"it is. But she will live here, and our two miniatures will be hung side by side on this wall."
I nodded.
"I hope," he went on, "that I shall have the pleasure of showing you other treasures of mine. I have some fine pictures as well as furniture. You are an artist, Mademoiselle Collison. Oh, fortunate Mademoiselle Collison … a real artist. . . Not an artist manqué such as I am."
"I am sure you are the last person to feel sorry for yourself. Therefore, you cannot expect other people to be."
"Why so?"
"Well, you happen to think you are the most important person not only in Normandy but throughout the entire country, I imagine."
"Is that how you see me?"
"Oh no," I said. "It is how you see yourself. Thank you for showing me the miniatures. They are most interesting… Now I think I should return to my room. It is time to dress for dinner."
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The days which followed were the most exciting of my life-up to that time. I had made two discoveries which could not be denied, one sad, the other exhilarating beyond my expectations. My father would not be able to paint miniatures again.
Again. I could see clearly that the necessary deftness of touch had deserted him. He could not see well enough, and to be the smallest fraction of an inch out of place in such a Small area could change a feature entirely. He might go
larger canvases for a while, but in time even that would be over for him. The other discovery was that I was a painter, worthy of the name of Collison. I could put those initials on my miniatures and none would be able to question the fact that they had not been done by a great artist.
I could not wait to get to work every morning. I don't know how I sat through those sessions while my father worked and the Baron sat there smiling a rather enigmatic smile, making lively conversation with me or sometimes lapsing into what seemed like a brooding silence.
I would dash to the drawer in which I kept my work and take out that picture. It was growing under my hands; it laughed at me; It mocked me; it was cruel; it suggested power and an immense ruthlessness. To have brought all this into such a small space was an achievement, I knew. It laughed at me.
My father gasped when he saw it and said he had never seen anything of mine — or his, for that matter — to equal it.
I began to think that this way of working was perhaps more rewarding than conventional sittings. I felt I knew the man. I could almost follow his thoughts. My excitement was intense that I would find myself gazing at him during meals or whenever I was in his company. Several times he caught me at it; then he gave me one of those enigmatic smiles.
What strange days they were! I felt as though I had stepped outside the life I had known into a different world. The Farringdons, the Meadows, the Cambornes seemed miles away on another planet, almost.
This could not last, of course. I think perhaps it owed its fascination to the fact that it was inevitably transient. I should go away from here. Forget the Baron who had obsessed me all these days, but the time I had spent here would in a way be caught up and imprisoned in the miniature.
Then there was Bertrand de Mortemer. Our friendship was progressing at an unusual speed. It was a great joy to be with him. We rode together often. He described the family estate, which was situated south of Paris. 'Not a big one,' he said.
'Nothing like Centeville . . . But it is pleasant. . . With the Loire close by and all those beautiful castles to make one feel proud every time one catches a glimpse of them.' I should love to see them.
They are far more beautiful than this stark old Norman fortress. They are built for living in, for celebrations, banquets, river pageants, fêtes champêtres. . . Yes, for enjoying life, not fighting for it like this grey stone castle. I feel so different when I'm at Centeville."
"Are you here often?"
"Whenever I am sent for,"
"You mean by the Baron?"
"Who else? His father set himself up as head of the family, and Rollo has inherited the crown."
"Still, I suppose you could escape from the yoke."
"Rollo would frown on that."
"Who cares for Rollo outside the precincts of the Castle of Centeville?"
"He has a way of showing his displeasure which can be uncomfortable."
"Does that matter very much?"
"It's usually a practical displeasure."
I shivered.
"Let's talk about more pleasant things. How is the miniature going?"
'Very well, I think.'
'Is your father pleased with it?'
'Very.'
'I dare say we shall be seeing it soon. What does Rollo think?'
'He hasn't seen it yet.'
'I should have thought he would have demanded to."
"He doesn't exert the same power over visiting artists as he does in his family circle, He laughed and then was serious. 'Kate,' he said — for some time he had called me by my Christian name. 'When it is over, you will go away from here.'
'If our work is approved, we shall go to Paris to paint the Princesse.'
'But you will go from here.'
'And you?'
'I shall hear what I am expected to do. There is always something. When Rollo asks me here, it's for a reason he hasn't explained that to me."
"Can't you ask him?"
"He hasn't precisely said there's something. I am merely surmising there is because when I'm invited here, it's usually to be asked, to do something."
"The more I hear of the mighty Rollo, the more I dislike him." My lips curled, I was thinking of that gleam of acquisitiveness I was going to get into his eyes — cold grey with a hint of blue reflection from the coat he was wearing.
"He doesn't care about being liked. He wants to be feared."
"Thank heaven, I'm beyond his sphere of influence. If he doesn't like my father's work, we'll shrug our shoulders and depart, taking the miniature with us… without the magnificent diamond and sapphire frame, of course. And Perhaps it'll be for sale in some London jeweller's. It would be fun to call it 'Portrait of an Unknown Man.'"
"Yes, I can see that you're not in the least overawed by him. He sees it too. Everyone else is… Except Nicole. Maybe that is why he is fond of her.
"How can he be fond of her when he is going to marry someone else? I wonder why Nicole stays here. Why doesn't she tell him to get on with his marriage and simply go away?"
"it is how things are in some circles. No one thinks any the worse of Nicole for being Rollo's mistress."
"I suppose if she were the coachman's mistress, it would be a different matter."
"But of course."
I burst out laughing. We both did. The incongruity of the situation struck us simultaneously.
We walked arm in arm through the gardens.
"Things are running differently in France from in England," Bertrand explained, "We are more formal, but realistic."
"More formal, certainly. I suppose Nicole's staying here in these circumstances is realistic because it is actually happening. But I do think it is, what shall I say, cynical."
"Cynical perhaps," he agreed?
"The Baron," I continued, "is certainly cynical: 'he thinks this is a perfectly normal situation for a Baron." "I want this woman," he says. "I no longer want this woman. It is time to marry. Here is a suitable match. Goodbye, Nicole. Welcome, Princesse, to Centeville.' I suppose her title makes her so welcome.
Bertrand agreed, "Undoubtedly."
"And you calmly accept that?" I asked.
"I accept because I can do nothing else moreover, it's not my affair."
"You're not like that, Bertrand, are you?" I questioned. He looked at me steadily, "No," he said. "I am romantic. I think you and I are alike in some ways, Kate." He kissed me, and I felt very happy.
People came to stay at the castle, sophisticated people from Paris. In the evening we dined in a great hall. There were no longer the intimate dinners. There is music, dancing, and gambling. Bertrand always sought me out at these gathering, and we would talk a great deal together. Our friendship deepened. I would look for him as soon as I joined the assembly. He was so kind and always helpful.
My father retired early; his eyesight worsened since arriving in France.
The Baron took little notice of me when he was entertaining his guest, but I continued to observe him. My mind seemed divided between him and Bertrand. The contract between them grew more and more marked. I thought of them as Beauty and the Beast.
Nicole acted as hostess, which surprised me yet once more. Everyone accepted her as the mistress of the place.
"It's rather like the King's mistress," Bertrand explained to me. "She was the most important person in France."
People often talked to me about my father. These friends of the Baron were, like himself, very cultivated and greatly interested in art and, as my father's daughter, I was accorded some respect.
Bertrand said: "We live differently at home. Much more simply. I want you to meet my mother and sister. I am sure you will like each other."
I thought that was almost a proposal.
On another occasion, he said: 'In our little chấteau there is a room which would be good to paint in. It's very light, and another window could be put in.'
I was growing more and more fond of him and was happy and relaxed in his company. I was in a way in love with him, but I was not completely sure of the intensity of my feelings because it was difficult to direct them away from the Baron
and the miniature. When that was finished, I promised myself, I would be able to sort out my true feelings.
At the moment and this was natural enough I was obsessed by my work, even to the exclusion of Bertrand.
The time was approaching now. The miniature was nearly finished, I gloated over it. I was almost sorry that it was nearing completion. I felt it would leave a great gap in my life.
One afternoon when the castle was quiet, my father was resting and everyone else seemed to be out. I went to the room to look once more at the miniature and perhaps put one or two finishing touches if I considered they were needed.
I opened the door. Someone was in my drawer. It was the Baron, and he was holding the miniature in his hands.