The Wild Land

by Isobel Chace

  “Bon,” he said simply. He led her out on to a narrow balcony where they could see the tough fortifications of the church opposite. “Do you want to go up there?”

  She shook her head.

  “Not now.” Her eyes glinted suddenly. “I’ll tell you what I should like to do! Ride down to the sandbanks and look at the birds.”

  He grinned.

  “Let’s go, then,” he said. He started off down the stairs and she followed hard on his heels. At that moment she was aware only of a sense of relief that she had told someone about Monsieur Clement’s land and that she was going to buy it.

  Riding over the sand dunes was an exciting business. Plunging horses, slipping hoofs, tensed muscles, and an exhilarating, pervading sense of excitement that colored the hour in her memory into something that she would remember for ever.

  They went in and out of the shallow reaches of the sea, galloping along the sand and wading deep into the etangs looking for birds. Ibis and egret, a multitude of ducks, and any number of other common sea-birds whirled above them in the air, uttering their harsh cries of derision at these two mad intruders.

  At last Charles signalled that they ought to be returning to the manade.

  “The others will be back from the corrida,” he said regretfully.

  Emma shook herself, wondering at her drenched clothing and the white traces of salt that clung in all the creases.

  “I look a mess!” she said. “But it has been fun!”

  Charles laughed.

  “To tell the truth I’ve never seen you looking lovelier,” he told her.

  She could imagine, she thought. Wet and betrousered, with her long black hair flying out behind her!

  She set her mare straight at the bank, regardless of the sand that flew up into her face. Beneath her, she could feel the straining muscles gradually relax as they cleared the top and made towards the open land.

  “Slowcoach!” she called out.

  She could hear Charles rapidly approaching behind her and knew a moment’s panic as he drew level and overtook her.

  “Oh, I wanted to win!” she told him. “I had a start, after all!”

  He smiled.

  “You shouldn’t throw down such wild challenges,” he replied. “Of course I had to beat you.”

  She made a face at him.

  “Because you are a man, I suppose?”

  “If you like.”

  They rode in to the yard together and he slipped down from his own horse to help her to dismount. “Leave her,” he said. “I’ll brush her down for you.”

  She gave him a cheeky grin.

  “Oh well,” she said, “I suppose there are some advantages in being a woman!”

  “Yes indeed,” he assured her solemnly. “Go in and change, chérie, and stop teasing me.”

  It came as something of a surprise to her to know that she had been teasing him, and she turned quickly to go into the house.

  “Oh, and Emma!”

  “Yes?”

  “I shall deal with the purchase of your land. There will be no need for you to see Monsieur Clement again. I’ll tell you when it is all completed and we can discuss what you are going to do with it.”

  She opened her mouth to tell him that she would see him dead first, but he had already gone, the two horses clattering contentedly after him.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  EMMA slept better that night than she had slept all the week. It was something of a relief to know that Charles would be dealing with that horrible man and that she wouldn’t have to worry about him any more. She woke with a wonderful sense of well-being and crept out of the house for an early ride long before anyone else was stirring. The soft light of the dawn illuminated the wild land around her, making it beautiful and a little mysterious. The groups of white horses were haloed by the early sun, their soft noses twitching in delight at the coming day. The mare was impatient to be out, and together they careered across the soft ground in a wide circle going round the boundaries of the manade.

  In the far distance she could see Marie-Françoise already out, working the cattle. She thought of calling out to her, but changed her mind and rode thoughtfully homewards, sliding off the mare and walking the last few yards. She left her wet boots outside the back door and padded through the kitchen in her socks. The telephone bell was ringing and she hurried to answer it, knowing that her grandmother would still be asleep and afraid that it would disturb her. It was Sam.

  “That you, honey?” he asked.

  “Yes, it’s me. Grand’mere is still sleeping.”

  “Oh? Meaning it’s rather early to be calling you? I suppose it is. I’m sorry, my dear. But look, are you free this afternoon? You are? Bless your heart. I went out to Les Baux yesterday—you know it?”

  “The original Court of Love?”

  “That’s it! Troubadours and all that jazz! Well, it’s absolutely superb! It’s a must! I’ll call for you as soon as I can get out to you and we’ll go and take a look together. Okay?”

  Emma looked at the receiver a little helplessly.

  “Can you wait a minute?” she asked. “I think I ought to ask my grandmother first. Do you mind?”

  There was a second’s pause.

  “Ask away. I’ll be here.”

  She sped up the stairs to her grandmother’s room and knocked on the door, reassured by the smell of coffee from within that bore silent witness to the fact that her grandmother was awake and was having breakfast.

  “Entrez!”

  “I’m glad to see you still in bed and resting,” Emma teased her.

  Madame sucked in her cheeks.

  “I have no choice,” she retorted. “As soon as I am up, I have you telling me what to do all day long. What is it now?”

  Emma smiled, not a whit put out. She was no longer so afraid of her grandmother’s tongue.

  “It’s Sam. He wants to take me to Les Baux this afternoon.”

  “Alone?” Madame Yourievska shot the question at her.

  “I imagine so,” Emma agreed. “I didn’t think to ask him.”

  “Then do so!” her grandmother insisted. “I know nothing of this young man. It would be much better if some other people went too, I think.”

  “But I can’t possibly tell him that!” Emma expostulated. “He’s an American. He simply wouldn’t understand!”

  Madame’s grey eyes met hers.

  “We cannot argue now,” she said. “Tell him you will ring him back after breakfast.”

  Emma did so, laughing at Sam’s outraged protests.

  “Good lord!” he exclaimed. “You mean she wants you to be chaperoned?”

  She giggled.

  “Not exactly, but she feels responsible for me and she doesn’t know very much about you.”

  Sam whistled down the telephone.

  “It must be living in France,” he said at last. “I guess it might make one careful at that! Okay, my love, I’ll be waiting for your call.”

  Emma replaced the receiver with a little smile. She knew it was old-fashioned of her grandmother, but she was touched by her interest, and she was quite sure in her own mind that she would have no difficulty in talking her round.

  “Who was that?” a cheerful voice called out to her from the kitchen.

  “Not for you!” Emma retorted. “It was Sam for me.”

  Charles appeared in the doorway.

  “Ah yes, the American friend!”

  Something in his tone put Emma on her guard.

  “He’s nice,” she said.

  He raised his eyebrows a little.

  “Did I say he was not?”

  Emma glared at him, more than a little put out that she had allowed herself to rise to his teasing.

  “Are you going out with him?” Charles continued conversationally.

  She hesitated. She longed to say she was, but there was Grand’mere. It was quite possible that she would tell Charles of her doubts about Sam and Emma would really far rather that she did noth
ing of the sort. With determination, she smiled.

  “I might,” she said lightly. “It all depends.”

  Charles shrugged, making Emma wish that she had said something quite different.

  “Tante Marrsha is awake?” he asked. “I must go up and see her.”

  Emma stood and watched him run up the stairs, taking them three at a time in a way she envied. He knocked on her grandmother’s door and went straight in.

  “Ah, Charles! Tell me, what of this Sam—?”

  With a sigh, Emma turned away. She didn’t care what either of them said, she was going out with Sam if she wanted to, and Charles could jolly well mind his own business! She had accepted the fact that he was her grandmother’s partner—well, almost accepted the fact! But for the life of her she couldn’t see that that gave him any right whatsoever to vet her friends! Quickly, before she could change her mind, she went back to the telephone.

  Sam answered immediately.

  “Are you coming?” he asked.

  “I’d love to.”

  She put down the telephone receiver and ran up to her room to change. If it had been a boy she had never met before she wouldn’t have minded. But Sam! A boy she had practically been brought up with! That was too much! And even then, Emma reminded herself honestly, it was only because Charles had been asked. Charles was the property of Marie-Françoise and had no right to take over her, Emma’s, life also. And there lay the rub, because if he hadn’t belonged to the French girl, she thought she would have been quite happy to do whatever he suggested.

  She wore her most English clothes to bolster up her confidence. A tweed skirt, a pretty white blouse and a heavy, chunky cardigan that accentuated her slim figure. She had just finished dressing when her grandmother appeared in the doorway of her room.

  “So, you go, ma chère?” she said dryly. “Be very sure that you know what you are doing!”

  “But truly, Grand’mere, I’ve known Sam all my life!”

  Madame nodded.

  “And I Charles, ma fille. He is not a patient man, and in reality you are in his care, n’est-ce pas?”

  “No!” Emma exclaimed. She couldn’t possibly explain how the idea appalled hen “No, I am in your care, and I have nothing to do with Charles!”

  Madame looked suddenly both fierce and autocratic. “You are his guest.”

  “Your guest!”

  “You are stubborn!” her grandmother retorted. “You will not see the facts before your face! It is nothing to be proud of, let me tell you. Go! Go off with this Sam! Charles has agreed that you may after all.”

  “Charles has! But this is outrageous, Grand’mere!” She gave an impatient movement of exclamation. Then she saw her grandmother’s face. She looked both tired and worried. With difficulty Emma bit back her indignation and put her arms round the old lady. “Are you afraid of Charles?” she asked softly.

  “But no,” Madame insisted. “He is like a son to me. When your mother died, I thought I had nothing left. But you see I had! I had Charles, and I had—you!”

  “But I was in England.” Emma bit her lip.

  “I had Charles,” Madame repeated. “I had Charles.”

  And Charles? What had he got out of the relationship? Emma had a fleeting memory of the manade shield in the museum at Les Saintes Maries de la Mer, with only Charles’s name written in above it. It seemed to her that he had done rather well.

  The hooter of a car sounded from below, telling them both that Sam had arrived.

  “I must go,” Emma said uncertainly.

  “Yes, yes, you must go. But do not be late, ma chère, I have things that I wish you to do for me later on.” They exchanged a rapid embrace, and Emma ran down the stairs and out into the sunshine to Sam.

  Beyond Arles, Sam really let the car out, and they rushed through the countryside on the straight, tree-lined roads of Provence, past the gaunt remains of the monastery at Montmajor, past Alphonse Daudet’s windmill, where he wrote his famous letters, and on past the Antiquities, put up by Julius Caesar when he passed that way on his way to conquer Britain, and opposite the ancient Roman town of Glanum, only now being re-discovered.

  The mountain range of the Alpilles was white and barren. Dark green scrub grew patchily wherever it could and a few olives clung to the wind-ravished landscape. The car climbed upwards until a small village came abruptly into view, shadowed by the most magnificent ruins that Emma had ever seen.

  Sam parked the car overlooking a tormented valley in which nestled a modern-looking hotel complete with swimming bath.

  “That’s where Cocteau set his film Orpheus,” he told Emma, glancing sideways at her as he did so.

  “Very suitable,” Emma commented. Perhaps the trouble was that she had a tidy mind and expected everybody to live up to their looks. Charles had very fine looks. There was nothing in them to lead her to suspect that he was somehow doing her grandmother down. And Monsieur Clement! She shivered slightly as she thought of him. He was probably the nastiest person she had ever met, and yet could have been right? Just about this one point?

  “It certainly seems to be affecting you!” Sam said beside her. “I wouldn’t have brought you if I’d known it was going to make you miserable!” He laughed and pulled her towards the village. “Come on, Honey, there’s no need to brood about it!”

  She caught at his mood, trying to be gay herself, but the shadow of Charles still mocked her. She began to think that she was really only there by his permission.

  This won’t do, she told herself sternly. It was Sam who had brought her and she owed him something as his guest.

  “It’s a sad place,” she smiled back. “It wears its past like a mantle of tears. Can’t you feel it?”

  Sam shook his head.

  “Nope. But then I guess no place moves me in that way. Others may weep, but all I see is a fascinating background to my thesis. I can’t wait to get started on it!”

  Emma was glad of her low heels as they made their way along what once had been a street. It still served that purpose, but it was so long since it had been made up that it was at least an inch thick in white dust and rough to walk on. A few of the houses, that had once housed the most notable of the nobles of the land, had been turned into shops for the tourists. The rest stood empty. After a while the road took them out into the central square where an old blind man sat, telling the history of his village to whoever would listen. Before the war, he said, there had been more than four hundred and thirty, and all of them old like himself.

  “These things,” he mourned, pointing with some scorn to the ashtrays and pottery that he couldn’t see, “were not made here at all. They come from the north. There is no work here now. No life, except once a year.” And he went on to tell them about the traditional Midnight Mass that took place every Christmas Eve, the one day of the year when the square was packed with people and when the whole town was crowded. When they all came, from miles around, to see the traditional offering by a shepherd of a lamb. They would see the lamb’s chariot in the church, he told them, but it would be better still if they came back and saw the real thing. Then they would see Les Baux as it had been before the French had conquered Provence and made it so poor.

  As Charles wanted to do to her grandmother? Take away all that was good in her land?

  Sam gave the old man a collection of coins and hurried Emma away to the entrance of the ruined castle, paying the concierge the entrance fee for them both.

  “Supposing you tell your Uncle Sam all about it,” he suggested as they were herded into a little cinema, built in one of the few surviving rooms of the castle. “Do I gather that you’ve met your correspondent and that he proved reliable?”

  “Oh no!” Emma shuddered. “He’s horrible, Sam. Really horrible! Actually he’s Marie-Françoise’s father. I felt so sorry for her when I found out. He leaves her to do all the work, you know. In fact when I went over to visit her, she was trying to get a bull out of the mud and had come home for a gun to put the po
or beast out of its misery.”

  “So you discounted his letter?”

  “I did at first,” Emma agreed. “Now I’m confused again. It’s Charles himself, and Grand’mere’s attitude towards him. I can’t explain exactly.”

  “But you’re worried?”

  Emma nodded reluctantly.

  “Yes, I think I am.”

  The concierge drew some curtains across the entrance and the performance began—the whole history of the castle, edited and presented in constantly changing pictures thrown on to a screen by an ageing magic lantern. There were English captions, but Emma was surprised to discover that she had grown so accustomed to the French all around her that she found it just as easy to follow on the French as on the English ones.

  She forced herself to concentrate on the story of the extraordinary family who had built the castle, the descendants of Balthazar, one of the Three Wise Men, who had slowly built themselves into a very real power in Europe in the Middle Ages, who had founded this, the most famous of all the Courts of Love, and who had struck fear into the very heart of France. Of course it had been France who had won in the end, bringing the final humiliation to Les Baux by forcing the inhabitants to pull down the castle with their own hands. Cardinal Richelieu, in the name of Louis XIII, gave the seigneur-ship to the Princes of Monaco, who still hold it and who, unlike Les Baux, still cling to their independence.

  They left the cinema in silence and walked out into the ruined castle, massed on the top of the mountain in dignified desolation.

  “Of course it’s complicated by the fact that you’re in love with the guy,” Sam said conversationally.

  Emma started.

  “Don’t bother to deny it,” Sam went on. “It’s written all over you.”

  Emma turned anxious eyes towards him.

  “Oh, Sam, it’s not! I—I like him—when I’m not hating him!—but it’s no more than that.”

  “A hopeless passion?” he said hollowly.

  Despite herself, she laughed.

  “Nothing of the sort!”

  “Not hopeless?” He looked serious for a moment. “Funny, I rather thought it was.”

  “Marie-Françoise is going to marry him,” Emma heard herself saying. “She told me so.”