The Wild Cry of Love

by Barbara Cartland

  “It would indeed!” Monsieur Fèvre exclaimed.

  Valda rose to her feet.

  ‘There are so many things that I wanted to talk about with you, but I realise it is getting late and you will want to return home. I really came to discuss the horses, but they can wait until tomorrow.”

  “The horses?” Monsieur Fèvre exclaimed in surprise.

  “Yes,” Valda said. “I was thinking we should try and persuade Beau-père to buy more of the white horses from the Camargue. We have one, as you know, but Blanc-Blanc is getting old and they are so beautiful that I thought we could do with several more in the stables.”

  She knew as she spoke that the horses of the Camargue were one of Monsieur Fèvre’s great enthusiasms and she had almost forgotten it until she had wished for an excuse to talk to him.

  Now his eyes lit up and he said,

  “I have often regretted the fact that Monsieur le Comte is not as interested in the white horses of the Camargue as I would wish him to be. They are unique and, while he has listened to me about having black Camargue cattle, he has never really enjoyed riding Blanc-Blanc.”

  “I think we must persuade him between us,” Valda said. “Perhaps I could give him a Camargue mare as a present for his birthday or for Christmas.”

  “That is certainly an idea, mademoiselle!” he exclaimed.

  “We will talk about it another day,” Valda said. “If you hear of one for sale, perhaps you would tell me about it and not mention it to Beau-père. It must be a surprise!”

  “I am so delighted that they interest you, Mademoiselle Valda.”

  “It was just an idea I had when I was riding today,” Valda told him, “but you will not say anything about it to Beau-père, will you? Not until we have my present ready for him.”

  “My lips are sealed!” Monsieur Fèvre said. “That I promise you.”

  Valda glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece.

  “Again I must apologise for keeping you talking,” she said, “and to save you time give me the keys and I will take them to Beau-père myself. That will save you the walk back through the house.”

  “That is very kind of you mademoiselle,” Monsieur Fèvre said, “but it is really no trouble.”

  “I am quite certain that your wife is watching the clock at home and wondering what is keeping you,” Valda smiled. “It makes me feel guilty.”

  “It has been a pleasure to talk to you.”

  Monsieur Fèvre opened the door of the office and Valda waited in the passage while he locked it. Then she held out her hand.

  “Thank you very much, Mademoiselle Valda. It is very kind of you.”

  “It is my fault you have been detained,” Valda answered, “so hurry home as fast as you can.”

  “I will do that,” he smiled.

  They moved away from each other in opposite directions.

  Valda started to walk along the passage, which led to the main part of The Château.

  She had not gone far when she heard an outer door slam and knew that Monsieur Fèvre had left.

  She waited for a few moments in case he should return, then, hurrying back to the office, she unlocked the door and entered, closing it behind her.

  It only took her only a few minutes to unlock the safe.

  As she had expected, there was quite a large amount of banknotes of different denominations stacked in neat piles and there were small bags of coins on another shelf.

  She took exactly one thousand five hundred francs in notes and coins and wrote an I.O.U. on a small piece of paper, which she put under a pile of notes, where she felt it would not be noticed until Monsieur Fèvre added up exactly what he had in the safe.

  She had an idea that this would not be until the end of the month when it was likely that, after the tenants had paid their rents, the money would be taken to the bank in Arles.

  Closing the safe again, Valda locked it and the office door and moving quickly back into the main hall approached one of the footmen on duty.

  “Where is Monsieur le Comte?” she asked.

  “He has just gone upstairs, mademoiselle, to change for dinner.”

  This was what Valda had hoped to hear and now she went into the library where her stepfather habitually sat and laid the keys in the centre of the blotter on his desk.

  He would imagine, she thought, that Monsieur Fèvre had left them there before he went home and would not at any rate for the moment connect them with her.

  Then, conscious that she had been rather clever, though deceitful, she went upstairs to change for dinner.

  Chapter Three

  Seated in the front of the Phuri Dai’s caravan, Valda felt wildly excited as the procession of caravans moved slowly along the dusty road.

  On either side the red earth of Provence showed beneath the olive groves, silver-green under the rising sun and the grey bare limestone rocks that protruded like strange primordial tombstones above the red of the plains.

  Poppies, lavender, wild thyme and yellow gorse lined the road and the almond trees were pink and white against the blue sky.

  It was so beautiful that Valda felt that she was walking into a fairy tale, which was all a part of her adventure.

  Even now she could hardly believe that she had really started on the most momentous journey she had ever undertaken and that she had really dared to leave her home to prove to her stepfather that she was capable of looking after herself. She wished that she had not had to resort to deceit to obtain the money, but comforted herself that it was justifiable to achieve her goal.

  When she had crept downstairs before anyone in The Château was awake, dressed in her gypsy clothes, carrying her camera in one hand and her linen bag in the other, she felt desperately afraid that she would be unable to get away.

  Someone was sure to see her and refuse to let her leave.

  Any of the older servants would, she knew, if they saw her creeping out at such an early hour, wake her mother, feeling it their duty to inform the Comtesse that her daughter was behaving in a strange manner.

  The house was very still.

  The nightwatchmen had made their rounds five minutes earlier.

  Valda had listened until they passed her door and she guessed that they would then congregate in a small room downstairs where they drank tea or coffee to help keep awake.

  This was her opportunity and she hurried on tiptoe along the dark passage and down the backstairs.

  She did not attempt to leave through the kitchen quarters just in case a scullery maid had risen early to start the endless scrubbing of the flagged floors, which was one of the most arduous tasks in The Château.

  Instead she unbolted a door into the garden. It was seldom used so she hoped that the fact it had been unlocked might escape the notice of the household until later in the clay.

  Following her father’s example, she had tried to think of every detail that would enable her to escape.

  Outside her bedroom she had left a note saying,

  ‘Please do not call me as I wish to sleep late.’

  That, she knew, would prevent anyone from entering her bedroom until at least ten or eleven o’clock in the morning.

  On her dressing table she had propped up a letter for her stepfather.

  She thought very carefully about what she would say before she wrote,

  “Dearest Beau-père,

  I love you for your kindness and thought for me, but I cannot allow you to choose my husband. You told me yesterday that I was not capable of buying a gown without Mama’s help or of journeying to Paris without being escorted by a courier.

  You also said that my qualifications did not include anything that was saleable. This was a challenge and I feel that, if I can prove to you that I can do all these things on my own without assistance from anyone, you will then agree that I am competent to choose the man with whom I must spend the rest of my life.

  Please don’t let Mama be too worried about me. I promise that if I am in any real difficu
lty I will come home at once.

  My love and don’t be too angry with your adventurous stepdaughter, Valda.”

  She read the letter through very carefully to make quite certain that she had made no mistakes.

  She also felt that when her stepfather read it he would be quite convinced that she was on her way to Paris and would undoubtedly search for her there.

  There was, however, a danger in that he would have expected her to take the train from Arles and, unless the gypsies had passed the City before he set out for the station he might see their caravans and perhaps stop to enquire if they had seen her.

  Then Valda told herself that such a course was very unlikely.

  Although the Comte was quite prepared to offer the gypsies the hospitality of his land, which by tradition had been accorded them by every Comte de Merlimont for several centuries, he was not particularly interested in them as people.

  He had in fact, often laughed at Valda’s interest in their history and she was sure it would never cross his mind for one moment that she might travel with them or ask their help in effecting her escape from home.

  The gypsies themselves had been somewhat perturbed when they found ‘the friend’ they were expecting was in fact Valda herself.

  “Does Monsieur le Comte know that you are coming with us, mademoiselle?” the Vataf asked.

  “No,” Valda answered frankly. “But I promise you, Monsieur Vataf, that if he discovers where I am he will not be angry with you, however annoyed he may be with me.”

  She knew that the Vataf was considering whether he should refuse to take her and quickly she presented him with the two hundred francs she had promised. Then before he could say any more she went in search of the Phuri Dai.

  The old gypsy also was surprised to see Valda.

  ‘This is wrong, mademoiselle!” she said. “Monsieur le Comte and Madame, your mother, will be worried about you.”

  “I want them to worry!” Valda answered. “I will tell you why once we have started on our journey.”

  The Phuri Dai did not answer and after a moment Valda said hastily,

  “Please take me! I promise you there will be no unpleasant consequences and it is desperately important to me.”

  She spoke with such sincerity that the Phuri Dai stared at her, until the uncertainty in her eyes changed to a look of compassion.

  “You know that we will help you if it is possible,” the old gypsy said.

  “Thank you,” Valda answered. “All I ask is that I may travel with you, if not as far as Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, at least until I am far away from here.”

  She had thought during the night that perhaps it would embarrass the gypsies if they should arrive at Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer with a gadje.

  The 24th May was essentially a Gypsy Festival and Valda had been thinking that perhaps she would be wise to join them after the vigil in the crypt was over and the blessing of the sea had been invoked.

  However, all she was concerned with at the moment was getting to the other side of Arles and, when the Phuri Dai asked her into her own caravan, she acquiesced with pleasure, feeling she did not wish to answer questions or to be concerned with the other gypsies.

  A child took her first to the caravan that had been allotted for her use.

  It was a small one painted with gay signs in red, white and green and drawn by a piebald horse with a long mane and flowing tail.

  The Phuri-Dai’s widowed daughter was already seated in the front of it. She was a small, very dark-skinned woman with shy eyes and was, Valda guessed, not much older than she was herself.

  Her husband had been killed in an accident and she had no children. Valda was to learn later that there were already several suitors in the tribe who were anxious to marry her.

  At this moment she merely smiled at Valda and helped her to lift her camera and her linen bag into the caravan. Then Valda went back to join the Phuri Dai and the cavalcade started off.

  The horses, having rested for forty-eight hours, were fresh and they moved comparatively swiftly along the narrow lane that led after about two miles onto the highway to Arles.

  Valda sat just inside the caravan.

  Although it was early in the morning, there seemed to be a great number of people about and she remembered that the women of Arles were noted as being the best -looking in all France.

  “There is a strong strain of Roman blood in Arles mixed with the Greek and the Gallic,” the Comte had said. “The Arles women know they are beautiful and do not allow anyone to forget it!”

  He had laughed as he added,

  “Even the fishwives in the market place feel they are Queens and bear themselves with their black mantillas cast over their arms in a queenly manner.”

  It was true, Valda noticed, that their straight brows and small noses looked Greek and they had magnificent dark eyes and thick black hair which framed their olive complexions.

  “Have you ever seen the bull-baiting in the Amphitheatre?” the Phuri Dai asked.

  Valda shook her head.

  She had asked her stepfather on several occasions if she could go, but he had always refused.

  The Amphitheatre was one of the sights of Arles and she had seen it often when it was empty.

  It was said that it was built by the Romans to be able to hold thirty thousand spectators, which was more than the whole population of Arles at the present day.

  There had been the three stages of seats, one for the Senators and another for the Knights and the upper range for the ordinary people. These had now been turned into a promenade.

  The people of Arles were passionately fond of bull-baiting and performances took place weekly throughout the summer.

  They were, Valda knew, quite different from Spanish bullfights. There was no brutality, no torture of the bulls with lances and crackers and no goring of the horses.

  “The bull is not injured, although he gets angry and wants to fight,” the Comte had explained. “He enjoys the fight and in some cases cannot be induced to stop.”

  “Nevertheless it is pointless!” Valda’s mother had said. “A lot of sport is that,” the Comte remarked, “and, although bull-baiting is not cruel, I have no wish for either of you to see it.”

  On Saturdays Arles was very crowded and in the market there would gather the guardians – or managers of the herds, the manadiers – or owner-farmers, gypsies trying to sell horses as well as Spaniards, Algerians and Corsicans seeking employment on the farms.

  And of course there would be Matadors with their unmistakable walk like a ballet dancer!

  The black bulls that were baited came from the Camargue, which Valda knew she would see there as well as the famous white horses.

  She was not really worried that she might be discovered before they reached Arles, nevertheless she sighed with relief when finally they left the City behind and found themselves out in the Rhône delta with the silver river on one side of them.

  Cut off from the rest of France by the two main arms of the Rhône, which divides at Arles, the Camargue occupies an area of one hundred and forty thousand acres.

  Since a Roman gentleman, Aulus Annius Camars, owned a big estate there and called it Insula Camarica it had hardly changed.

  She was entering a district full of magic, legend and romance – a mysterious wilderness on the coast of the Mediterranean, the realm of wild white horses and wild black bulls, of gypsies and pink flamingos.

  “You have been here before, mademoiselle?” the Phuri Dai asked.

  “No, never,” Valda answered, “but I have been looking forward to seeing it.”

  They were passing the rich farmlands of vines, cornfields, orchards and pasture.

  Every mile they journeyed brought them nearer to where Valda knew that there was a mosaic of lakes, reed-beds, pools and salt steppes and even now there seemed to be more birds and more flowers than earlier.

  But there were still quite a number of trees such as poplar, elm, willow, elder and ash and she
knew that soon they would reach dry grass lands and the fresh water marshes.

  “It is very beautiful!” she said aloud.

  “It is wild, like us!” the Phuri Dai said. “That is why we love coming here. We feel at home.”

  “And yet if you wished you could stay here all the year round,” Valda remarked.

  The Phuri Dai smiled.

  “Always we must wander,” she answered. “It is part of our life – moreover we must earn our living.”

  “That is true,” Valda agreed, “and yet it must sometimes be sad to be always moving, always going somewhere else.”

  “That is how we live,” the Phuri Dai said simply. “Perhaps it’s the curse of the gypsies, perhaps it’s a blessing. It makes us find happiness amongst ourselves.”

  Valda thought later that evening, when they had camped for the night, how true that was.

  They had found a field where a sign had told them they were welcome, not far from a large farm, which was called a Mas.

  It had the red-tiled roof of Provence and there were cypress trees growing round it as a protection from the stormy winds that would sweep in from the sea in the winter.

  Most Mas in the Camargue, Valda was to learn, were protected with closely planted cypress trees or by thick leafy plane trees, which were also good for holding the dusty soil together.

  And the flowers were very beautiful. There was wisteria growing over red walls as well as wild iris and orchids in the long high grasses, which had not yet been cut for hay. The farmer came out to speak to the gypsies and, for the first time, Valda saw a Camargue white horse being ridden with the big leather Camargue saddle – very high and wide in front and at the back it was handmade and embossed. It had the long iron stirrup, which she had been told was like those used by the mediaeval Crusaders.

  One gypsy thanked the farmer for allowing them to camp, then he rode away and they started to unharness the horses and turn them free.

  The women began to prepare the evening meal.

  Soon Valda was aware of a delicious aroma coming from the black pots suspended on tripods over the fires.

  There was not one fire but several, because even amongst the gypsies there was a protocol, so that the Vataf, the Phuri Dai and their sons and daughters ate round one fire with Valda while the gypsies of the other families encircled others.