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Mademoiselle Dubois had mentioned the daughter I had not thought of a Com tesse. Naturally there must be one, since there was a child. She was probably with the Comte now and that was why I had been received by the cousin.
    “In fact,” she went on, “I am constantly telling myself that I shall go. The trouble is …”
    She did not finish, nor did she need to because I under stood very well. Where could she go? I pictured her in some dreary lodging. or perhaps she had a family. But in any case she would have to earn a living. There were many like her desperately exchanging pride and dignity for food and shelter. Oh yes, I understood absolutely. None better, for it was a fate I could envisage for myself. The gentlewoman without means. What could be more difficult to bear than genteel poverty! Brought up to consider oneself a lady, educated as well as
    perhaps better than the people one must serve. Continually aware of being kept in one’s place. Living with neither the vulgar gusto of the servants below stairs nor with the comfort of the family. To exist in a sort of limbo. Oh, it was intolerable, and yet how often inevitable. Poor Mademoiselle Dubois! She did not know what pity she aroused in me and what fears.
    “There are always disadvantages in every post,” I comforted.
    “Oh yes, indeed yes. And here there is so much …”
    “The chateau seems to be a storehouse of treasures,”
    “I believe the pictures are worth a fortune.”
    “So I have heard.” My voice was warm. I put out a hand to touch the linenfold panelling of the room through which we were passing. A beautiful place, I thought; but these ancient edifices were in constant need of attention. We had passed into a large room, the kind which in England we called a solarium, because it was so planned to catch the sun, and I paused to examine the coat of arms on the walls. It was fairly recent and I wondered whether there might be murals under the lime wash I thought it very possible. I remembered the excitement when my father had once discovered some valuable wall-painting which had been hidden for a couple of centuries. What a triumph if I could make such a discovery! The personal triumph would of course be secondary and I had thought of that only because of my reception. It would be a triumph for art as all such discoveries are.
    “And the Comte is doubtless very proud of them.”
    “I… I don’t know.”
    “He must be. In any case he is concerned enough to want them examined and if necessary restored. Art treasures are a heritage. It is a privilege to own them and one has to remember that art great art doesn’t belong to one person.”
    I stopped. I was on my favourite hobby horse, as Father would say. He had warned me.
    “Those who are interested
     
    probably share your knowledge; those who are not are bored. “
    He was right, and Mademoiselle Dubois fitted into the second category.
    She laughed, a small tinkly laugh without any mirth or pleasure in it.
    “I should hardly expect the Comte to express his feelings to me.”
    No, I thought. Nor should I. “Oh, dear,” she murmured.
    “I hope I haven’t lost my way. Oh, no … this is it.”
    “We are now almost in the centre of the chateau,” I said.
    “This is the original structure. I should say we are immediately beneath the round tower.”
    She looked at me incredulously.
    “My father’s profession was the restoration of old houses,” I explained.
    “I learned a great deal from him. In fact we worked together.”
    She seemed momentarily to resent that in me which was the exact reverse of her own character. She said almost severely: “I know that a man was expected.”
    “My father was expected. He was coming about three years ago and then for some reason the appointment was cancelled.”
    “About three years ago,” she said blankly.
    “That would be when …”
    I waited, and as she did not continue I said: “That would be before you were here, wouldn’t it? My father was