I laughed. "There is no need to be so vehement. I believe you."

"Come with me. We will escape the turmoil. I want to talk with you."

And so I found myself in the scented courtyard on that starlit night . . . alone with him . . . and yet not alone ... for we were within sound of the revelry and every now and then the night would be punctuated with a sudden shout; and there was the constant music in the background.

A servant appeared with wine and the vendange cake delicately served for us with little forks and napkins embroidered with the Carsonne crest.

"This," he said, "is vintage chateau wine which I have served only at special occasions."

"Such as the vendange."

"That takes place every year. What is special about that? I meant the day when Madame Sallonger is my guest."

"You are a very gracious host."

"I can be charming when I am doing what I like to do."

"I suppose we all can."

"It is those other occasions which indicate the character and betray our faults. I want to hear about you. Are you happy?"

"As happy as most people, I daresay."

"That is evasive. People's contentment with life varies."

"Happiness is rarely a permanent state. One would be very fortunate to achieve that. It comes in moments. One finds oneself saying, with a certain surprise, I am happy now."

"Are you saying that at this moment?"

I hesitated. "I am very interested in all this. The vendange, the chateau . . . It is all so new to me."

"Then can I conclude that if it is not quite happiness, it is a pleasant experience?''

"It is certainly that."

He leaned forward. "Let us make a vow tonight."

"A vow?"

"That we will be absolutely frank with each other. Tell me, do you feel drawn to this place?''

"I wanted to see it properly from the moment I had my first glimpse of it. You see, I was born close to here. There has always been a mystery about Villers-Mure. I am excited to be near it.''

"I was born here in this chateau. So our birthplaces are very near. Tell me, how do you feel about your grandfather?"

"Rather sad."

"Don't let yourself be sad on his account. I find a certain pleasure in contemplating him. I feel very strongly about him. He is the sort of person I dislike most. It is more amusing and interesting to have deep feelings about people and I am one to have such feelings. I hate or I love . . . and I do both most intensely."

"It must make life rather exhausting."

He looked at me steadily. "Your upbringing would have been very different from mine. The English are less formal than we are, I believe. Yet they cloak their feelings in assumed indifference. I call it a kind of hypocrisy."

"Perhaps it makes life easier not to have to cope with the intense hatred and love you mention."

He was thoughtful. "Perhaps," he said. "I was interested to see your Katie and my Raoul together. She is quite uninhibited."

"That is a natural characteristic."

"As Raoul's solemnity is with him."

"Katie has always had absolute security. She knows she can tell me anything. I am always there to help her. I think it makes her spontaneous. It gives her confidence."

"You mean Raoul has missed that?"

"You can tell that better than I."

"I have not been such an exemplary parent as you have."

"I have done what is natural."

"I believe that child means everything to you."

"That is true."

"She is a lucky girl."

''I should like to believe that."

"You were brought up by Madame Cleremont."

"Yes. I also was lucky."

"A good woman."

"You speak as though you know her."

"I know most that goes on here, and there was a scandal at the time she left. Your mother was once the beauty of the neighbourhood. I was a child but I had long ears and I used them to good avail. So I knew that Henri St. Allengere was in love with the village beauty and that wicked old Alphonse had refused to sanction the match, that there was a child on the way, and Henri could either desert the girl or get out. Henri decided to desert the girl. Poor Marie Louise. She lived with her mother who cared for her and they said broke her heart when Marie Louise died giving birth to a daughter."

''I was the cause of the trouble.''

"The innocent cause." He smiled at me. "When your grandmother wanted you recognized and made demands on the old tyrant, he did not want you here so he passed you off to those English connections-the breakaway Huguenot branch of the family. Madame Cleremont was the bait. She was a genius at the machine and a highly respected member of the St. Allengere work force. He would give her to the Sallongers if they would take the child as well and allow her to be brought up in their household. So he rid himself of an encumbrance and a perpetual reminder of his son's misdemeanour. And then you married one of the Sallongers, and that should have been the happy ending. But something went wrong.''

I felt the pain of memory-those days and nights in Florence . . . each day falling more and more in love with Philip . . . and even the horrible experience of Lorenzo's death.

"Now you are looking sad," he said. "You are remembering your marriage."

"It ended so disastrously. It was so brief." I found myself telling him about Philip's disappearance from the house and the discovery of his body in the forest.

"Why?" he asked.

"I do not know. I can never know. We were happy. We had just bought a house. It is a mystery."

I told him of that terrible time, of the verdict at the inquest.

"It is incredible," he said. "It must have been some secret which he could not bear you to know.''

''I will never believe that he killed himself. Sometimes I wonder if someone killed him.''

"Why?"

"Because if he did not kill himself that was the only solution."

I told him about Lorenzo's death.

"You see," I went on, "I sometimes think . . . although I didn't at the time, of course . . . only after that happened to Philip . . . that someone was going to kill Philip and mistook Lorenzo for him."

I could see mat he was astonished.

"It certainly throws a different light on everything," he said. "Do you think you will ever forget?"

"I think I never shall."

''Have you ever tried to probe the mystery?''

''I have pondered on it endlessly, but there seems no reason. I had to come to the conclusion that there could only be one answer, but knowing him, that seemed impossible."

''No one will ever match up to him. He will be in your memory always . . . just as he was in those weeks of your marriage. You were not long enough together to discover the flaws. They say those whom the gods love die young."

"Do you believe that?"

"It means that they have eternal youth because that is how they live on the minds of those who knew them."

"You speak enviously. Surely you are not regretting living on?"

"Not I. I would take all the risks of my sins being revealed. You have told me about your husband. I will tell you about my wife. You know that in families like mine these things arc arranged."

"I had imagined so."

"When I was eighteen a wife was found for me."

"I am surprised that you allowed yourself to accept such a situation."

"I rebelled. I was not enamoured of the young lady. But she was a daughter of one of the greatest houses in France. We still have our great houses, you know, in spite of Liberte, Egalite and Fraternite. We still keep up the old traditions. There are a few of us who escaped the holocaust of the last century. Car-sonne was lucky. Perhaps we were too tucked away. Perhaps our local peasants were too lethargic. The chateau was untouched. After all, we are almost on the Italian border. We survived and so did some others. These families stick together, as they did through the days of the Napoleons ... till the end of the monarchy and so on. So I must marry one who was chosen for me. My father explained that I should not be downhearted. I must do my duty and produce the heir to Carsonne and he must have the requisite amount of blue blood in his veins. Once that was done, I could, as my father said, take my pleasure where I would. All French noblemen must do their duty by their wives and are then free to enjoy their mistresses. It is a way of life."

"Very acceptable by your sex, I am sure."

"You are right. So I married. My poor Evette. She was only a child, barely seventeen, hardly suited to childbearing ... no more fit to be a mother than I was a father. However, we did our duty and Raoul duly appeared. Alas in doing hers, Evette lost her life. And so I became a widower."

"Did they not think you should marry again and produce more blue-blooded heirs?"

"They did. But I did not. I had done my duty. I was now my own master for my father had died. The married state was not for me. I enjoyed my freedom."

"But surely you would not have allowed marriage to have impaired your freedom?''

"I suppose not. I am one who will go his own way. But still, I am content to remain as I am enjoying being pursued by those who fancy the title of La Comtesse and have a respect for an ancient chateau. But always I elude the capture."

"I daresay the pursuit is hot and strong."

''It varies. And you, dear Madame Sallonger, you, too, prefer the solitary state?"

"I think it preferable to an unhappy married life."

"Surely there must have been much pursuit in your case?"

I was silent thinking of Drake. On this night he seemed more remote than he had for a long time.

"I see I have aroused unpleasant thoughts. Forgive me." He attempted to fill my glass.

"No thanks," I said, "I have had enough."

"My special vintage?"

"It is quite potent."

"You find it so? Perhaps it is the night air, the scent of the flowers, the company?"

"Perhaps," I said.

"I should like your grandfather to see you sitting here with me now. It gives me great pleasure to contemplate how angry he would be."

"So that pleases you?"

"Enormously. I do not need anything to make me enjoy your company more, but if I did, that would."

"Do you dislike him so very much?"

"Infinitely more," he assured me. "There is a feud between our families. A vendetta. I dislike him more than anyone I know. There are some sinners whom I find tolerable . . . myself for instance. What I cannot endure is the virtuous villain. Your grandfather is one of those. He is cruel, ruthless, selfish. His work people live in fear of him-and so does his family. He believes that he and God are the greatest friends and allies. He thinks his place in Heaven is secure. He will oust Jesus Christ from his place on the right hand of Lord God Almighty when he gets-as he is sure he will-to Heaven. In fact, I expect he believes they will send a special company of angels down to fetch him. He takes Mass once a day; his household is subject to long prayers while he reminds them of their evil ways and how he-as God's emissary-is waiting to spring on every misdemeanour and to make sure that the sins they do by two and two are paid for one by one. In his own chapel he communes with a god who is made in his own image and is therefore as unpleasant as he is. I assure you the Devil's Own are preferable to such a man."

I found myself laughing.

"He has been our enemy for years," he went on, "and my father passed his loathing on to me. Viva Vendetta."

"How you hate him. Surely he must have some redeeming features?"

''I can think of only one. He is your grandfather and therefore indirectly responsible for your existence.''

I was silent and he went on: "You are fortunate that he does not wish to see you. Have you met your aunt Ursule?"