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and chocolate and the conversation turned once more to the chateau.
    Perhaps it was the wine to which I, certainly, was unaccustomed, particularly at that hour of the day but I grew more indiscreet than I would normally have been.
    I was saying: “Genevieve is a strange girl. Not in the least like Yves and Margot. They are so spontaneous, so natural normal, happy children. Perhaps the chateau is not a good environment for a child to grow up in.” I was speaking recklessly and I didn’t care. I had to find out more about the chateau and most of all the Comte.
    “Poor child!” said Madame Bastide.
    “Yes,” I went on, ‘but I believe it is three years since her mother died, and that is time for one so young to have recovered. “
    There was silence, then Jean Pierre said: “If Mademoiselle Lawson is long at the chateau she will soon learn.” He turned to me.
    “The Comtesse died of an overdose of laudanum.” I thought of the girl in the graveyard and I blurted out: “Not… murder!”
    “They called it suicide,” said Jean Pierre.
    “Ah,” put in Madame Bastide, ‘the Comtesse was a beautiful woman. ” And with that she returned to the subject of the vineyards. We talked of the great calamity which had hit most of the vineyards in France a few years ago when the vine-louse had attacked the vines, and because Jean Pierre loved the vineyards so devotedly when he spoke of them he made everyone share his enthusiasm. I could picture the horror when
    the vine-louse was discovered to be attached to the roots of the vine; I could feel the intense tragedy to all those concerned when they had to face the problem of whether or not to flood the vineyards.
    “There was disaster throughout France at that time,” he said.
    “That was less than ten years ago. Is that not so, Father?”
    His father nodded.
    “It has been a slow climb back to prosperity, but it’s coming.
    Gaillard suffered less than most. “
    When I rose to go, Jean Pierre said he would walk back with me.
    Although there was no danger of my losing my way, I was glad of his company for I found the Bastides warm and friendly a quality I had come to treasure. It occurred to me that when I was with them I myself became a different person from the cool and authoritative woman I showed to the people of the chateau. I was like a chameleon changing my colour to fit in with the landscape. But it was done without thought, so it was absolutely natural. I had never before realized how automatically I put on my defensive armour, i>ut it was very pleasant to be in company where I did not need it.
    As we came out of the gate and took the road to the chateau I asked:
    “The Comte … is he really so terrifying?”
    “He is an autocrat… one of the old aristocrats. His word is law.”
    “He has had tragedy in his life.”
    “I believe you are sorry for him. When you meet him you’ll see that pity is the last thing he would need.”
    “You said that they called his wife’s death suicide …” I began.
    He interrupted me swiftly.
    “We do not even speak of such things.”
    “But…”
    “But,” he added, ‘we keep them in our minds. “
    The chateau loomed before us; it looked immense,
     
    impregnable. I thought of all the dark secrets it could be keeping and felt a shiver run down my spine.
    “Please don’t bother to come any farther,” I said.
    “I am sure I am keeping you from your work.”
    He stood a few paces from me and bowed. I smiled and turned towards the castle.
    I went to bed early that night to make up for the previous night’s lack of sleep. I dozed and my dreams were hazy. It was strange, because at home I rarely dreamed. This was muddled dreaming of the Bastides, of cellars containing bottles of wine, and through these dreams flitted a vague faceless shape whom I knew to be the dead Comtesse. Sometimes I felt her presence without seeing her; it was as though she were behind me whispering a warning, “Go away. Don’t you become involved