Voices in a Haunted Room

Jonathan grinned at me. I always felt that he was amused by me. He provoked me, but in a special sort of way-not in the least like Chariot, who was contemptuous.

“You’re an ignoramus,” said Chariot.

“You’re a swaggering braggart.”

“That’s right, Claudine,” said Jonathan. “Stand up for yourself. But there’s no need to tell you to do that. She’s a bit of a firebrand, our little Claudine, eh?”

“A firebrand?” I asked. “What is this firebrand?”

“I’d forgotten Mademoiselle’s imperfect knowledge of the language. It is one who is always ready for trouble, Claudine ... and very energetic in pursuing it.”

“And you think that describes me?”

“I know it. And I’ll tell you something else, mademoiselle. I like ii. I like it very much indeed.”

“I wonder how long they’ll stay in France,” went on Chariot, ignoring Jonathan’s banter.

“Until our grandfather is better, of course,” I said. “And I expect we shall be going back soon.”

“That was the idea,” said Chariot. “Oh I do wonder what is happening there. It was so exciting ... in a way ... but awful that people are hurt. One wants to be there when something important is happening in one’s country.” Chariot spoke earnestly and it occurred to me then that he did not feel as I did about Eversleigh. This was an alien place to Mm. He was homesick for the château, for a way of life which was different from that of Eversleigh. He was French. Our father had been French and he took after him. As for myself, I was like my mother, and although she had had a French father, her mother had been English, and it had not been until she was well past her youth that she had married my grandfather and became the Comtesse d’Aubigne, presiding over a château, living the life of a lady of the French nobility.

Ours was a complicated household, and I suppose that accounted for many things.

I shall never forget the day they came home-my mother and Dickon. News was filtering into England from France, and we were realizing that the long-awaited revolution had broken out at last. The Bastille had been stormed and the whole of France was in turmoil. Sabrina was beside herself with anxiety to contemplate that her beloved Dickon was caught up in the holocaust.

I never doubted for one moment that he would not emerge triumphant. And he did, bringing my mother with him.

When they reached the house one of the grooms saw them and shouted: “He’s here. Master’s here.” Sabrina, who had been watching and waiting during those days of anxiety, ran out and I saw her in the courtyard, laughing and crying at the same time.

I went out too and was caught in my mother’s arms. Then Chariot and all the others came. I thought Chariot was just a little disappointed. He had been planning to go and get them out of France. Now he no longer had an excuse to return there.

And what a tale they had had to tell-how they had escaped death by inches, how my mother had actually been taken to the mairie and the mob were round the place screaming for her blood. She was after all the acknowledged daughter of one of the leading French aristocrats.

My mother was in a strange mood of shock and exultation which I supposed was to be expected from one who had narrowly escaped death. Dickon seemed more powerful than ever; and for some time I think we all shared Sabrina’s view of him. He was magnificent; he was unique; he was a man who could ride into the midst of the mob and come through unscathed and triumphant.

There was a shock for poor Louis Charles, as his mother had been yet another victim of the revolution. She had never been much of a mother to him and I think he cared more for my mother than he ever had for his own, but it was a blow nevertheless.

My mother had such tales to tell-tales which would have seemed incredible had not wild and fearful happenings taken place across the water. We heard about Armand, the Comte’s son, who had been imprisoned in the Bastille, and whom we all thought had been murdered when he disappeared. But he had come back to Aubigne when the Bastille had been stormed; and he was still at the chateau with his poor sister Sophie, who had been so badly disfigured during the disaster at the fireworks display which had shocked the whole of France at the time of the King’s wedding.

When my mother had arrived hi France she had found my grandfather dead, and she had come to think of that as a blessing, for he could never have borne to see the mob ravaging his beloved chateau and destroying that way of life which he and his family had known for centuries. No wonder my mother was torn between a bewildered grief and that exultant exhilaration which Dickon always inspired in her. She had always had such spirit; she was so beautiful-one of the most beautiful people I have ever known. I was not surprised that Dickon wanted her. He always wanted the best of everything.