by Aubrey Flegg
Colette realised that the miller was looking at her as if needing confirmation that there was no alternative to stopping the Count. She nodded; another rebellion would be intolerable.
The miller sighed. ‘Now for my dilemma. As the Morteaus do not own the winery or the land, if anything happens to the Count, not only will they be ruined, but the winery will close and the whole economy of the village will collapse. Everything I have striven to maintain will be lost. My report to the authorities will be like poking a stick into a hornet’s nest. The army will be upon us, and with them will come the politicians, the spies and the inquisitors. No one’s life will be safe then: not yours, not mine, not the Morteaus’. The Terror works by terror, and I have sworn to myself to keep the guillotine out of this village. The Count knows this; he has me over a barrel.’ He cocked his head, listening, out of habit, to the grumble of the mill wheels above.
‘You have a plan, or you wouldn’t have asked me here. How can I help?’ Colette asked.
‘I have a plan, yes, but like a chain, it is only as good as its weakest link. My plan is that the Count du Bois should receive a visit from a certain distinguished Lieutenant of Hussars.’
‘Gaston?’ Colette queried. ‘But … that would have to be official, wouldn’t it? Poking the hornet’s nest, like you said?’
‘As Chairman of the Revolutionary Committee, I have certain privileges. I am authorised, for example, to ask for a small detachment of horsemen to be sent to investigate a rumour of spies in my area. I know the colonel of Gaston’s regiment and will make the request through him, asking that Gaston be the officer in charge; after all, he knows the area. I will say nothing about the Count or the information I have about a meeting. If all goes to plan, it will look like a routine patrol. If Gaston happens to find that his cousin, the Count, is in cahoots with royalist insurgents, I think we can rely on him to send them packing and to scare the pants off the Count in the process. Gaston will simply report to his superiors that some rebels have been routed. No inquisitors, no trials, no guillotine.’
‘I’m sorry, M. Brouchard, but there are several reasons why this plan could never work. The first is that Gaston would never spy on the Count – they are cousins after all. The other reason is that, if Gaston did find the Count plotting with the royalists, he would feel honour bound to treat him like any other traitor, and turn him over to the authorities. I know Gaston, you see. So the whole house of cards would come tumbling down anyway.’
The turbulent sounds of the working mill filled the room while the miller considered what Colette had said. Finally, he gave an exclamation and slapped his hands on his knees, raising two little clouds of dust.
‘In that case,’ he said, ‘it is up to us to persuade Gaston to re-open negotiations with the Count before the meeting takes place. Colette, my dear, this is where you come in; between us we must persuade Gaston that he owes it to his family, to the village, and to you, to secure the future of the winery, no matter what the cost to his pride.’
Colette had known that this suggestion would come and had been dreading it. It was a family secret, but it would have to come out now.
‘Monsieur, Gaston won’t go. You see, it is not just that he let it be known that the family have refused to pay the Count’s demand. The fact of the matter is that they can’t. M. Brouchard, the coffers are empty.’
The miller leant back in his high chair, looking as if he had been hit.
‘Aah! So there are no funds. And I thought it was just Gaston’s pride. What has happened to their prosperity; they used to be the envy of us all?’
‘The Count has been bleeding the winery for years. The vintage records are perfect, but sadly, no proper accounts have been kept.’
‘Oh, my friend Paul. No wonder you slid away from me when I asked how things were going.’ He looked at Colette. ‘But you are keeping accounts now, aren’t you?’
Colette’s modest shrug told it all. ‘It makes no difference. When the Count’s letter came, they counted everything: the money’s not there.’
Brouchard put both hands under his beard and pushed it up so that it made a fearsome thicket in front of his chin. ‘So, there is my weak link. You came to our village too late, my dear.’ He closed his eyes and sighed … ‘I had hoped to kill two birds with one stone: stop the Count and secure the land. Now I have no alternative; I will have to call in the authorities. God help us all.’
Above their heads the millstones continued, pulsing out their own distinctive rhythm. The stones seemed to be talking to Louise, forming words in her mind: louder and louder. Now’s the time they rumbled, now’s the time. She tried to plead with them: No, not so soon! Not so soon! She felt like a prisoner whose date of execution has unexpectedly been brought forward. I want more time, I want more time, but she had no more time. Colette was getting to her feet. Now or never, now or never, the millstones ground urgently, and Louise knew that if she didn’t act now she might never have the will-power to do so again.
‘There is always my portrait,’ she said, loud above the din of the mill, ‘the portrait of the girl in the green dress. It is worth the price of this land, I believe.’ Even the dust motes that hung in the air stopped moving. She had given no thought to how, or even whether, M. Brouchard would hear her, but her message was for him. Colette began to turn, but then, afraid of revealing Louise’s presence, froze. Her mouth opened and closed as she struggled to contain her protest. But Louise had eyes only for the miller, who was standing, like someone trying to recall a dream. Then she saw his face clear as if he remembered what it was.
‘You know… that picture that Gaston brought back in the spring, does he still have it? It was standing in the kitchen for a while. A girl in a green dress, if I remember?’
‘Yes?’ Colette’s voice was a whisper.
‘One of his cadets told me that an expert in Paris said it was worth a small fortune.’
‘Oh, but Gaston would never, ever, sell it!’ Colette exclaimed. Her voice dropped, ‘And I … I’d hate to see it go.’
‘But it could do the trick, Colette … it would be something to bargain with. Gaston could go to the Count with his head up, and all we need to do is let him make a courtesy call to the chateau with his troop, a day or two before the meeting, and no one need know that he is renegotiating. If we get the timing right, he can make the Count accept the picture as security until he can raise the money. His presence alone will scare the Count into cancelling the meeting. I have to keep the guillotine and the tumbrel out of the village, Colette, and this could be our only chance.’
Put like that, all Colette could do was to nod and allow him to usher her dumbly to the door. ‘Lucien will bring up a bag of grain for Madame’s chickens,’ the miller said, as he rubbed his hands with satisfaction, and watched fondly as Colette walked up the road from the mill. Then, for a moment, he peered intently after her, shook his head, gave it a thump with the heel of his hand and muttered, ‘I’m sure I need glasses.’
On the walk back to the winery Colette was furious with Louise for having ‘sacrificed herself’ as she put it, and then with herself for having agreed with M. Brouchard that there was no alternative.
‘But it is the answer, Colette. There is no alternative,’ Louise comforted her friend. ‘It will be only for a little while, you’ll see.’
A week later a covered cart smelling deliciously of apples drew up at the mill. The apples, picked green from trees in Normandy a few weeks ago, were packed in barrels. Beside these were wooden boxes with cheeses carefully laid out in sawdust. M. Brouchard selected a fine cheese for the house, and then sent Lucien to his wife with a basket of apples for winter storage.
‘So, you have been following them?’ he asked the driver once they were ensconced, glasses in hand, in the privacy of his inner sanctum.
‘As well as I can. They are keeping to the forest tracks where no one will question them. I told you about their disguise?’
‘You did indeed. Clever.’
‘Are you quite certain that they are aiming for the Chateau du Bois?’
‘Yes. Fortunately one of their boys is partial to our apples. They have great hopes of your Count, but this is as far east as they intend to come. They call themselves ‘les Chouans’, after the calls their boys use to signal in the forest. They will move back west then and try to attract more waverers to their cause.’
‘The folly of it,’ sighed M. Brouchard. ‘Just more peasants killed for a lost cause. You say we can expect them to be at the chateau next Wednesday?’
‘Yes, this day week. The boy seemed certain of the date. Their disguise dictates the speed at which they can they travel.’
Jean Brouchard opened the flap of his desk and took out a small cloth bag, weighed it in his hand, and then passed it to the man. He would have liked to have talked more, but the matter was now urgent.
‘There’s a bit more here than usual, citoyen, because I am going to ask you to keep this to yourself. I think you will agree that there are times when it is best to clear up one’s own mess rather than let others do it. If you are headed north, though, I will ask you to deliver a letter for me.’
‘Certainly, citoyen, and thank you; these days, there is not much profit in apples.’
One of the places where Louise liked to sit was in Paul Morteau’s light-filled office looking over the vineyards. She would perch on the edge of a table, where she could see out, and at the same time listen as he and Colette discussed the small daily matters of the vineyards. She felt secure here and M. Morteau never gave any indication of being aware of her. Several days had passed since their visit to the mill, and the glow of self-sacrifice that she felt when she had volunteered her picture to save the winery had faded. After the homely life of the winery, the prospect of the chateau seemed bleak. What would she find there, other than the silence of empty rooms? Her only role would be just to be there as a guarantor of Gaston’s debt. Her reverie was broken when Paul Morteau straightened himself up, and pushed his spectacles high on to his forehead; he had been updating his planting plan in tiny writing.
‘Jean Brouchard was in this morning, Colette. He told me that he wants Gaston to trade his picture of the girl in the green dress, to buy Maman’s portion.’ He turned to look at Colette as if to see her reaction; she made a slight shift of her shoulders. Then he said in a low voice: ‘You’ll miss her, my love, won’t you – this girl who is your friend?’ It was Louise who started. She glanced at Colette who, in turn, was gazing at M. Morteau, her mouth moving as if she was trying to find appropriate words.
‘How…?’ she said at last, ‘How do you know, Papa, can you see her?’ He smiled and shook his head.
‘No, sadly my eyes don’t work that way, or perhaps I just don’t have the skill. But when I saw you talking to yourself in the vineyards, I thought that you had caught my habit of talking to the vines. Suddenly you laughed. Of all the attributes I bestow on my grapes, a sense of humour is not one. Perhaps I should try; a sparkling white wine with laughter in it would be nice, wouldn’t it? I guessed then that you had a companion, even if I couldn’t see who it was. I had not seen you happy since Gaston went away, and I wondered who or what it was that was amusing you. Then I remembered the portrait, and how you had asked for it in your room. If anyone could walk out of the frame, that girl could. Then this morning, I found poor Jean complaining that he had been seeing double when you were down at the mill, and was sure that I was right.’
‘Yes, Papa, you are right. Her name is Louise and I will miss her terribly.’
‘Of course you will, my dear. We love the things we have made, our creations; they are part of us. Just think, you have done exactly what the artist who painted her would have hoped, just as I hope that my wines go to the palate that will bring them to life. But we have to learn to let them go when the time comes. My great temptation is to go on tasting my wines, for the pleasure of reassurance. But I did not create these for my own pleasure. If I drink for pleasure I will lose my palate; I wouldn’t be the first to succumb to drinking my own stock. When my wines are ready, much as it pains me, I must say, “You are finished here; now, you must go out …”’
‘… and be our ambassadors?’ Colette finished for him, with a small smile.
‘Yes, they have their own purposes, but they need their freedom, and our trust, to make it happen.’
Their voices went on but Louise was quietly repeating to herself the word: “Purpose!… purpose?” When she was little and had been good, Annie, her old nurse, would tell her that that was God’s purpose. Annie had assured her that God was guiding her every step. But she and Annie’s God didn’t seem to get on. Under His guidance, she seemed to trip and end up flat on her face. So with the help of her father, she had turned to science instead.
But the purpose that M. Morteau had been describing didn’t come from outside. What if her real purpose was inside her, rising like a spring, bubbling up from every facet of her existence? Father’s friend Spinoza had talked like that. She thought of Mother, Father, Annie, Pieter … she had been nourished in life by their love in so many ways. Then there was the Master, who, in complete trust, had hurled her forward into the future, where she was now. M. Morteau had talked of his wines as ambassadors; she could be an ambassador for all those people who in their different ways had fed her with their love.
Louise emerged from her thoughts and heard M. Morteau explaining:
‘You see, Colette, Jean Brouchard and I have our own ways of understanding the valley, and what goes on in and around it. He takes the facts, and mills them down until he finds the truth. But country people don’t always think that way, so when they come to me they tell me stories. We walk among the vines and things emerge that they could never admit to Jean, possibly even to themselves. They will seldom openly accuse a neighbour, because they all have skeletons of some sort in their cupboards. So they fall back to the old folk tales, stories of witches, magical happenings, and hoards of gold. Sometimes they talk just to lay their own ghosts, but sometimes they tell me things.’
‘And this time?’
‘It emerged as one of those standard tales about a monster and a maiden in distress, but I teased at it, pulling out threads from the story until I could fit it to a real life situation. It transpires that a new housekeeper has been appointed to the chateau. With her has come her daughter, a very pretty child of about thirteen, described to me in terms such as “Hair like spun gold” etc etc. For some reason the locals are worried about the child. I suspect they are unhappy about the behaviour of someone on the estate and feel that the girl is at risk. That’s all I can get out of them, no names, no hints.’
‘And you think that if Louise was in the chateau she could help? Colette asked doubtfully. ‘But who would be there that could give her life? She mustn’t be in any danger, or I won’t let her go.’
‘No, indeed, I can’t conceive that any harm could come to her. Like the best of ambassadors, I suspect that her presence will be enough.’
That evening Louise felt very close to Colette. They had heard that Gaston would arrive tomorrow. Their paths would diverge then, and her picture would pass on, perhaps forever. She had one more task before she went, but that must wait for Gaston.
Gaston’s small troop, wearing cloaks to disguise their uniforms, arrived by the same route that he and Louise had followed in the spring, slipping quietly in at the gates of the winery. They could advertise their presence when they knew what would be required of them. Gaston’s orders had read simply that a small band of insurgents had come into his home area: Further information will be supplied by the Chairman of the Revolutionary Committee.
Margot heard them first and ran to the door, followed in quick succession by Colette and Madame Morteau; even being quiet, eight men and horses make thei
r share of noise. Orders were called, hooves scraped, steel clashed on steel, and when they shed their cloaks, it was as if exotic poppies had suddenly flowered in the yard. Madame thrust the girls aside and stepped forward as Gaston, still cloaked, handed the reins of his horse to a trooper, and strode up to embrace her.
‘Mother, how are you. We have been posted here for a few days. Will it be all right if my men occupy the bunkhouse?’
‘Of course my son, but …’
‘Excuse me, Mother, I will explain later; I am required to see M. Brouchard without delay.’ Gaston stepped back, saw Colette and Margot crowded in the doorway, bowed stiffly, turned on his spurs, remounted his horse and rode out of the gates. Louise felt Colette stiffen with indignation, and was amused and sympathetic.
‘Don’t worry Colette, that’s how he behaves when he’s playing soldiers.’ Colette had a lot to learn.
Gaston rode slowly through the village, his leisure studied, smiling and nodding to people he knew. Once he had got this interview over he would think about taking some leave. He wanted to see Louise and ask her what she thought of Colette. He tethered his horse in the loading bay of the mill, and went in search of M. Brouchard, eventually finding him and Lucien working with chisels to deepen the grooves on the upturned mill wheel.
