Free The Scapegoat by Daphne du Maurier Page A

told her, but the Sainte Vierge as well. Isn’t that so, Blanche?’
    I glanced at the uncommunicative sister. She raised her pale eyes from the clicking needles, but to her mother, not to me.
    ‘If Marie-Noel has visions,’ she said, ‘and I for one believe her, then it is time that somebody in this house took them seriously. I have said so for a long time. The curé agrees with me.’
    ‘Nonsense,’ retorted the mother. ‘I was speaking to the curé about it this evening. He says it is a very common thing, especially among the poor. Marie-Noel has probably got ideas from Germaine. I will ask Charlotte. Charlotte knows everything.’
    No emotion showed itself on Blanche’s face, but I saw her lips tighten. ‘We have to remember that the curé is getting old,’ she said. ‘He becomes forgetful when too many people talk to him at once. If these visions continue, I shall write to the bishop. He will know the best thing to advise, and I am very sure what his advice will be.’
    ‘What then?’ asked her mother.
    ‘That Marie-Noel should live amongst people where she cannot possibly be corrupted,’ came the answer, ‘and where she can offer her gifts to the greater glory of God.’
    I expected an outburst from the comtesse, but instead she patted the dog on her knee, and fumbling at her side for a paper packet took a chocolate-coated sweet and thrust it between the dog’s teeth.
    ‘There,’ she said, ‘it’s good, isn’t it? Where’s Fifi? Fifi, do you want one too?’The other terrier scrambled from under the chair and leapt on to her lap, nosing at the paper-bag. ‘You are a fool, Blanche,’ she continued. ‘If we are to have a saint in the family, let us keep her at home. There are possibilities in the idea. We might turn St Gilles into a place of pilgrimage. Naturally, it would have to be done with the approval of the bishop and the Church, but it would be worth considering. Money might be found at last to repair the roof of the church. The Beaux-Arts will never do anything.’
    ‘Marie-Noel’s soul is of greater importance than the roof of the church,’ said Blanche. ‘If I had my way she would leave the château tomorrow.’
    ‘You’re jealous, that’s your trouble,’ said her mother, ‘jealous of her pretty face and her big eyes. One of these days Marie-Noel won’t bother about visions any more – she’ll want a husband.’ She dug her elbow in my side. I was not surprised that her daughter made no answer. ‘Isn’t that so, Jean?’ the mother persisted.
    ‘Probably,’ I said.
    ‘Pray God I live long enough to see the wedding. He’ll have to be rich …’
    Charlotte came in with a tray, closely followed by a little red-cheeked
femme de chambre
of about eighteen, who at sight of me blushed and giggled and said,
‘Bonsoir
, Monsieur le Comte.’ I wished her good evening, and she arranged a tray for me on another table. Blanche rose to her feet and put aside her knitting.
    ‘Do you want to see Françoise or Renée before you settle for the night?’ she asked.
    ‘No,’ replied her mother. ‘I saw them both for tea. I shall sleep well tonight, now that Jean is home, and I don’t want to be bothered by anyone else, least of all by you.’
    Blanche crossed to her chair and kissed her mother, bidding her good night. Then she left the room, without having once spoken to me or looked at me. I wondered what Jean de Gué had done to offend her. I uncovered the bowl of soup on the tray beside me. It smelt good and I was hungry. The little
femme de chambre
, whom Charlotte addressed as Germaine, followed Blanche from the room, but Charlotte still hovered in the background, watching us eat.
    Curiosity made me venture a question to the mother. ‘What was the matter with Blanche?’ I asked.
    ‘Nothing particular,’ she answered. ‘If anything, she’s irritated me less than usual. Did you notice, she didn’t jump on me when I said that having a saint in the family opened up