Barbara Cartland

  “That will be all, Miss Stanton,” he said. “I shall see you and Jean-Pierre tomorrow when we meet at dejeuner. Unless there are guests, you bring him to the Dining-Room.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur,” Larisa said, rising from her chair.

  She curtseyed.

  “Bonsoir, Mademoiselle,” le Comte said in French.

  “Bonsoir, Monsieur.”

  She moved towards the door.

  Only when she was outside in the corridor did she realise that she felt a little breathless, as if she had pitted herself against a blustery wind or a rough sea.

  Le Comte was intimidating—there was no doubt about that!

  The following morning Larisa was up early and was in the School-Room before Nurse brought Jean-Pierre from the bed-room.

  She did not know quite what she had expected.

  Perhaps in her mind there had been a replica of the small boys with their dark hair and bright eyes she had seen running about the Quay-side when the steamer docked at Calais or in the crowds at the Gare du Nord, holding on to their parents’ hands and getting in the way of porters, tracks, and other passengers.

  The little boy who came into the Nursery was small for his age.

  There was nothing sharp or dark about his features.

  He had large brown eyes, dark brown hair, and his complexion was fair. He had a small mouth that seemed to be perpetually smiling.

  ‘Say ‘how do you do’ to M’mselle” Nurse admonished him.

  Obediently he crossed the room and held out his hand to Larisa.

  “How do you do, Jean-Pierre?” she said. “It is very nice to be here in your beautiful Chateau and I hope you are going to show me all the special things about it.”

  Jean-Pierre looked at her gravely for a moment and then he turned to Nurse with a smile.

  “I want a little egg for breakfast—a little brown egg!”

  “That is what you are going to have, my precious,” Nurse answered.

  As if she realised that Larisa would want an explanation she said:

  “He has a fancy for bantam eggs and likes to go down to the farm to collect them himself.”

  “I am not surprised,” Larisa replied. “I remember what fun it used to be when I was a child trying to find a new-laid egg.”

  “I want two brown eggs,” Jean-Pierre insisted.

  Two footmen appeared, bringing in the breakfast. Larisa realised with an inward smile that while her supper could be handled by Suzanne, le petit Monsieur must be waited on with respect and grandeur.

  The breakfast in fact was quite an elaborate meal, with the footmen handing the dishes and Jean-Pierre demanding what he wanted, and upon getting it appeared to show little interest in anything else.

  When they had finished and Suzanne had taken Jean-Pierre away to wash his hands, Larisa said to Nurse:

  “I think it would be a good idea if we went out in the sunshine.”

  “No lessons?” Nurse asked.

  “Not the sort one sits down at a desk to do,” Larisa answered. “I want him to get to know me and, if possible, to like me.”

  “You must give him time,” Nurse said quickly.

  “That is exactly what I intend to do,” Larisa answered.

  Jean-Pierre was quite ready to go for a walk.

  He had very determined ideas of what he wished to do and was not very communicative when Larisa asked him questions.

  He took her to the farm, which was some way from the Chateau, and he chased the bantams to find out where they had laid their eggs in the hay and com stacked in the farm-yard.

  Then he accepted a small basket of bantam eggs which had been kept ready for him to carry back to the Chateau.

  As Larisa had anticipated, the Chateau in the day-time was overwhelmingly impressive.

  It had been built early in the Eighteenth Century and it exemplified all the elegance, the beauty, and the grandeur of the period.

  Behind it were laid out formal gardens with their patterned flower-beds, basins, and fountains.

  There was a vista cut through the forest which surrounded half the house to where high on a hill in the distance there was an elegant Temple surrounded by stone statues.

  Larisa could not help feeling how greatly her father would have appreciated them and although it was not his period he would have admired the Chateau itself.

  It was obvious that Jean-Pierre knew little about his home and Larisa made up her mind that she would find out the whole history of the Chateau and also of the Valmont family so that she could interest him in his inheritance.

  As they walked around the gardens she realised he was very young for his age.

  He was also attracted by anything new which caught his attention: a butterfly or a bird would make him run after it with excitement, only in the next moment to be distracted by something else.

  He however accepted her presence without comment and seemed to listen to what she said even while she was doubtful how much remained in his memory after she had finished speaking.

  She told him stories about the flowers and tried to make him say their names in English, but he was more interested in the goldfish swimming in the fountain, and after two or three English words he made no effort to say any more.

  “He must take his time,” Larisa told herself. “I must not push him too hard. That is obviously what all the other Governesses did.”

  They walked back to the house in plenty of time for Jean-Pierre to tidy himself before he went down to luncheon with his grandfather.

  It was hot and Larisa had chosen one of her cotton dresses in a shade of green to which her mother had added a small white muslin collar and little white muslin cuffs.

  She hoped it made her look demure. At the same time she could not help noticing that the colour accentuated the gold of her hair and the clearness of her pink and white complexion.

  “I doubt if anyone would notice it,” she told herself with a little grimace at her reflection in the mirror. “I am sure Monsieur le Comte will have eyes only for his grandson.”

  That was certainly true.

  Larisa realised as they sat in the huge Baronial Dining-Room, waited on by the Butler and several footmen, that le Comte ate very little and his eyes were constantly on his grandson’s face.

  “What did you do this morning, Jean-Pierre?” he asked.

  There was a pause as if the small boy found it difficult to remember and then he said:

  “Found lots of eggs—lots and lots!”

  This was not true, but Larisa felt it wiser not to interrupt and after that le Comte enquired:

  “And what else did you see?”

  After a long pause Jean-Pierre replied:

  “There were goldfish, little goldfish in the fountain.”

  Madame Savigny, who was sitting at the end of the table, turned to Larisa.

  “And what lessons did you do?” she asked.

  “I tried to teach Jean-Pierre some of the English names of the flowers.” Larisa answered. “He pronounced them quite well.”

  She did not add that there were only three of them at which he had condescended to make an attempt.

  She thought that le Comte looked at her briefly with approval.

  “When Jean-Pierre has his rest after luncheon,” Madame Savigny said, “I should be glad if you would come to my room, Miss Stanton. We had so little chance to talk last night on your arrival. There are so many things I would like you to tell me about yourself.”

  “Of course, Madame. That will be very pleasant,” Larisa replied.

  At the same time she could not help wondering if this was a type of inquisition.

  She was glad when luncheon ended.

  There seemed to be an unnecessary number of courses and she was not surprised when Jean-Pierre, having eaten quite a large meal, became restless.

  He fidgeted about on his chair and played with the knives and forks.

  Larisa wondered if she ought to rebuke him but felt that it was an uncomfortable
thing to do in front of his grandfather.

  Finally Monsieur le Comte said:

  “Jean-Pierre has finished. You can take him upstairs, Miss Stanton.”

  “Thank you. Monsieur.”

  Jean-Pierre would have jumped down from his chair but the Comte said sharply:

  “Your Grace, Jean-Pierre, you have forgotten your Grace.”

  The small boy put his hands together in front of his face and gabbled a few words inaudibly.

  Then he was running through the door and was half-way down the passage before Larisa could catch up with him.

  The conversation with Madame Savigny was not as nerve-racking as she had expected.

  In fact the older woman unbent a little after Larisa had told her about her family and how her father had died leaving them no money, and that it was imperative that Nicky should finish his education at Oxford.

  “How lucky you are to have so many sisters,” Madame Savigny said.

  “You have only one?” Larisa enquired.

  Madame Savigny nodded.

  “I never see her,” she said. “She does not come home. She prefers Paris, where she entertains a great deal.”

  “Paris is very gay, I believe,” Larisa said.

  “Not for the ancien regime,” Madame Savigny replied.

  She saw that Larisa looked surprised and said:

  “The last surviving descendants of Paris’s illustrious Princely and Ducal families will not mix with the bourgeoisie who have risen in the world and who have no right to be representative of Society.”

  She spoke with a bitterness that astonished Larisa. “The real Parisians,” she said, “live in the Faubourg St. Germain and they dream of a restoration of the Royal Cause.”

  “They do not like the new Paris?” Larisa asked.

  “They hate it!” Madame Savigny replied. “To them it is vulgar and parvenu, and so they do not mix but confine themselves to what is a world of their own.” She laughed rather scornfully as she added:

  “Even electricity is too modern for them, and many noble householders continue to use oil-lamps rather than the new lighting system about which there has been such a fuss.”

  “And things have not altered here, Madame?” Larisa ventured.

  “My brother has seen to that,” Madame Savigny replied. “No, nothing has altered, and life at the Chateau Valmont is a trap from which none of us can escape.”

  She paused and added almost beneath her breath: “Except Raoul—he got away.”

  Larisa looked at her in surprise. Then the older woman put her hand on her arm and said:

  “You are young, Mademoiselle. Enjoy yourself while you can! Old age comes quickly and then there is nothing! Nothing to wait for but the grave!”

  Larisa looked at her in bewilderment and Madame Savigny went on:

  “Once I was young. Not as pretty as you, but still pretty enough, and I thought the world was a wonderful place where I would find happiness. But I was mistaken.”

  “You sound, Madame, as if you have been very unhappy,” Larisa said softly.

  “Unhappy?” Madame Savigny repeated. “I can remember nothing but misery, ugliness, and despair ever since I was twenty!”

  “But why? Why?” Larisa asked.

  “I should not be talking to you like this,” Madame Savigny said. “It is that you remind me of myself when I was young, so that I want to talk to vou. There is no-one else here. They are all dead although they are still living. They are content with things as they are, but when I look back I see how different everything could have been.”

  “What happened?” Larisa asked almost beneath her breath.

  She thought the older woman was going to refuse to answer her, but then she said in a low voice almost as if she spoke to herself:

  “There was nothing I could do except to say good-bye to him. How could we run away together with no money? With nothing except our love for each other.”

  “Why did you have to say good-bye?” Larisa asked, almost afraid to ask the question in case she disrupted the revelations coming from the old lady’s lips.

  “My husband was a very rich man,” Madame Savigny said simply. “The family was delighted when he asked for my hand in marriage. It was all arranged before I even saw him.”

  Larisa drew in her breath.

  It was true then what her mother had said. This was what did happen in France.

  “And the man you loved?” she asked.

  “He also married a few years later. His wife is very rich. They live in the Faubourg St. Germain and she entertains for him.”

  “I am sorry,” Larisa said.

  “Sometimes I used to think it would be better to be dead!” Madame Savigny went on. “My husband was soon bored with me, especially when I could not give him the children he required, and when he died he punished me in the same manner as he punished me during his lifetime by his neglect and indifference.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He left all his money to his nephew to carry on his name. I had only a pittance and so I was forced to come back to Valmont. There was after that no escape!”

  There was so much unhappiness in the tired old voice that Larisa felt tears come into her eyes.

  “I am sorry … I am sorry!” she said, but she knew as she spoke that sympathy was no consolation.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Une fleur pour Mademoiselle,” Jean-Pierre said, holding out a primrose he had picked in the wood.

  “Thank you, Jean-Pierre!” Larisa replied, “but say it in English. Please say it in English.”

  He looked at her for a moment with his head on one side, then he said slowly:

  “But-ter-fly.”

  “No, no, Jean-Pierre. That is wrong,” Larisa said. “Try again.”

  With a smile that she thought had a touch of mischief in it Jean-Pierre said quickly:

  “Good morn-ing! Good morn-ing!” and ran away between the trees.

  Larisa gave a sigh that was half frustration and half despair.

  She had been at the Chateau Valmont for two weeks and she had managed to teach Jean-Pierre exactly two words in English.

  He applied the word “butterfly” to anything that moved.

  She had taught him “good morning” and he had delighted his grandfather by saying it two days after she arrived.

  But that was the net result of her labours and now, frighteningly, she had to face the truth that Jean-Pierre was not normal.

  He was a lovable little boy who was no trouble to look after and who expressed his affection by bringing her little gifts.

  Flowers, a stone, a stick! He brought them to her rather like a small puppy will retrieve any object which attracts him.

  But when it came to lessons she could neither coax nor command Jean-Pierre to learn anything.

  She tried telling him stories, but after a few minutes his attention would wander; he would be distracted by something else and she would realise that he was no longer listening.

  She tried the most elementary Arithmetic with bricks.

  “One brick—two bricks, Jean-Pierre,” she said, speaking in French as she knew it was hopeless to make him understand English.

  “Say it after me: One … two…”

  “One … two…” Jean-Pierre would repeat obediently.

  “And this is three,” she would say, putting down a third brick.

  “One … two … one … two,” Jean-Pierre would intone.

  Larisa would lie awake at night wondering whether there was some special method by which she could reach him and hold his attention. Then she began to realise what the other Governesses had found, that Jean-Pierre was unteachable.

  At the back of her mind, although she tried not to think of it, was a boy who had lived in the village at Redmarley.

  He had grown up strong and quite pleasant-looking, and he had walked about the roads singing little songs to himself and being apparently quite happy.

  They called him the village idiot, but
everyone was kind to him and he appeared completely harmless.

  Then one day for no reason that anyone could ascertain he strangled a child of three, after which he was taken away and nobody heard of him again.

  “Jean-Pierre could not be like that!” Larisa told herself.

  Yet there was no escaping from the truth. Jean-Pierre had the mental abilities of a child of four or five.

  She tried for a long time to tell herself that she was imagining things, but now as every day passed she realised that sooner or later she had to come to a decision.

  She must either tell Monsieur le Comte the truth, in which case he would undoubtedly dismiss her as he had dismissed other Governesses, or she could continue to pretend to teach Jean-Pierre, knowing that her efforts were quite useless.

  There was so much about the little boy that was attractive.

  He had good manners. He was loving in the way of any engaging child. He would cuddle up beside her and put his head against her shoulder, he would kiss her good night because she told him to, and he was obedient when it suited him.

  He seldom cried, and Larisa had never seen him angry or in a tantrum, which somehow seemed unnatural.

  Nurse and Monsieur le Comte doted on him, but Larisa had the suspicion that Madame Savigny was more astute.

  “What shall I do?” she asked herself.

  From her own point of view she was happy at the Chateau.

  She never tired of looking at the beautiful painted and gilded rooms and the treasures which they contained, or of walking in the formal gardens, seeing the fountains iridescent in the sunshine and the swans moving majestically in the moat.

  It was like living in a fairy-tale and yet there were undercurrents and suppressed emotions which sometimes made her feel that there were ugly and sinister shadows behind the sunlit exterior.

  She had soon learnt from Nurse of the feud which existed between Monsieur le Comte and his son, Comte Raoul.

  “Why did they quarrel?” Larisa asked at last, although she knew the Nurse might refuse to answer the question and she would be ashamed of being so curious.

  “Monsieur le Comte insisted on Monsieur Raoul marrying when he was only twenty!” Nurse exclaimed. “His bride was chosen for him and he was not happy with the choice, but what could he do?”