by Aubrey Flegg
Margot had explained the rules of this ‘imbecile game’ to Colette while she broke dishes at the sink after breakfast. At the sports it was customary for any newly engaged man to be blindfold. The unattached girls would line up and the young lover would choose one of them at random for a last kiss before he got married. ‘You’ll see, it will be that pig Bernadette who will get him! I won’t speak to him for a week, I swear!’
‘It’s a pity you can’t be in the lineup yourself. But how will he know which is Bernadette if he’s blindfold?’
‘Pah! He’ll recognise the smell of pig shi– oops!’ Colette just managed to catch a second saucer before it reached the floor. She looked anxiously to see if Madame had heard.
‘I’ll be there, Margot, and I’ll see that he behaves. I might even claim a kiss myself!’ To her surprise Margot seemed quite shocked.
‘Oh no, Mademoiselle, that would never do!’
Sadly, Colette realised that Margot was right. Though she was almost completely accepted by the village now, there was and always would be that small barrier between her and the village girls… but still she would be there!
‘I’ll keep an eye on Bernadette for you,’ she promised.
Jean the pedlar was a regular visitor to the village sports. As no one would make household purchases today, he came with just his donkey cart, laid out with a tantalising array of trinkets, ribbons, sweetmeats and items suitable for the day. One of his treasures was a polished wooden box in which were half a dozen vials of perfume. He would let the girls sniff the tiny bottles and, as none of them could afford a whole one, would allow them a dab on each wrist, and a dab behind each ear, for the price of one sou. Colette, with Louise as an invisible companion, was examining the pedlar’s wares on one side of the cart when she recognised Bernadette’s voice coming from the other; the girl had a distinctive, rather seductive lisp.
‘See what she’s buying,’ she whispered to Louise. Louise did not like spying, but slipped away and came back a moment or two later.
‘Scent … violets. Jean says it’s a new one. I wonder you can’t smell her from here; she has bought a double dose for herself. But look …’ Louise broke off, ‘it’s Lucien’s turn to lift the testing stone.’ They ran across to watch. The roar of delight from the crowd when Lucien reached the impossible twenty paces echoed round the valley; he was a popular hero. Colette and Louise had difficulty in keeping track of Bernadette in the mêlée of congratulating villagers. It was Louise, however, who saw the moment when the girl bounced up to Lucien, said something in his ear, and then held her wrist up to his nose before she tripped innocently away.
‘So that’s how he’ll recognise her!’ said Colette when Louise reported back. She told Louise what Margot had said that morning about Bernadette. They waited until Jean’s cart was deserted before Colette approached him. The pedlar wore a hat with a broad rim that covered his beak-like nose. People said he never smiled, but they liked him nonetheless. Yes, he had a new scent … violets, would she like to try?
Colette explained that the scent was not for her. If she paid for it now, could he give it to someone else later? Then she explained exactly what she wanted. Though his expression never changed, she was sure his eyes glittered under his wide brim. ‘I’ll see that you get a ringside seat,’ she laughed.
The wrestling was over and Lucien was towelling himself down when the chanting began. “Lucien … Lucien …” Colette rounded up Margot, who was hissing with indignation like a kettle, to help her. She had no time to tell her of her plan. There was an open space in front of the pedlar’s cart. They found the tug-of-war rope and pulled it out to form a demarcation line. Then Colette began to marshal the chanting girls into a line behind the rope, with their backs to the pedlar’s cart. They seemed quite happy to have her as mistress of ceremonies. When Lucien had been well and truly blindfolded, Colette shuffled the girls in the line, making sure that Bernadette was near the end. They were too occupied entering into the fun to notice that Colette had preserved a gap in their line by the simple expedient of leaving her hat on the ground. She looked beyond it; Jean the pedlar was there, feeding his donkey on a handful of oats and rubbing her soft nose.
Now the whole crowd was taking up the chant. Two of Lucien’s friend held him by the arms to ensure that he didn’t touch the girls until he had decided which one was to receive his coveted last kiss. A hush fell on the gathering. He was facing the first girl in the line. Lucien was entering into the spirit of the game; he strained forward as if they were having to hold him back. The poor girl in front of him was in such a lather of embarrassment that she only just managed to whisper the prescribed words: ‘Kiss me kind sir,’ before she dissolved into helpless giggles.
‘Alas, I have only one kiss to give, and it is for another,’ Lucien declared.
‘Watch him breathe in!’ Colette’s whisper was lost in the derisory comments that met this declaration. Lucien’s minders moved him on. The next girl in line would clearly have given her new bonnet for Lucien’s kiss. He drew in a deep breath, which he then skilfully transposed into a sigh of disappointment, and she too was passed over. Another unfortunate, and then came the gap in the line that had been faithfully preserved by the presence of Colette’s hat. Lucien’s minders were moving him past it, when Jean the pedlar’s donkey suddenly took it into her head to step forward and join the parade. There was a snigger from the crowd. Colette shushed it hastily. Lucien’s two minders, sensing fun, pushed him forward just as if he was in front of the next girl in line; the donkey obligingly raised its head. Colette noticed Lucien breathe in. She saw from his smile that he had smelt something. Everyone was waiting. Had two sous worth of scent been enough, she wondered? Could he be smelling donkey as well? Another breath, still no action. Then, to her dismay she realised that she had forgotten that someone would have to say the magic words. Where was Louise? She turned and therefore missed the moment when a girl’s voice, seeming to come from the donkey itself, said: ‘Kiss me, kind sir!’
That was Bernadette’s voice surely, even down to her charming lisp! Lucien’s response was immediate. He stood up, his smile widened under his blindfold, and he announced for all to hear: ‘You, fair maid, will receive my last free kiss!’ With that, he swept the blindfold up from his eyes and found himself gazing down into the interested face of Jean the pedlar’s donkey. They said afterwards that the roar of delight from the crowd could be heard in Auxerre, but that was impossible!
Lucien stepped backwards in surprise. He made to turn, but his two minders had him firmly by each arm. They had both been trounced by him in the wrestling ring less than an hour ago, and he was not going to get away without delivering his promise. Jean came forward with a palm of oats. While the donkey nibbled, Lucien, still dazed and puzzled, bent and kissed it on its velvety nose. He stiffened; he sniffed, nose down on the donkey’s face.
‘Now then, just one kiss, my boy,’ someone shouted. But a broad smile was spreading across Lucien’s face, then he put his head back and roared with laughter.
There were many sore ribs from laughing that night, and many a sore head from the party that followed. For the moment however it was Margot who led Lucien from the field in triumph, while Bernadette swore silently that she would still get her kiss.
The events at the village sports gave Colette and Louise plenty to chuckle about when they went back to work in the vineyards. When not working among the vines, Colette would move to the wine cellars where the massive barrels stood in rank. Louise would examine the presses and the vats while Colette made up the records. They spent long hours in Papa Morteau’s attic office. While Colette struggled with the accounts that had not been properly kept for years, Louise would gaze out over the vineyards, watching the clouds spreading and withdrawing their shade over the regimented vines. Colette would show her the figures and explain how the resources of the vineyards were being quietly bled away by the Count’s ‘generosity’.
‘If only we had the management of th
e whole vineyard again, I … we could satisfy everyone’s needs.’
It was, however, the process of making wine that really fascinated Louise. She was a silent observer while Colette and M. Morteau discussed the progress of their vintages and what to do about them. She soon noticed that the vigneron listened seriously to Colette’s suggestions, even deferring to her opinion occasionally. Colette would glow then, and Louise would want to hug her, realising how proud she was of having M. Morteau’s good opinion.
Louise often found herself thinking how her father would have enjoyed all this. But he, like her, would have been looking for scientific answers to what was going on. He would have wanted to know what was happening inside the vats during fermentation. What made crushed and pressed grapes froth and foam when nothing had been added? Annie, her old nurse, would sometimes add rising dough from the baker to get her country wines bubbling. Was there a connection between dough and grapes? Colette seemed unable to answer this sort of question. Was M. Morteau just being kind when he praised Colette’s work?
One day Louise lingered among the vats while Colette went to rinse a glass, and found herself alone with M. Morteau who, unconscious of her presence, continued the discussion he had been having, but addressing the wine they had been tasting.
‘She’s right you know, you are musty, you old rogue. We’ll have to get you out of that barrel. I’m beginning to think she has a better nose than I.’ Then, with a change of voice, he went on a little sadly. ‘What would I do without her? I have gained a treasure but I seem to have lost a son.’ He sighed. ‘It would be greedy, I suppose, to want both.’
Louise, feeling she was eavesdropping, moved away. Even so, she stored away what he had said. When the time was right, she would tell Colette how much he valued her. She watched as he moved about, talking to himself, and found herself thinking about Gaston. For the first time she saw Gaston’s likeness in his father. Not the efficient soldier – that came from Madame – but the gentle Quixote that hid behind Gaston’s moustaches, the soldier who did not want his two cadets to be turned into barbarians. Dear Gaston … when would he be back?
As summer came, Louise and Colette filled Gaston’s absence by talking about him. Louise held nothing back, unless she felt that she might be betraying his trust. They talked and planned together, engaging in an imaginary future where there was no rivalry between them and they would never grow old. Not for the first time since Gaston had given her an independent existence Louise wondered if she had a purpose, a reason for being here. Was there anything she could share with Colette?
One day when thinking about M. Morteau and his wines, Louise remembered standing on the walls of Delft, her home town, watching Pieter. He was gazing out over the fields, his eyes partly closed, seeing the cloud shadows with an artist’s eye. Then she told Colette about Delft, and the Master, and Pieter.
‘M. Morteau is like them, Colette. When he calls the grapes his “children” and his wines his “class,” he is like Pieter trying to see the essential lines, colours and lights of his subject. How I would love to go back in time and introduce you to Pieter and the Master. It was he who predicted that I might live again if someone – like you and Gaston – had the eyes to see me. Do you think your wines have their own sort of life after death? Ask him for me Colette, please!’
It was evening when Colette and M. Morteau were walking on the track that ran round the periphery of the vineyard, gratefully catching the late breeze that was being sucked out of the valley below, and Colette put Louise’s question to the vigneron.
‘Papa, tell me, when the moment comes and we hammer the cork into one of one of our bottles, does the wine die?’ M. Morteau stopped, obviously surprised, but pleased too. He took a moment to think.
‘No, Colette it is not dead, it is just waiting. All the beauty is there, but it has to be released. The wine we make, Colette, must hope for someone who has the palate to bring it to life in all its glory.’
‘But how do you know that it will be appreciated? Don’t you long to run after it and say to the man with the corkscrew: “Hey! Stop talking … look… taste… savour… enjoy!’
‘Oh yes!’ he laughed. ‘But be warned, that’s when we start drinking our own stock.’
Colette seemed to be about to say something more, but Louise put a finger to her lips. After a pause he went on. ‘Colette, you and I grow grapes here on these slopes and make wine in the winery below. We put our skill, and not a little of our souls into the wines. But we can’t follow them when they leave our gates. We have to trust that they will represent us faithfully; they are our ambassadors. We can’t control the situations in which they will find themselves. All we can do is hope that some of them will find a palate that will understand our message, maybe for a moment of celebration, or to ease a hurt, warm a heart, or stiffen the resolve of someone who needs it.’
For some reason this simple statement brought tears to Louise’s eyes. Was that what she was: an ambassador? Had the Master had such faith in her?
CHAPTER 14
Seeing Double
Ever since he had rescued her, Jean Brouchard had gone out of his way to be kind to Colette; indeed he almost regarded her as a daughter. Colette told Louise how, when things had gone wrong between her and Madame, she used to come down and sit in Monsieur Brouchard’s noisy little office and tell him of her woes. He would say little, but would send her home feeling comforted. Then, sometime later, she would see him talking to M. Morteau among the vines, or surprisingly, find him sitting uncomfortably in the parlour with Madame, nursing a small liqueur in his huge hand. Then things would mysteriously improve and, for a while at any rate, Madame and she would be friends.
August was ready to merge into September when Lucien brought a message from M. Brouchard saying that it was a long time since he had seen Colette, and could she drop down some time soon. So she and Louise set off armed with a small basket of eggs from Madame, whose hens benefited from the grain-rich sweepings of the mill. Louise had her own reasons for wanting to visit the mill. Apart from the prospect of seeing Lucien showing off his muscles for Colette’s benefit – he might be engaged but that hadn’t robbed him of his eye for a pretty girl – the whole mechanism of the waterworks enthralled her. She had been inside flour mills in Holland when they rocked, swayed and groaned as the sails of the windmill swept around. In the water mill, however, the power was contained under the mysterious control of the sluice gates that channelled the water into the millrace.
Colette had agreed to ask M. Brouchard, on Louise’s behalf, how he adjusted the speed of the mill. He was surprised at the question; Colette hadn’t shown an interest in the mill before. But as he demonstrated how he could raise and lower the sluice gates to get the right flow into the millrace, she nodded with well-assumed interest. When the demonstration was over they moved into the little office. Louise, forgetful of the miller, stood behind Colette for a moment, stooping to whisper her thanks in her ear. Something made her look up; M. Brouchard was staring directly at her.
‘Excuse me, Mademoiselle,’ he said rubbing his eyes. ‘But I seem to be seeing you twice.’ He laughed uneasily. ‘Two Colettes are undoubtedly better than one … but perhaps it is a trick of the light.’
Louise stood frozen, not sure whether to move or to stand still. She had been careless; he really did have the eyes to see her. He looked away, shaking his head as if to dispel the double image, and Louise moved quickly out of the dusty sunlight that haloed Colette where she sat. He seemed relieved when he looked again.
‘So, you have seen how I work my mill. Now tell me, how are things up at the winery?’
Louise never ceased to be surprised by Colette. She had seen her cross swords with Madame, her eyes flashing, just as she remembered her own father’s eyes flash when he was roused. Then again she had watched her happily discussing some ‘truant’ vine with Papa Morteau as if the unfortunate plant was standing in front of them, cap in hand. Now she was giving M. Brouchard a detailed acco
unt of the woes of the winery, complete with acreages and yields, even figuring the dire effect on the business of the Count’s generosity with his land and his gifts of wine. The miller sighed.
‘And how is Paul taking all this? When I talk of these things he goes to earth like a worm before a thrush.’ Colette smiled and then frowned.
‘He’s worried. He was forced to lay off a few of the workers … he hates that.’
Brouchard nodded. ‘I know.’
‘He won’t say things straight out, so sometimes I don’t know whether he is talking to his vines or to me. I think he feels that something evil has crept into the valley and that the dividing of the vineyards is just a symptom of this.’ She stopped, wondering if M. Brouchard would understand.
‘I’m listening, my dear. Paul Morteau is one of my oldest friends; he can sometimes see things that we poor plodders and grinders just don’t see …’ He thought for a moment; “Something evil” you say. I wonder …?’ Then he changed the subject: ‘Now, tell me how things stand with Madame’s cousin, the Count. Has there been any progress in the negotiations to buy the land that is her due?’
‘No, as you may have heard, the family have refused to meet his price.’ Colette’s shoulders drooped – no land, no Gaston. M. Brouchard got up and went to the door, touching her shoulder in sympathy as he passed. He opened the door, looked up and down, then closed it firmly.
‘Mademoiselle Colette, I asked you to come down to talk to me, but I haven’t yet told you why. I need your help, but in order not to deceive you, I have to tell you some things that must remain secret between us.’
‘Even to the family?’
‘Yes, even to Gaston. You see, there are times when it is safer for people not to know the whole truth.’ Colette nodded; she understood this very well.
M. Brouchard began, stroking his beard forward from underneath as he did so. ‘There are rumours, yet to be confirmed, that the Count – “Citoyen du Bois” as he now likes to be called – is involved in plans for a royalist uprising similar to those taking place in Normandy and Brittany.’ Colette’s eyebrows shot up, but she didn’t say anything. ‘Any day now I expect to hear details of the exact time and place of a meeting of the conspirators. Duty tells me that I should give this information to the authorities so that the Count and his friends may be caught and brought to justice. If we can prevent this rebellion, countless innocent lives will be saved. Whatever about being brought to justice, the Count must be stopped!’
