The Rainbow Bridge

by Aubrey Flegg

  The two conspirators watched the introductory shaking of hands. They noticed M. Morteau stiffen as the man identified himself. Would he walk away? The miller was crushing poor Colette’s arm in his anxiety. Now the two were talking tentatively … now in earnest. M. Morteau was shrugging doubtfully but they were still talking, walking up and down.

  ‘Go on, Papa …’ Colette urged, ‘Look, he’s interested.’ The two men were pointing towards the now neglected plot. There it was! A nod from M. Morteau, his gestures were getting wider, more expansive. Now he had seized the visitor’s elbow.

  ‘They’re off!’ shouted M. Brouchard. Sure enough, there they went, Papa’s arms moving like the sails of a windmill. Jean Brouchard seized Colette about the waist, waltzed her down the length of the office and the building shook.

  Louise had been seeing the whole incident through Colette’s eyes, when suddenly the room seemed to be turning round and round. It took her a moment to realise that they were dancing. Now she laughed with them in their triumph. What Colette was trying to do was clever and foresighted. Surely the other owners would also realise the advantages of having their wine made for them. When Gaston came home he would find that not only was the Count’s personal vineyard his, but that his father had the management of the whole vineyard again.

  That vision faded and Louise relaxed. It would be nice if she could pass the good news on to Gaston, but she knew that the very best she could do was to turn her mind towards him and hope that he would feel her happiness. It was, therefore, possibly no coincidence that she soon found herself seeing steep crags sloping down towards a sea as brilliantly blue as the lapis lazuli that Pieter had been grinding on the day she had first gone to the Master’s studio. Gaston must be on the march again. As far ahead as she could see, an army of men was winding along a steep coast road, men clad in dusty blue and carrying muskets, their rations of bread pierced on their bayonets. Gaston must be following an upper path, ‘guarding the flank,’ as she had heard him say. The soldier in front turned, and she recognised Pierre, smiling and pointing. He looked sunburned and well.

  ‘Yes, Italy!’ she heard Gaston’s voice. So, that blue sea must be the Mediterranean. Italy, she sighed enviously; a country set in lapis lazuli!

  Jacquot’s gentle ministrations eased not only the hurt in her foot, but the hurt to her heart as well. She liked the scents of the hut, and the feeling of the forest outside. The weather warmed, the door stood open most of the time, and she could listen to the rasp of his saw and the clunk clunk of his axe as he worked.

  But gradually Louise recognised that there was something wrong. She could feel spring all around them but somehow it wasn’t touching them. New shoots were sprouting everywhere, but the boy and she were not mending. Although the picture was almost whole again, Louise was not. It was as though the evil that had touched Jacquot had penetrated her soul as well. They were like a pair of sick vines, gradually dying back.

  Her almost daily glimpses of life in the winery and of Gaston and Pierre in Italy only helped to feed her depression. She was more and more oppressed by her future. Was she always to be a captive of her sixteen years, never able to fulfil any relationship as time drew out the differences between herself and the people she learned to love? Would she always have to step aside for someone else? The rainbow that had bridged the gulf between herself and Pieter came back to torment her. Should she have abandoned reality and crossed the rainbow bridge to Pieter? But how could she leave Jacquot, who still needed her, and Gaston, Colette and the others who had recreated her in their minds? As she and Jacquot slipped deeper into a morass of depression the temptation to turn back in time grew stronger and stronger.

  Jacquot’s reaction to his malaise was to become a recluse. The more spring spoke to him, the stronger became his desire to be alone. His feelings of being unclean were getting worse, not better. When he was working outside in the forest, the air, the wind, the rain and the rough wood scoured his mind and kept him clean. But when he came close to people he became conscious of his contamination. In the kitchen he would sit as far away from everyone as he could, convinced that they would notice the smell of corruption from him. The customary morning handshake had become a torture; his own fairy tale came back to haunt him, and he half expected to see green slime on any hand he had just shaken.

  It was young Marie who precipitated matters. Jacquot had come running into the hut, with Marie hot on his heels. There had been some exchange between them, and Louise was delighted to see them happy together. Jacquot had retreated to the end of the room. Marie advanced, arms akimbo, challenging him. Jacquot was trapped.

  ‘Did I hear you shout: ‘Où est la Marie?’ La Marie? As if I were a kitchen maid?’ She was advancing step by step. Jacquot, half laughing, half nervous, was looking for a way past her. ‘Log boy… I’m coming to get you!’

  Without warning, it happened. Jacquot crumpled down against the wall, cowering. ‘Get away,’ he hissed. But Marie was enjoying her game.

  ‘I’m coming for you …’

  ‘Get away.’ It was almost a scream.

  Suddenly Jacquot was on his feet, his face inflamed and his arms outstretched. Marie, frightened, screamed and ran from the hut. Jacquot made to follow and then stumbled and stopped, leaning aghast against the door.

  ‘Come back, Marie’ he called … ‘Please, I didn’t mean it.’

  Night came and he sat hunched on the edge of his bed, so far turned in on himself that Louise was afraid that she too might be drawn into his abyss. His voice seemed to have an echo when he spoke.

  ‘I nearly grabbed her,’ he said. ‘I love her, but I wanted suddenly to crush her.’ Then he whispered something that sent a shiver deep into Louise’s core. ‘Dear God,’ he said, ‘am I doomed to become like him?’

  He dropped his head on to his knees and began to cry, a dry, heaving, tearless grief that Louise thought would break him apart. She talked to him then, as he had talked to her, about anything that came to mind, just so that he would know he wasn’t alone. When she ran out of things to say she even found herself singing him a silly little Dutch nursery rhyme: All the ducks are swimming on the water, fol de lol de li do … fol de lol de li do. It was then that he began crying properly.

  The following day Jacquot was very downcast. When he came in, Louise didn’t like to ask if he had made it up with Marie. As he moved about she heard him singing to himself as he used to do. This time however she recognised the song: fol de lol de li do …

  Then he asked: ‘Mademoiselle, how is it that you know how I feel?’

  ‘I don’t, Jacquot. We each have our own feelings, but I saw the Count’s lust too, you know, and although he did not hurt me, he desecrated my picture instead. You have been healing me by mending my picture, but it will never be the same.’

  ‘Will I always be unclean then, contaminating anyone I touch?’

  ‘I don’t think we can undo something that is done, Jacquot, but we can change our understanding of it. When I am unhappy I have a dream in which I see a rainbow, and I long to cross the rainbow and go back to what might have been, to go back to Pieter, the boy I loved. But yet I hear my father’s voice, saying: “Think about it, Louise. Is that really what your rainbow means? Think of the science of it”.’

  Jacquot looked into the distance for a moment. ‘I have a dream too,’ he said. ‘Ever since he first came to me. In my dream I am in a forest glade … there is a cliff, a flat shelf of rock, from which a waterfall plunges into a pool of the purest water. I just know that if I can stand under that waterfall it will wash me clean. But he … he is always there, laughing, dodging about and blocking my way.’

  ‘But he’s gone now, Jacquot. There’s no one to hold you back. You must dream that dream again.’

  ‘But what about you?’

  ‘You can take me too.’

  ‘How can I take a picture under the waterfall?’

  ‘I can be as real as you make me, Jacquot. Please take me there.’
/>   They walked together in Jacquot’s dream.

  ‘We’ll soon be there,’ he said, taking courage from her company. Louise enjoyed being with him. She remembered how she had looked out over the fields from the walls of Delft with Pieter and had seen the familiar countryside with his artist’s eye. Now she was experiencing this French forest as Jacquot did. His was a world of smells and small sounds; the swish of their feet through the leaves changed as they passed under oak, or beech, or Spanish chestnut. When something struck the ground near them he made her stand still till the thrower, a red squirrel, peeked out to see if his nut had found its mark. He got her to listen, her ear to the trunk of an ancient tree, to the click of beetles feasting under the bark. He got her to fill her head with the heady smell of resin where a lone pine grew on a stony bluff. After a while the trees began to thin and a stream joined them, hurrying past, chattering to itself about some recent adventure. Louise could feel Jacquot’s apprehension mounting.

  ‘It’s here that he stops me, where I can see the waterfall.’ Jacquot whispered. ‘I’m afraid …’

  ‘Don’t be, Jacquot. I told you, he’s gone.’

  ‘Look,’ he said, pointing through the trees. There it was, a rocky escarpment notched at the skyline where a single sheet of water sprang from its lip before arching down to plunge into a pool below. They stepped forward and the trees seemed to draw back as if making way for them.

  The boy still hesitated. ‘Go on, don’t be shy,’ Louise encouraged. He stepped forward, warily, like a child, checking for lurking monsters, wondering if this enchantment was really for him.

  ‘Will you come too?’

  ‘No,’ Louise said. ‘This is your dream, your place.’ She looked the other way as he stripped, but turned to watch as he stepped into the water, lifting his feet delicately like a fawn. When he reached the cascade he stepped forward, holding his hands above his head to break the flow. The water burst over him, spreading a fine spray into the low sunlight, and a rainbow appeared, arching over and around him. It was as if he was holding it above his head in his hands. Then he spread his arms so that the water thundered on to his head and shoulders. She had seen a drawing of a figure like this somewhere – in the Master’s studio maybe – a symbol of mankind, enclosed in a circle. But here the circle was a rainbow, and Jacquot walked through it into the space behind the curtain of water where she could see him scrubbing himself from head to toe.

  Louise went to the edge of the pool and dipped her hands into the clear water. She washed her face and drank a little from her cupped hands, and felt refreshed. She was tempted to follow Jacquot under the waterfall, but this was his future, not hers, and it was time for her to go. But he had given her the sign she had been looking for. There was no magical way back to Pieter; the gulf of time separated them. The rainbow was an invitation to go forward, to whatever the future had in store.

  Louise left Jacquot to his dream. She never knew where it took him, but if she had heard that, on his waking, the goldfinch in Marie’s room had put back its head and sung for joy, she might have guessed.

  CHAPTER 18

  The Army of Italy

  In March 1796, when the Hussars of Auxerre, including Gaston’s troop, had ridden down into the city of Nice to join Bonaparte’s starved and ragged ‘army of Italy’, they looked like strutting pheasants in a yard full of moulting hens. That evening Bonaparte addressed the rabble army: Soldiers, you are naked, badly fed … Rich provinces and great towns will be in your power, and in them you will find honour, glory, wealth. Soldiers of Italy, will you be wanting in courage and steadfastness?’ Whatever about ‘honour and glory’, the word ‘wealth’ spoke to the dispirited men. Overnight the mood and appearance of the army changed. Rags were washed clean and muskets oiled. When the General inspected the newly arrived hussars and told them that it was their courage he wanted, not their whiskers, they caught the mood of the moment and cheered. Gaston sat motionless in his saddle during the inspection, staring straight ahead, as if carved out of wood. Bonaparte would never recognise him out of a whole brigade. However, when he came to Gaston he looked up. His Corsican accent was as rough as ever.

  ‘Lieutenant Morteau, you will report to my headquarters this evening at five o’clock.’

  Gaston was too astonished to do more than say, ‘Monsieur le Général,’ as he continued to stare straight ahead.

  That evening he received orders to join the General Bonaparte’s entourage. As he was too junior to be a staff officer, he was appointed as a special courier. Having explained his orders, the General was about to turn away when Gaston dared to say:

  ‘Mon Général, I have a request.’ A flicker of disapproval crossed Bonaparte’s face, but Gaston went on. ‘I have a cadet, a superb horseman, I would like him to ride with me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If one of us is wounded, the other will see that your orders get through.’

  In the months that followed, the General’s two couriers became known up and down the still hungry and ragged column that tramped down the coast back into Italy, to where Austria and her allies waited to confront them.

  Now that spring had come, not only to the forest but also to the two occupants of the hut, Louise was able to enjoy the not infrequent glimpses of life with the army in Italy. Gaston was almost as bad at remembering her as he was about writing letters to Colette. When he did, it was at times of scenic beauty or relaxation. She would suddenly see Pierre across the flicker of a campfire, or hear him called to sing one of the songs of Normandy as the wine was passed around. Pierre was more constant. He had not been part of the pact to think of Louise, but he thought of her because thinking of her made him happy – sometimes in moments of elation, but also in times of stress, when even the hardened soldier’s hand will steal to some hidden talisman or charm.

  Though Louise had no way of reckoning time other than by following the season’s changes, it was in fact 10th May 1796 when her reverie was broken by the sound of guns. Smoke swirled across her vision and she realised that she was in Italy again. Ahead of her a horse and rider climbed up the side of a small knoll. Guns poked over a parapet of fresh earth. She could see a river glinting below. As the rider dismounted and handed his reins to a soldier he half turned; it was Gaston. So, Pierre was her eyes this time. She watched Gaston approach one of the guns where a smallish man was crouched over its sleek barrel. Soldiers with spikes and mallets were turning and elevating the gun following his directions. Now the man stood to one side, mouthed an order, and a soldier who had been standing by with a smouldering match stepped forward. He touched the burning tip to the powder in the touch-hole. A small flame spurted out and with an angry roar the gun leapt back – flame, then smoke, spouting from its muzzle. Pierre’s horse must have shied, as Louise could see its head rise as the smoke swept past them. The man who had been sighting the gun was peering to see where his shot had landed. Suddenly everyone was cheering and the man smiled, slapped one hand on the other with satisfaction, and turned to Gaston; it was General Bonaparte himself! Gaston bent to shout in his ear and pointed up the river. The news must be good; the General nodded. Gaston stepped back and saluted. Then he looked up at Pierre and smiled. Louise’s heart gave a great lurch, it was as if he was smiling at her.

  All of the new landowners had taken up the winery’s offer to work their vineyards for them. When Colette came out and stood watching M. Morteau give the orders of the day, Louise could see that the yard was full of men. ‘Like the old days,’ M. Morteau said, adding, ‘If only we had Gaston back.’

  The war in Italy seemed to be going on forever. When the grape harvest came, Louise could feel that Colette was missing Gaston just as she was. When she could summon the energy, she would try hard to convey to Colette that Gaston was all right. He was better about writing now, but letters still took many weeks to reach home.

  Though she tried to be optimistic, Louise was far from happy. Pierre, clinging to his image of her for comfort and reassurance, wa
s showing her far more of the horrors of war than she wanted to see, although it would never have occurred to him that he was doing this. Battles became names: Mantua, Lonato, Castiglione, Bassano, Arcola … It was at Lodi that the men started calling Bonaparte ‘our little corporal,’ because he had done a corporal’s job by sighting the guns himself before the attack.

  Then one day her whole vision was taken up with bodies, mostly clad in the blue of France, many of them intertwined with the grey uniforms of Austria. Pierre was searching among the fallen, looking for the bright colours of a hussar. Louise could hear the whimper in his breath and her own throat constricted in pain. Gaston must be missing! For half an hour they searched. Then the flap parted on a crudely erected tent and a man emerged. It was Gaston, his head newly bandaged. He turned at Pierre’s shout and the image faded as Pierre forgot all about Louise in a joyful rush to his lieutenant.

  Christmas passed but there was little festive fare for the French soldiers and even less for the starving Austrians besieged in the town of Mantua. Battle raged about Rivoli as the Austrian army from the north strove to relieve the siege and drive the French out of Italy.