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  When they drew in their horses a little further on, the Duc remarked,

  “You ride magnificently, as I expect a great number of people have already told you.”

  “My father has always been very particular that I should have a good seat and soft hands.”

  “You ride like Diana, the Goddess of the Chase.”

  Although she was pleased at the compliment, Yursa suspected that it was one he had made many times before to a large number of other women.

  They rode on more slowly.

  Now the Duc was showing her the vineyards and she thought that the long rows of beautifully kept vines were exceedingly attractive.

  Finding that she was interested, the Duc told her of the great red wines of Burgundy, Gevrey-Chambertin, Nuit-St-Georges, Clos Vougeot and Romanée-Conti, soon to be decimated by the dreaded phylloxera.

  “My favourite,” he said, “if you are interested, is the Gevrey-Chambertin. You may have heard that Napoleon Bonaparte enjoyed and drank a half bottle of it at every meal.”

  “How very interesting!” Yursa exclaimed.

  “One of the many burdens he had to bear while he was on St. Helena,” the Duc went on, “was that he was not provided with it and had to drink ordinary claret. He missed his Gevrey-Chambertin.”

  It was the sort of story that Yursa found fascinating and the Duc told her many tales of the district as they rode homewards.

  “They are very primitive here,” he said. “The villagers still believe that there are dragons in the forests and nymphs in the streams.”

  He laughed before he added,

  “Besides, of course, witches who tell fortunes and concoct love potions for the girls to entice the men they desire.”

  “Do their spells ever work?” Yursa enquired.

  “The peasants say they do and that, of course, is three-quarters of the battle.”

  “When I was small,” Yursa told him, “there was supposed to be a witch in our village, but she died before I was old enough to visit her.”

  “Why should you be interested in witches?” the Duc enquired.

  There was a little pause before Yursa replied,

  “I suppose I have always been – interested in anything that was – mysterious or perhaps the right word is – ‘supernatural’.”

  “Why?”

  She thought for a moment before she answered,

  “I have always believed that it is due to my French blood that I sometimes have an instinct about people which comes from a – power that is – outside myself.”

  As she spoke, she made a little gesture with her hands and added,

  “I am explaining it very badly. Perhaps it could be expressed better by the word ‘intuition’.”

  “What you are really saying,” the Duc said, “is that you hear voices like Joan of Arc.”

  “Perhaps that is the – explanation,” Yursa agreed, “but all I know is that I am aware when – something unusual will – happen before it does – and I am never mistaken.”

  “Then you definitely have the voices that we all believe in and they are a gift to those who have the blood of Burgundy in their veins.”

  “That is a lovely thing to say to me!” Yursa replied.

  She looked so happy with her eyes shining in the sunlight, which also seemed to shimmer on her hair.

  The Duc thought that she could not have been more delighted if he had given her a diamond bracelet or a ruby necklace.

  Then he shied away from the thought of Zelée and told himself that his horses were carrying her a long way from The Château.

  She would not dare to come back until he permitted her to and perhaps that would be never.

  When they returned to the house, Yursa’s grandmother was waiting in the hall.

  “I was told that you had gone riding, my child,” she said to Yursa. “You have enjoyed yourself?”

  “It was wonderful!” Yursa replied. “I have never ridden such a magnificent horse before.”

  She saw her grandmother as she spoke glance at the Duc and knew that she very nearly added, ‘or with such a magnificent escort’.”

  Because that made her ride seem contrived instead of something that had occurred just by chance, Yursa hurried up the stairs to change without even looking at the Duc.

  When she came down, it was to find that most of the house party had gathered in one of the salons.

  They were chatting away and trying to decide what they would do in the afternoon.

  “I am sure that César will have a plan for amusing us,” one of the guests remarked.

  She was a very beautiful young woman with a distinguished husband who was many years older than herself.

  As she spoke, Yursa suddenly found herself aware that she was thinking now that Zelée de Salône had gone that she might have a chance of captivating the Duc.

  Because such an idea shocked her and she was also shocked at herself for thinking such a thing, she moved away from the circle of the ladies.

  She crossed the room to look at a picture.

  It was then she asked herself how she could have known what the lady was thinking.

  Suddenly she knew that her perception was working so that she could read the thoughts not just of one particular person, as she had sometimes been able to do in the past, but of almost everybody who was staying in The Château.

  She had learned, without even realising it, that one of the Duc’s guests, a middle-aged man who looked as though he drank a great deal, was considering if he could touch his host for a large amount of money.

  Another man, who was standing near them, was planning how he could sell the Duc a horse for much more than it was worth.

  ‘How can I know – these things? How can – I?’ she asked herself.

  And yet in some strange way they came into her mind and she knew that, however much she tried to reject them, they were true.

  ‘I will think about something else,’ she told herself, staring with unseeing eyes at an exquisite picture by Poussin.

  It was then, almost as if she could see her standing beside her, that she was aware of Zelée de Salône.

  She could feel her hatred reaching out towards her, she could see the flashing of her eyes and the movement of her lips.

  With a little cry, which she strangled in her throat, she knew that she was being cursed.

  As fear streaked through her like forked lightning, Yursa knew she must have help.

  She glanced at the clock and realised that there was still half-an-hour before luncheon would be announced.

  Without saying anything, she slipped from the room and down the corridor that she knew led to the side of The Château where, as she had seen as she arrived, there was a Chapel.

  Because she was so frightened, Yursa sped down the long empty passages hung with fine pictures to where she thought that the entrance to the Chapel would be.

  She had a good sense of direction and she was not mistaken.

  She found an ancient door that opened into a small courtyard.

  She was not surprised to see on the other side of it an open door surmounted by a cross.

  She entered and found as she expected a small and beautiful Chapel that she could see from its architecture must have been built in the fifteenth century.

  The walls were very thick and the pillars massive.

  Behind the altar was a stained glass window containing the heraldic shields of the Ducs de Montvéal.

  There were several small statues in front of which were burning lighted candles, one being an effigy of Joan of Arc, and Yursa sank down on her knees in front of it.

  She felt that Joan would understand what she was feeling.

  Perhaps she too had been frightened when she first heard her voices and knew that they were something that did not come just from herself.

  ‘Help – me,’ Yursa prayed. ‘Help me – because I am – afraid! And save me from anything – evil that might – hurt me.’

  She prayed insistently,
closing her eyes, and yet at the same time very conscious of the statue above her.

  Then she was aware that the hatred that she had felt coming towards her from Zelée de Salône was fading.

  It was moving away, almost like a cloud moving before the sun, until at last it had gone.

  Yursa drew a deep breath.

  “Thank You – thank You, St. Joan,” she murmured.

  She knew that she had been blessed and what had threatened her had been removed.

  She rose to her feet, knowing that she must go back.

  “I have no money with me,” she said softly, “but later I will come and light a candle to You and thank You again for helping me.”

  She genuflected before the altar, crossed herself with the Holy Water that was by the door then, hurrying across the small courtyard, started to run back the way she had come.

  She had just reached the centre of The Château where the salon was situated when she almost bumped into someone coming out of a door into the corridor.

  It was the Duc and he looked at her in surprise.

  She was breathless from the speed she had been running at.

  Her hair, which she had tidied carefully before she came downstairs, was now curling round her forehead.

  “I am sorry – I am sorry – monsieur,” Yursa gasped.

  “Where are you going in such a hurry?” he demanded.

  “I-I have been to the – Chapel.”

  He looked surprised and Yursa said,

  “It is very beautiful – and very – Holy.”

  “Is that what you found?”

  She nodded.

  Then, as she was aware that his eyes were on her, she put up her hands to tidy her hair.

  “I was – hurrying,” she explained, “in case I was – late for – luncheon.”

  “You have a few minutes to spare,” the Duc said with a smile.

  He turned and they walked very slowly down the corridor.

  They had almost reached the salon before Yursa said,

  “Please – you will not – say where I have – been?”

  “Are you ashamed of it?”

  “No – of course not, it is just that I had a – reason for going – and I don’t want – anybody to ask questions.”

  As she spoke, she thought that she was being very foolish. Why should anybody ask any questions?

  Although her reason for going there had seemed very real to her, not only would no one be likely to understand, but they would also think she was being over-dramatic or deliberately drawing attention to herself.

  The Duc stopped still and inevitably Yursa did the same.

  “Did you go to the Chapel because you were frightened?” he asked in a low voice.

  There seemed to be no point in lying and she told him the truth,

  “Yes – but I am all right – now.”

  “Was it Madame de Salône who frightened you?”

  Yursa twisted her fingers together and turned her eyes up to his.

  “Please – don’t ask any – questions! I know you will – not believe me.”

  “Why should I not believe somebody I am quite certain never tells a lie?”

  It was a compliment, but Yursa did not realise it.

  Instead she said,

  “I am not – frightened now.”

  “And you think it was your prayers in the Chapel that swept away your fears?”

  “I-I prayed to – Joan of Arc.”

  “Why to her particularly?”

  “Because I thought – she would – understand.”

  “Then your fear was in some way connected with your voices,” the Duc said as if he had worked out some complicated mathematical sum.

  Yursa nodded, but she did not speak.

  “I told you to forget her,” he said sharply.

  “I tried – but I – felt her and I knew – ”

  Yursa stopped, knowing that she was about to say too much and he certainly would not understand.

  “What did you know?” he asked.

  “Please – ”

  She looked up as she pleaded with him and then, as her eyes met his, she knew that she must tell him the whole story.

  He held her captive in a way that made it impossible to withstand him.

  She could no more hold out against him than turn back the tide or prevent the moon from shining.

  “She – she was – cursing me!” she whispered.

  Her voice was so low that he could hardly hear it.

  Then, as she saw the sudden anger in his eyes and the sharp line to his mouth, she added quickly,

  “But now I am – safe. Her – vibrations have gone – and perhaps they will – not be able to – come back!”

  “We must make sure that they don’t!” the Duc said in a determined voice.

  Then, as if there was nothing more to say, he walked on with Yursa beside him to the salon.

  *

  Luncheon was an entertaining meal with the gentlemen telling stories about their horses and the ladies striving in every way to amuse the Duc.

  It was, Yursa thought, as if because Zelée de Salône had gone they were determined that he should not miss her.

  They complimented, teased and flirted with him with the expertise that was peculiarly French and certainly put him in a good humour.

  The food was delicious and, when luncheon was over, the Duc said,

  “I thought this afternoon that it would interest you to visit the Palace of the Dukes in Dijon and also, if we have time, see the Tomb of Philip the Bold.”

  Everybody exclaimed that that would be delightful, but, as the Duc spoke, he looked at Yursa and knew by the radiance in her eyes how much the idea appealed to her.

  She had the feeling that it was an excursion that he had planned particularly for her.

  Then she told herself that was ridiculous and rebuked herself for being conceited.

  They set off in a cavalcade of smart chaises and open carriages.

  The Duc had asked the Marquise if she would drive with him and Yursa could not help a little twinge of regret that she could not be his companion.

  However, on the return journey he said as they were leaving the town,

  “I think my youngest and most recent guest should accompany me as we return to The Château.”

  Yursa felt a little thrill go through her because he had invited her to be with him.

  But she told herself that he was just being kind and making sure that she was no longer frightened as she had been early that morning.

  They had seen the Ducal Palace with its two towers, one named after Philip the Bold, while the other, the Duc said, was called Le Tour de Bar.

  It had been the prison of Good King René, Count of Provence, King of Sicily and Duke of Bar and Lorraine and was named after him.

  That, unfortunately, was all that was left of the old Palace and the present one had been built on the order of Louis XIV.

  Yursa was entranced by everything, including the magnificent Ducal tombs in the Salle de Garde on the first floor.

  Here she was able to see a sculpture of Philip the Bold.

  She was, however, even more delighted to look at ‘the cowled weepers’, beautifully carved mourning figures in the little niches on the sides of his tomb.

  They wept eternally, she was told, for the man who had fought so many wars for Burgundy.

  Because the Duc could explain knowledgably what they were looking at Yursa felt as if she was hearing one of the stories that her grandmother had told her when she was a child.

  She had no idea that he was talking entirely to her, since he knew what he was saying was boring most of the other women.

  He was well aware that all they wanted was that he should talk about themselves or gossip.

  Like any storyteller, he was flattered by the rapt attention Yursa gave him and the expressions he could see flitting over her face as she reacted to what he was saying.

  Driving home behind a pair of exceptionally
fine horses the Duc asked,

  “Have you enjoyed your hours of sightseeing?”

  “It was wonderful!” Yursa said. “Like The Château, it was exactly what I wanted to find in Burgundy.”

  “So you have not been disappointed?”

  “How could I be when you have been so kind?” she replied.

  There was a twist to the Duc’s lips as he commented,

  “That is not an adjective which is usually applied to me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because many people say I am unkind.”

  He was thinking as he spoke of the women he had left because they bored him.

  They were always railing against his cruelty, his unkindness, his selfishness and his lack of feeling.

  Again, because she could follow his thoughts, although fortunately she did not understand exactly what had happened between him and the women he had left, Yursa said,

  “My mother used to say that people, because they are greedy, expect too much – we should not ask for a present every day of our life.”

  The Duc laughed.

  “Your mother was right and most people, as she must have known, are spoilt.”

  “If they are spoilt in the way you mean it, then they must be very stupid.”

  “Why do you say that?” the Duc enquired.

  “Because being spoilt means first that you expect too much, secondly that you are not grateful for what you have already received and thirdly, you think that you, in particular, must have more and better than anybody else.”

  The Duc considered this as he drove on.

  Then he said,

  “You surprise me, Yursa. Did you think that out for yourself or did somebody say it to you?”

  “I hope I thought it out for myself,” Yursa answered. “Living with nuns makes one realise how completely unselfish they are, so naturally one tries to emulate them.”

  The Duc thought a little cynically that it was something that did not come naturally to everybody, but instead he said,

  “Because you are so young and not spoilt or blasé, what do you expect of life in the future?”

  There was a little pause as Yursa collected her thoughts.

  Then she said,

  “It is not so much what I expect as what I hope and pray for – that I shall be kind and understanding, be able to help those in need and not hate anybody.”

  She spoke so simply and with such sincerity that the Duc thought that what she had said came from her heart, And it was very touching.