The Rainbow Bridge (11 page)

Now he would have a month with his family before he had to return to barracks to sit his sub-lieutenant’s exam. He was looking forward to being part of the grape harvest again; last year was the first one he had missed. Gaston reined in his horse at his favourite approach to Les Clos du Bois, a spot overlooking his father’s vineyards, and scanned the green order below. As he urged his horse down the bank to the first line of vines, he rather wished that someone could see him descending, gracefully welded to his saddle. At that moment a girl in peasant dress stood up from between the rows and watched him riding down towards her.

‘Welcome home, Gaston.’ This wasn’t quite what he expected, a village girl would not normally address him as Gaston – other than behind a haystack – but he was prepared to be gracious. Then he noticed the girl’s hat, trimmed with little blue flowers, hardly peasant wear. Seeing his puzzlement, the girl laughed and pulled the hat off. He looked down in amazement. Dark hair fell to her shoulders, her skin had the healthy bloom of outside work, black eyes danced up at him. A smile spread across his face.

‘Colette?’ he exclaimed, swinging himself down from his saddle and landing at her feet. ‘How you have changed …
where is the pale little mouse that I left behind me?’

‘Probably still sitting under the mulberry tree – the one you were to wave at as you left!’

Gaston was instantly mortified. ‘Oh, that was awful of me. I did remember, you know. I actually turned back, but by then it was too late!’

‘Well it’s not too late to beg forgiveness now.’ Colette tried to look severe.

Going down on one knee on uneven ground was not a manoeuvre that Gaston had tried before. All went well until he gracefully lowered his seat on to the spur on his upturned heel. He shot to his feet with a yelp of pain, and naturally had to hold on to somebody.

‘They never taught us to do that,’ Gaston said laughing as he released Colette and dusted his knee. ‘I am truly sorry though.’

‘Ride on down. Maman has been waiting for you since dawn. I have just one more section to look at,’ Colette said, suppressing her laughter.

As Gaston rode down the hill he was in high spirits; wait until he told the boys in the barracks about his mishap! And what a difference in Colette – happy, confident, flirtatious even! This could turn out to be a very interesting home leave. He would make a formal entry for Maman’s sake, then he would cast his uniform aside, put on his civilian clothes again, and seek out Colette. He would flirt with her, and charm her and, if he was lucky, even snatch the occasional kiss. He felt like a seventeen-year-old, and resolved to behave like one. Plenty of time to be nineteen when he put on his uniform again.

And that was more or less how it turned out, even down to the stolen kisses. When the migrants arrived for the harvest Gaston found that Colette had taken his place from
him. The workers remembered her from last year and she made sure that Gaston paid for the latest kiss by ordering him about until he told her that he would do nothing more until he’d had another.

The Count came during the harvest, sensibly dressed in common clothes, a modest cockade in his buttonhole. Rumours that he was now dressing as a sans-culotte seemed to have been exaggerated.

Late that night Colette and Gaston walked up through the shattered vines and sat close together, looking down onto the valley. Colette thought she had never been so happy.

All too soon it was over; Gaston’s legs were still purple from treading the grapes when he pulled on his freshly laundered trousers and struggled into his tighter-fitting uniform. When he rode out below the mulberry tree he blew a flight of kisses to his dark eyed ‘cousin,’ and swore that he’d never touch another girl’s lips until he rode home to her again. But it was 1793 and no one in France knew what the next day might bring.

Colette had never been invited up to M. Morteau’s retreat above the fermentation rooms. No one, other than M. Brouchard the miller, went up uninvited; they would call up from below if they wanted attention. He must have seen Colette staring forlornly at the rain, which was falling like stair rods on the still purple cobbles of the yard.

‘Come, Colette. I want to show you where this year’s vintage came from.’

It was a relief to be occupied, after the emptiness that Gaston had left behind him. Colette climbed the steep loft steps and emerged into a bright attic. A long dormer window gave a sweeping view of the grey rain-soaked
slopes; they were not going to see much from here today. But M. Morteau wasn’t interested in the view; he had rolled back the oiled linen cover of a map that was spread on the table. Colette was amazed to see that every field, plot, and even row, of vines was in its correct place. She looked closely at the tiny writing and saw that the grape varieties were indicated, together with other details of the plots. She was flabbergasted. There was no mention of ‘dunderheads’, or even ‘scholarship classes’ here; this was the science behind his art, and he was explaining it to her! Colette concentrated until her mind could hold no more information. Eventually the lesson was over and M. Morteau rolled down the protective cloth.

‘Have I tired you, my dear?’

‘No … no, but I have so much to learn.’ And then a thought struck her: surely this was Gaston’s place?

‘Papa,’ she said, using the endearment for the first time, ‘why do you let Gaston go off to be a soldier, when you could have him here helping you?’ There was a pause; had she gone too far, she wondered? But he was just thinking about his reply.

‘Firstly, he wanted to go. Perhaps that is enough, but your question deserves a better answer. Come down, we will open a bottle for dinner and drink his health.’ They descended past the vats, and down again to a special cellar beneath. Here the bottled wines were stored, the glass balloons tipped on their sides in sand so that their corks were always moist. It took Papa Morteau a moment or two to find the bottle he wanted. He drew the cork carefully and poured out half a glass for each of them. They spun the wine in the glass, looked at it against the light of a candle, and sniffed the bouquet; Colette was familiar with the routine by now. Papa watched while she tasted, and smiled
when her eyebrows shot up. The first taste had been strong, even a little bitter – a shock to the palate – but now, as the wine rolled about her mouth, it lost its aggression and became warm and mellow as its strength developed. ‘Does that remind you of anyone?’

‘Gaston?’ Colette hazarded. Papa Morteau laughed. ‘When that wine was made it was undrinkable, and if it had been bottled like that it would have done the drinker an injury. But I gave it its head, let it work off its aggression, its energy, in good oak barrels. Not to everyone’s taste, I’ll admit.’

‘Oh, I like it!’ said Colette, and she blushed.

‘Well, we’ll bring it in now and have it, as all wine should be had, with some food.’ As they walked over the gleaming cobbles Papa Morteau said something that Colette was to remember later.

‘This energy, this aggression, it’s in the family, you know, this latent energy. I just wish I’d had the bottling of his cousin, the Count.’

‘He seemed very personable to me,’ Colette said.

‘Personable, yes, but reliable, no. I have made wines that bottle true, and others that are wayward: one bottle has all the qualities of a great vintage, while the next is undrinkable. Colette, my dear, do me a kindness and steer clear of cousin Auguste du Bois.’

No sooner had Gaston gone than the guillotine began its march through the provinces, and no one knew which way the gruesome cavalcade would turn. People at risk began to buy favours, knowing that it was the only way to ensure security in a time when the often secret votes of friends and neighbours could determine your fate. The Count du
Bois found that portions of his vineyard made most acceptable gifts to the shopkeepers and tradesmen who might hold the cards against him if a vote for his life came up. The fact that these men knew nothing about making wine didn’t matter; they could grandly refer to: ‘My vineyards in Les Clos du Bois.’

For once in his life Paul Morteau dug in his heels; he would have nothing to do with these charlatans. They could tend their own vines, and make their own wine – or vinegar – if they chose. Nevertheless, Colette would often find him, close to tears, gazing out helplessly over the neglected slopes. She would take him by the arm then and steer him back on to the Count’s diminishing acres and point out some fungus or ask about a pruning problem to distract his attention. She even suggested that he should write to Gaston about the problem, but M. Brouchard advised against it. If the censors came upon a letter complaining that the Count was giving land to deserving members of the Revolution, they might interpret this as treason.

Pierre and Marcel, having noticed that Lieutenant Morteau had not asked for Louise’s portrait since they had entered Paris, made a formal request for the picture so that they could display it in their mess in the barracks. There was to be a regimental banquet and the cadets thought it would give them a certain status among the other cadets to show off the spoils of war. At first Louise was disconcerted at being the subject of so many eyes, but she soon realised that they had no holding power; they just passed over her like ripples breaking on a shore, not unpleasing, but not demanding either. From time to time, however, she would sense that someone had come along who was engaging with her.

‘You, Cadet… you seem to be guarding this young lady. Do you know where she comes from?’ There was the clatter of someone coming to attention. It was Pierre who answered, his voice as tight and rigid as the boy himself.

‘From Holland, sir. She belongs to Lieutenant Morteau, Monsieur le Général.’

‘Not stolen, I hope. The Dutch are our allies now.’

‘Oh no, sir. He rescued her from a canal; another minute and she would have drow … I mean it would have sunk, sir.’

‘Here, Monsieur Durand!’ the General called, ‘You are the
expert. Have a look at this.’ Louise was aware of their examination; Monsieur Durand was leaning close.

‘You know, the brushwork is quite exceptional. Look at the Turkey carpet, so much said with so few strokes. If only we had a signature. I would place it in style somewhere between Rembrandt and Vermeer, both masters at the very top. I’d give a king’s ransom for it if it had a signature, or a thousand acres without.’

‘I bet young Morteau has no idea how much it is worth. He’s a good lad, and he has luck on his side … did I tell you about crossing the Rhine?’ The voices faded away, leaving Louise stunned at her worth, but delighted to hear Pieter’s work on the carpet praised.

But Louise’s worth meant little to the young cadets who paraded past her in their dress uniforms, as proud as bantam cocks. They had no shortage of damsels to satisfy their yearnings for female company and so they gave Louise only passing attention.

The banquet over, the regular routine of the regiment was re-established. The larger waves of sound and activity that swept the barracks also swept over Louise. Sudden orders would be shouted, there would be an immense hubbub, and then silence. The mess would empty and the barracks become bathed in that extra peace that only follows the exit of twenty or so boys.

Left alone, Louise began to think. She thought about Gaston and the intensity of their shared experience. She could almost feel the light movement of his hands on her hair. It was an illusion of course – a product of their imaginations working together – but what an illusion, what a gift. She remembered the Master’s voice shouting, “Don’t move”, his hands held out, beseeching her to hold her pose. That’s when it had begun, his gift of life, this
immortality. Surely it was a gift for the good, but yet … perhaps Gaston had been right and she could be hurt. When young Pierre suddenly spoke to her, she was startled out of her wits. She hadn’t noticed him standing in front of her, silently plucking up courage to speak.

Pierre had been sick. He had wandered about the barracks feeling more and more lonely, homesick and worried. He had come into the mess looking for food that he didn’t really want and was about to drift out again when his eye met Louise’s. He stopped in front of the portrait.

‘I know you can’t answer …’ he whispered, ‘but I must talk to someone.’ He hesitated, and Louise could feel his mind pulling at her. Where had he got the idea of talking to her? She liked Pierre, but she was nervous. What had happened? First Gaston, and now Pierre. Had her immersion in the canal washed away some protective patina, or was it just that these young revolutionaries had the same energy that had charged the Master when he painted her? Perhaps she should resist him – shut her mind down – as she had learned to do sometimes with Gaston, but yet the boy seemed to be in trouble.

‘Go on,’ she willed him, and the lad’s face cleared almost as if she had spoken.

‘It’s about Jeannine,’ he said. ‘I’m worried, I haven’t seen her for almost a year … she doesn’t write…’ His lip began to tremble, and he bit on it so hard that Louise thought it might bleed.

Louise found that she could guide his thoughts, after a fashion. She listened patiently to his heart-torn yearnings for the miller’s daughter on his father’s small estate in Normandy. From his description she suspected that the girl had a roving eye. She tried to direct him to happier memories, and soon she was hearing about his home, about
cattle knee deep in green grass, about orchards laden with apples, and about cider making. She heard about his friends and how he used to join the village boys who roamed the forests in groups, keeping in touch with each other by using high catcalls that carried for miles and that no one else could understand. He was about to demonstrate when there was a crash at the door and Marcel burst in.

‘Ho, Pierre. Worshipping our ladyship?’ The older boy clattered over with the clumsy swagger of a cavalryman without his horse, and stood in front of Louise, appraising her shrewdly.

‘I didn’t think you were pretty at first, Mam’selle Louise, but by God just now you look good to me.’ He looked at Pierre, who was blushing uncomfortably, laughed and punched him on his shoulder. ‘Glad you’re better… Mon Dieu, I could eat a horse.’ He sniffed at the smell of roasting meat from the kitchens. ‘Probably will too, that old saddle-sored hack from the baggage train, by the smell of him.’ Pierre’s face changed from pink to green as he allowed Marcel to lead him out.

The following day, Pierre, still on sick leave but visibly better, crept up on her again. ‘Mademoiselle Louise?’ he whispered, and she smiled to herself at the vision of a small boy slipping quietly through the mottled light of a Normandy forest. What he said next however brought her back to the present with a jolt. ‘Lieutenant Morteau is taking up service with the Sultan of Turkey!’

‘What! … Turkey?’ she said aloud, though neither of them noticed.

‘The day before I went sick he offered to come with me while I tried out a new horse that one of the senior cadets from the Hussars of Conflans wants to sell to repay a gambling debt. Lieutenant Morteau said we should give it a
good gallop in the Bois du Boulogne to make sure it was sound. Unfortunately she went lame when we were far from home so, rather than returning late through the woods, we stayed the night in an inn on the other side of the forest. We had to share a room because the inn was full. We met an artillery officer in the taproom there who had seen action at Toulon. I was tired, and disappointed about the horse, who, it turned out, had a cracked hoof, which the Cadet who was selling her must have known. I left them talking and went to bed. I didn’t hear Gaston … I mean, the Lieutenant … come to bed but I woke to hear him talking in his sleep. He was saying something about the noyades and seemed to be very ups–’

‘What are these noyades, Pierre?’ Louise interrupted; she had heard the word before.

‘I don’t know, a drowning accident perhaps. It was something that happened in Nantes. Raoul shut Marcel up when he asked him about them.’ Louise nodded to herself; she remembered now.

‘Go on.’

‘Well, suddenly he shouted, “Vive le Roi!” at the top of his voice. I was terrified. The inn was crowded, and I was sure someone would hear; it’s certain death to shout for the King! I shook him. He didn’t wake, but he stopped talking. In the morning I told him what had happened. He said something very strange: “It’s not a king I plan to join, Pierre, but a sultan: the Sultan of Turkey.” Oh, Mademoiselle Louise, what will I do if he goes off to… to Turkey?’

‘Would it worry you, Pierre?’

‘Oh yes. I don’t know what I’d do. When Lieutenant Morteau came and billeted on our estate last spring with his hussars, I wanted nothing but to become a hussar in his troop, and to wear his uniform and ride his beautiful horses.
I thought him the most wonderful man in the whole world – I still do. When they had been with us for a week, my father told me that he was making arrangements for me to go as a cadet with Lieutenant Morteau. I was so proud. I was convinced that just putting on the uniform would make a man of me.’ Pierre looked at the floor and shuffled his feet.

‘All during our mission in Holland I was happy. But here in Paris I am under other commanders and I know now that I am no fighter, not like Marcel. I still love the men, and the horses, but there is something wrong with me; I feel sick even when I have to practice sticking my sabre into a sack of sawdust. On our way through Belgium, Lieutenant Morteau ordered me to pull a peasant out of a ditch. I’ve been teased about it, but I enjoyed it. I helped other people on the road too after that.’ He smiled ruefully; ‘You see, I’m really just a farmer at heart.’

‘Can’t you go home?’ asked Louise.

‘No. My father is under arrest. Our house is sealed and my mother and sisters are in lodgings. If I go to them I will just make things worse.’

‘Then you must follow Gaston.’

‘I don’t think the Sultan of Turkey is looking for farmers.’ Louise was at a loss for an answer to that.

‘So, what happens next?’

‘You remember the artillery officer we met in the inn that night? Well, he’s given the lieutenant an introduction to an out-of-work general who’s planning to take up arms with the Sultan of Turkey. He has an appointment to see him tonight. He wants me to go with him, and he has sworn me to secrecy.’

‘What on earth is a French general doing going to Turkey?’

‘I think he backed the wrong man in the Revolution. The Sultan is always looking for mercenaries, and he pays well. Now, I must go to the lieutenant’s room. We will change there and then ride to that same inn beyond the Bois du Boulogne. I shouldn’t have told you …’ The boy’s lip began to tremble. ‘But I had to talk to someone.’

Louise had a panicky feeling that Gaston was slipping away from her. Gaston, a mercenary! She must do everything in her power to stop him.

‘Pierre, listen; take me to Gaston now. Tell him you are afraid the picture will be damaged in one of these fights you boys are so fond of having. Can you do that for me?’

‘Of course, but I must be quick, or the other boys will be back.’

‘What have I forgotten, Pierre, this damned outfit seems all wrong?’ Gaston, in civilian clothes, was tweaking at the cravat at his throat. He sniffed his sleeve, ‘Go down to our landlady, Pierre, and get a clothes-brush for me. I think I have mildew.’

When Pierre had arrived, carrying Louise’s picture, Gaston had seemed uninterested, waving it into a corner of the room. Louise sensed straight away that he was up to something and he was trying to keep her out of it. The door closed and Pierre’s footsteps receded down the stairs.

‘What you have forgotten is me,’ said Louise, and had the satisfaction of seeing Gaston jump.

‘You shouldn’t do that sort of thing to me! What’s this Pierre tells me about you stirring up trouble in the barracks?’

‘Just boys fighting; it’s something they do until they grow up and learn sense.’ Gaston didn’t notice the jibe, so she
persisted. ‘Where are you going?’

Gaston shrugged, ‘To meet an out-of-work general I heard about …’

‘At an inn in the Bois de Boulogne?’ Gaston’s head jerked up in alarm.

‘How do you know that?’

‘Pierre told me.’

‘Sacrédieu! You must not start appearing to Pierre. I forbid it!’

‘I’m not appearing to him, but I can’t stop him if he talks to me, and I’m not one of your soldiers that you can order around!’ With an effort, Louise calmed herself; she mustn’t betray Pierre, but she mustn’t let Gaston lock her out of his mind.

‘What did he say? Oh my God, this will be all over Paris. Have you heard of the guillotine? Heads have rolled for less!’

‘Like shouting for the king in your sleep? You needn’t worry – Pierre only talks to pictures. He said that you are going to take up service with the Sultan of Turkey?’

‘Can’t you understand … this is confidential. Damn it, Louise, it is none of your business.’

‘Don’t swear at me, Gaston Morteau. You know perfectly well that if you are hiding it from me, you are hiding it from yourself.’

‘Well, I am going anyway,’ Gaston said defiantly, ‘And you can’t come; you’re wearing that silly uniform, and we’re in civilian dress.’

‘If we had time you could think up a nice fashionable riding habit for me,’ Louise said, trying to diffuse some of the tension. ‘But what does it matter how I am dressed? It’s only you who can see me.’

‘I’ll imagine you on a mule,’ he said vindictively.

There were steps on the stairs.

‘Shhh, Pierre’s coming.’ Gaston was still facing Louise when the door opened.

Pierre came in carrying a brush that looked to Louise like a yard broom. ‘You look all right from behind, sir,’ he said, and applied the brush vigorously to Gaston’s back. Gaston made one last warning grimace towards Louise, and then held his breath against the swirl of dust. Louise had won that battle; she was tempted to do a cheeky pirouette, but she wasn’t completely sure that Pierre would not see her.