The unknown from Castel Pic E-Book

Max du Veuzit

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 190

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

A tutor near me, in Castel-Pic, this isolated mansion in Dylvania where we live in savagery, what an upheaval! 18 years old, we dream of a company other than that of an authoritarian grandmother. With a beating heart, Diane de Kermoc awaits the unknown. He's coming. He looks at her with disdain. She's not thinking about anyone but him anymore. Who is he, this strange and overly attractive tutor? Despite his great airs, he seems to be hiding. Is he a terrorist, a proscribed? The country is going through a troubled period Diane is too curious. We're taking him away. We send him to Paris where his innocent beauty wreaks havoc. One day, in a living room, she saw with amazement a miniature framed with sapphires that represented her tutor! Determined to unravel the mystery, the young girl returns to Castel-Pic, the one she loves has fled, taking her secret with her. For Diane, a feverish wait begins

Leseprobe

The unknown from Castel Pic

Pages de titreFirst PartSecond PartCopyright

Max the Veuzit

The unknown from Castel Pic

Max the Veuzit is the pen name of Alphonsine Zéphirine Vavasseur, born in Petit-Quevilly 29 October 1876 and died in Bois-Colombes 15 April 1952. It is a French language writer, author of numerous romance novels with great success.

First Part

Castel Pic is the name of the house we live, grandmother and I, with our two Sabin and Faustus servants.

It is an old mansion, cracked, dark, which stands on top of a cluster of steep rocks overlooking the surrounding valleys.

There is little greenery in Castel Pic: some tall pines grew in the hollows of the rocks and raise their proud peaks of here and there, without symmetry; heather rose to attack the bare rocks and seized the slightest crevices; broom, rosemary, brambles seem to have taken up residence on the same stone, so that their dark colors merge with the darker shade of granite our foundation; Finally, ivy invaded our walls and takes full the north side of the castle and the square tower which is flanked on the left.

These pins, these heaths, these thorns, this ivy is all the flora of Castel-Pic, and Sabin, who takes home the multiple role of agent, penalty boy, shoe, concierge, mule, gardener, tried in vain to plant fruit trees. There is too much snow in winter sun summer winds throughout the year.

As it stands, however, wild and naked, inaccessible to vehicles of all kinds, far from any house, any sound, any movement, only finally on its stone needle, as I love Castel Pic.

I am proud of its high walls, its dark color patina that time every day, its arid slopes, impassable to man, his rocky path that you can climb on foot or on the back of donkey, its unique position overlooking all that surrounds him and with the eyes, beyond the valleys and hills, to the ends of the horizon.

Yes, I love Castel Pic!

*

Castel-Pic is located in the bush Dylvanian, a hundred and fifty miles from Kheta, capital of Dylvanie.

The Dylvanie is a very small country in northern Europe that stands south of the mountain range of the Lazi.

Bounded on the west by the gray sea, to the east by the river Knour the Dylvanie is beautifully situated in a rich and fertile country, where his laborers people can develop slowly, although safe from disasters and wars that devastated its neighbors.

This country, where I saw the day as told indescribable French song, would be the best of the land and the sweetest to live if, for twenty years, a wind of madness seemed to blow on the Dylvanians who no longer dream that wounds, bumps and revolutions.

The Dylvanie was still at the beginning of the century, a delicious kingdom a good old king, Jacques VII peacefully ran for thirty-five years. Suddenly, without that we know well exactly what the king had done to lose the esteem of his people, it decreed, one morning, he had enough to be represented by an outdated old and helpless, no longer attended the celebrations in the closed car, his age making him afraid drafts and preventing parading at the head of our national militia (five hundred men in all! our army, what!).

Such discontent among such a people quiet until then, as ours, forced Jacques VII to abdicate in favor of some unknown little nephew, Prince Paul, a delightful boy of twelve.

It was, of course, appoint a regent to govern Dylvanie during the minority of Paul V, so that after a few months our people declared one morning, still more unfortunate that time the old king.

It seems that the regent squandered public finances!

I believe simply that its location envied his former colleagues, those less fortunate than her ministers, and the leaders, highly paid, helped the people to express its displeasure.

In short, there was another change of government. Regency turned into dictatorship!

But it seems that our country was not ripe to obey a dictator. The people reared again.

It was very serious! Popular discontent was reflected in skirmishes and battles in the streets of Ketha. The shock was terrible! ... We counted at least sixty dead and nearly two hundred wounded. Never Dylvanie since ancient Huns crossing its territory, had been similarly shed blood of his children!

To Paul V and his evil regent succeeded by an interim government. We knew so well arduous struggles until the day the Republic was proclaimed and all the princes of Yber to Tovin and Ani were taken to the border under threat of being shot if they are not allowed to set foot in Dylvanie.

Since then, we are a republic ...

*

Grandmother always lived our old castle. She was born there, grew up there, was married there. Then, mother of two, she has experienced the joys of family and the pain of grief. This is where her husband, my grandfather, died still young, and this is where her two children, including my mother, after living away from her for their short, came to stand for eternity.

I was three when she took me.

I was an orphan.

My father, a brilliant naval officer, had perished in a shipwreck. The sorrow that death had slowly killed my mother.

My grandmother was the only parent I had left; it soon became the only person I knew and that my memory has kept intact the indelible imprint.

As far as my mind goes back into the past of my youth, it's always grandmother that I see. His tall figure with imposing forms, his face a little cold to energetic lines, but in the eyes so kind, always seem to have looked at me.

My grandmother is a very wonderful in my life. It was she who taught me reading and prayer, who explained the sacred principles of religion, which monitored itself all my training and education.

On contact, I learned to love the heroes of our history, their valiant deeds, their sublime feelings; I knew our national glories and imperishable masterpieces; I extolled the courage and beauty, art in all its forms, goodness in its infinite details. I also despised the timid and the wicked, hateful cowards and perjurers, cursed the traitors and their dark deeds.

*

- The mind has no sex, often said grandmother regret that I am not a boy. I want to make my granddaughter a being loyal and brave who think and act boldly, without false prejudices as without hypocrisy, as she would have thought and acted if, instead of being a woman, she had been a boy.

And the result of that manly education is weird, because if the mind is healthy, the mind strong, solid judgment, strong character, I, by contrast, all the weaknesses and all the affectations of women, physically speaking. I'm rather delicate health and did not even unfortunately the high grandmother stature.

My portrait ?...

Neither Brown nor fair; neither big nor thin; neither large nor small; neither beautiful nor ugly; I think I'm in denial person. And when I look in the mirror, I push deep sighs, thinking of all that I could have been ... and I'm not!

*

Do not think that our people, who have obtained a fully Republican government appointed by it is satisfied with its elected! That would be to underestimate the modern Dylvanians. The peace and tranquility that prevail everywhere seem to disappoint. They are protesting against the budget that balance wrong and say watered taxes.

It also seems that the current president is not enough dylvanian Democrat.

severe reproach seems justified!

This great man like honors, brilliant receptions and military parades. Finally, he talks too much! These are just speeches and rants ... "Much ado about nothing," say the old Dylvanians evoking with emotion the days of good King Jacques VII where everything was patriarchal, for the better, in the most peaceful of kingdoms this world.

Some, even, dream recall Paul V ...

But this is a story too dangerous for me dares to talk about here ...

We do not like the conspirators in our country and all that Royalist said he is suspicious more ...

The slogan is a Republican at heart ... against all odds!

*

We live in true savages in Castel Pic. First, because we are far from any dwelling and the vicinity of our castle does not lend visits and receptions, second, because grandmother, after the successive bereavements that darkened his existence was down on itself, fiercely, and let go off, little by little, all the friendships of his past.

She wants also to the Republic of hunting Dylvanie of the princes of Yber, and she did not forgive him his nobility careerists "who, she said, are fighting crass power like dogs for the kill ".

For her, every man who has no old parchment is reached, regardless of its property status and how the latter was acquired him.

It means grandmother pronounce this word arrived! There, in his tone, contempt, disgust, shameful things she does not enumerate, but the ear guess because awaken in you, without your knowledge, ideas meanness, theft , crimes ...

With this way of judging things, it is readily apparent that few people have found favor with my grandmother.

Most castles in the area where we could attend are inhabited by financial or former officials.

There is a spinner who made his fortune in the silk industry, another was the son a modest weaver, domain Vak-Ru was bought by the son of a refiner, one of Kermacos by a manufacturer automobiles, the Roc-Black owned by a retired general and a former minister Hormaux.

All come, what! to use the grandmother epithet.

We therefore frequent person, apart from regular suppliers who climb, the less often they can, our steep path, no one dreams of pulling the chain of the great bell overlooking the entrance to Castel Pic.

Twice a year, however, at Christmas and "Saint John", our house is in an uproar and the vast hall resonates big voice, not heavy and faced dishes.

It was the grandmother of farmers who come to bring him the price of their rent. And, as usual long established here, they do not leave without being fed and watered copiously.

*

If no one goes to Castel Pic, we do not usually descend into the valley.

Every Sunday morning, we will hear Mass in a small chapel located just at the bottom of our hill.

Mass is said at eight, because of the difficulties of the way, we set off at about seven o'clock.

This descent, such as returning the way, is for me the happiest time of the week.

I said, the trail is very steep, no vehicles could get involved. It is by donkey as we descend and ascend the slope.

Grandmother moved between cushions, in a sort of subject wicker chair, as would an ordinary saddle by straps on the back of Nora, the old donkey, and I take my place on the turbulent Fakir, similarly, if not with the same convenience, I would climb a thoroughbred.

Sabin takes us. He will walk and leads the donkey that goes grandmother.

Previously, I had to follow the group, my good grandmother who always afraid I commit some indiscretions.

Since I was sixteen, that is to say, for fifteen months, it allows me to run forward.

Oh ! delicious ride! Fakir seems to share my joy to run free and we spin, me the amount and reaching him at the breakneck speed of a small irregular trot. Stones roll on the road, my veil flying behind me, Fakir clogs resound on the stones, I excited voice: we do so of eight kilometers per hour, about!

And now my great pleasure to the week! The Mass ended at nine. We go to Castel Pic. Here for a week.

*

The house is far too large for two single women who do not go out and never receive one. So do we live that part of the apartments.

The Square Tower I said above fully covered in ivy is completely neglected for a long time.

I have penetrated once.

It was a day that Grandma was going to get papers family she believed find and I accompanied him.

The tower is still furnished: without bedding beds, armchairs covered with dust covers, brass clocks or alabaster, detained for years without chests dishes, but filled with all kinds of utensils, from harness horses to heavy silverware, linen cabinets crowded and outdated effects, paintings without frames and frames without pictures.

In short, a past furniture that had a life, a history, buried behind thick walls and shuttered.

The main house is less abandoned. Most parts still have a destination: the great room is inhabited only twice a year, the passage of farmers, but the little we see every day, with meals. The VIP lounge is not receiving my visit at the time of the piano, but we have tea regularly every evening in the parlor. Then there are rooms transformed in lingerie, dairy, fruit shop, sewing room. Previously, I had a nursery, now I have a workshop where pencils and brushes go together!

As we see, we "standards" without fear occupy too much space for our menus work.

Grandma says it gives more trouble Faustus, but, however, we feel within our loneliness and our captivity.

Our maid had Castel Pic when grandfather was still alive and that the old house was full of activity and rumor. Also, because the good wife no longer knows the days of press and upset, she found that now it is no longer useful for anything castle.

Brave Faustus! It is she who is in turn our cook and our maid. It monitors the barnyard, the office and underwear. She is constantly in motion, never occupied. Alone, she grandmother to avoid two more servants, and she said again that it is useful for nothing!

*

My room is separated from that of grandmother by a large firm that used to hang the effects.

The firm was once my room. A small white bed, a desk, two chairs were easy to stay there. But, as I have mania to explore the attics of Castel-Pic and do it every time, new discoveries that I report triumphantly home, my room was too small.

The number of depilated chairs that I found in the attic and I have removed religiously, because they had carved a folder or an odd shape, is incredible! They had come to align, tight against each other, so much so that to win my bed, I sometimes had to cross the amount it!

And for anything in the world, I would have wanted to see them where I had found. I was looking after them as valuable furniture, hiding under their seats drilled cushions, wood gluing them to dive, to the amusement of my grandmother, who called me "miss the antique dealer."

But as I was not content to just bring chairs during my trips to the abandoned attic and a small table, a spinning wheel, a large wooden chair topped with a red silk canopy, a harp I mended strings, a lounge chair, a linen chest, and whatnot? charmed me in turn, it became absolutely necessary to go elsewhere, I and my relics!

Thus mine became the largest Castel Pic-chamber, which is above the VIP lounge and, before I had ever housed as honored guests.

I will not dwell on the picture; we guess, by the above, in which disparate objects is furnished.

I will only say that it seems so delicious, I stay for hours to cheer me its weird furniture, that I sleep for nights and full than ever before to live, I had done so sweet dreams.

*

I spend my days in a somewhat uniform manner, one suspects.

Music, painting, reading especially, occupy most of my leisure.

The rest of the time, when I eat or sleep, I immerse myself in one of those long reveries that Grandma does not like, but even attract me more they carry my thoughts to mysterious regions , unknown beings, new sensations. To slice a little the monotony of my days, like always, I wanted to bring in flowers collection, butterflies, stones ...

But I soon tired me in recent occupations. My herbarium remained unfinished and my butterflies, bitten on cardboard, give me remorse. How did I have the courage to suffer these graceful creatures that appeared to Guy de Maupassant, the last months of his tormented existence, as the personification of his inspiring ideas fleeing and could not recover?

One day I asked grandmother permission to exchange postcards with amateur collectors, through the fashion magazine that we receive each month.

She refused.

She does not want me no promiscuity ... even epistolary!

Another time, I wanted it should authorize me down in the valley, with Sabin, when he goes to provisions.

New refusal on his part. She does not accept that the teachers have the air to control the purchase price of the objects brought by their servants.

Because she is very Regency, grandmother, and nothing seems less distinguished him money matters!

I wished to visit the poor in their cottages and bring them a little comfort or consolation, as needed.

My grandmother still negatively shook his head.

- The common people do not respect anything ... Their complaints and thanks would go maybe to you, but your girl's ears hear things they should ignore.

- But if these poor people need help, grandmother?

- I do what is necessary, as far as we can, to relieve their pains. Every month I give a certain amount to the abbot Drieux, I know that the fully distributed.

- People do we have any recognition.

- I do not look ... I do not know, moreover, goes:

"While there is a villain

Falls in sputum in hand "

And as I still insisted, speaking of sick, my grandmother flatly refused me.

- No ! My granddaughter will never sit at the bedside of a woman in childbirth, heal wounds intimate, swaddle newborns or change the linen infirm. I find it unseemly and can not get used to that idea!

Since then, I have mentioned it again, and I spend my days alone, between the walls of Castel-Pic who opens for me two hours on Sunday.

*

It seems that new political upheavals threaten our country.

The newspapers speak only of scandals! Our elected officials would receive fantastic for bribes on all State orders!

They also say that all our ministers are compromised in a financial crash that reaches savers!

If these facts are true, it would be a great misfortune for our country! The Dylvanie be discredited forever, for in no country, no one has been able to record such manners!

*

The postman brought this morning a letter to grandma.

This was for us quite an event!

Never factor raises the feel of Castel-Pic. We are too far from homes and this detour terribly lengthen his tour.

It's Sabin, descending each day in the valley with Nora, take the mail to the Sal-Como post office, the nearest town from here, although yet located five kilometers good.

When the big entrance bell tolled this morning I jumped in surprise. This happens so rarely!

Without giving time to Faustus or Sabin to rush, I went myself open.

- An urgent letter ... even it is recommended ... for Madame de Noyvic! said once the factor.

He was sweating, the brave man!

- It is roughly perpendicular, her way! This is not a little trip, surely, but given what was pressed on the address, I preferred you up myself!

- And thank you, sir! I said kindly by inserting it in Castel Pic.

Grandmother was no less surprised than me to see the mailman.

She took the letter fingertips with some suspicion, as it hosts one thing that is neither desired nor expected and which we fear instead of evil.

But no sooner had she seen the handwriting of the address, which, recognizing perhaps, his face is relaxed afterwards.

- Bring this brave man to the office and tell Faustus restore properly, she recommended me.

And while I executed his orders, she went home with the mysterious letter.

When I saw grandmother at table at lunchtime, she seemed quite agitated and as yet under the influence of violent emotion.

She barely touched the dishes presented to him. His movements were feverish, his lips moved as if she was talking to herself to a character present in his mind. Its brilliant red cheeks and better still accused her inner fever.

She looked so upset me that I could not keep from asking him, despite the usual discretion me she always imposed.

- Would you have received bad news, Grandma?

I saw that my question was not pleased.

- At all. What makes you assume that, miss?

Oh ! the tone of this "miss"! I blushed to the ears, air blame which she pronounced.

And it is embarrassed, stammering, I tried to excuse my indiscretion.

- You do not eat, Grandma, and you seem all excited ... I feared that this letter ... this extraordinary letter, were the cause of ... ...

She interrupted me:

- You are a fool ... I'm not excited at all, except in your imagination, perhaps! This letter is nothing extraordinary, the factor could very well dispense with the up and make an affair of state. As for my lack of appetite, it is quite natural: I ate too much last night, and I still have on my stomach last meal. Another time, Diane, do not thoughts as ridiculous today.

Diana, this is my name, a name of Western Europe, I was given in memory of a French, Diane, who honored his illustrious favors one of my ancestors, exiled there.

But we never give me the name of Diana, and it is usually "Yane," his nickname, that grandmother used with me.

It was the same she was very sorry for having used against me by my first name!

Needless to say I did not reply to his sharp reprimand.

And although I was convinced, his sudden anger and she took care to refute my humble reflections of the correctness of my remarks, I do not let it show and I quietly pursued my meal, as if nothing was.

*

The letter grandmother received was written in French ... at least the address of the envelope that the postman read aloud.

The letter therefore has a fashionable party.

Indeed, Dylvanie, French is spoken by all people of quality ... also in the top trade and finance.

Moreover, the court of Jacques VII, French was the common language. Also, my grandmother, who respects the past as something precious, she demanded that master and servant should speak French at Castel Pic, in place of the dialect of our peasants if guttural ear.

This is obviously more posh!

*

Sabin went for Koziol, since dawn.

It must, it appears, it renews all our supplies are exhausted, and we can get us in Sal-Como.

However, I note that the need to buy new provisions should not be the only reason for the trip to Koziol. Generally, Sabin will do in this city once a month, at most; gold, there went the week before last, and our office is still well stocked.

There must be something else! Grandmother having extensive discussions yesterday evening with our old servant.

I do not know what was the topic discussed them, but it seemed that Sabin was quite upset when he left the apartment of his mistress ... as upset as it was after the postman!

And this morning, grandmother attended his departure, despite the early hour he chose to get under way.

She gets up, however, usually very late, my great grandmother!

I saw my room she handed him an envelope, sealed with wax, he carefully clamped in the inside pocket of his cloth doublet.

And I heard that he said:

- Ms can be quiet. I know my orders, everything will be done as she recommended it to me.

- I trust you, responded grandmother. Be careful !

Why these facts, which however have nothing unusual, to me they seem so mysterious? This is not the first time that Sabin goes to Koziol and that hand there, armed with my grandmother instructions.

So ?...

*

Grandma seems very worried.

She awaits the return of Sabin and, waiting, do not take up.

If I dared, I would ask him to take a share of his worries. Between us, if it has any trouble, we would be stronger and more courageous to stand.

But I dare not leave the reserve where it takes me ...

Why does it still consider myself as a small child?

*

Sabin came back, but his visit to Koziol, nothing has transpired.

The strange grandmother always stir hard and rubs off on the people and things of Castel-Pic.

Everything around me is waiting for some unexpected and mysterious event.

*

At Ketha, our capital, it does not get better.

Before yesterday, a militia patrol ran before the Iberlais palace, where the rooms are meeting, a student monomial singing the royalist anthem.