The Rainbow Bridge by Aubrey Flegg Page A

magic and wonder of their lives together burst in on him. There was nothing more Louise could do for him now, so she, who had never longed for heaven, settled for oblivion.
    And that was how it was. Once Pieter was gone, herpicture, without the Master’s signature, was not valued. She was passed from hand to hand, an object to hang on the wall; people liked the green of her dress. No one else had the eyes to see beyond the surface of the painting and engage with the girl the Master had painted. The silence that she had chosen seemed to be without end or echo, except for one small occasional noise, which intrigued her. It was a sound not unlike the whisper of a pen on paper.
    Now Louise turned to look at the face of the young man who had rescued her from the canal. He wasn’t much older than Pieter. As he slept she could see health and vigour returning to his face. Was her presence here just an accident born out of his fever? Would he want her around once he had recovered or would she once again be consigned to her portrait? She remembered what the Master had predicted about his painting of the Beggar at the Beginhof Gate – a flea-ridden old man with a beautiful singing voice: ‘There will be those far down the river of time perhaps, who will bring the old boy back to life for us. Who knows but that someone may even hear him sing.’
    Suddenly Louise was filled with hope.

CHAPTER 4
Wine and Swan
    The cheering spread ahead of Adjutant Krayenhoff as he rode in triumph into the village of Maarssen. The Stadtholder had fled and Amsterdam was in the hands of the Pro-Patriots. Even while the adjutant was reporting the success of his mission to General Daendels, Cadet Colbert was pounding up the stairs to Gaston’s room, quite ignoring Raoul’s protests.
‘Nonsense, Raoul, of course he will want to know!’ He burst into the room with a clash of spur and sabre. ‘Sir, Krayenhoff’s back, the Pro-Patriots have taken over. Vive la France!’ He waved his hat, but the ceiling was low and he was rewarded with a shower of loose plaster. ‘But wouldn’t it make you sick, sir!’
    ‘Sick, Marcel?’
    ‘Pierre and me were planning on some action, sir. We reckoned we could slice up these Dutch burghers like sausages.’
    ‘Don’t you believe it. They didn’t create an empire by sitting on their backsides. Anyway, General Daendels is Dutch, as apparently is Mademoiselle Louise here. So be careful who you plan to slice.’
    ‘Oh, indeed, sir,’ said Marcel, unabashed and happy to put his patriotism to one side. ‘Glad you’re better, sir.’ He turned to the portrait. ‘Could we take her, sir, Pierre andme? We thought we could get the carpenter to make a case for her, with oiled cloth inside, so she doesn’t get wet.’
    ‘So you think I should keep her, then?’
    ‘Of course!’ said the boy, horrified. ‘We … well, I mean you, rescued her, sir.’ He blushed to his ears. ‘Pierre and me’s really sorry sir, we didn’t mean …’ Gaston managed to glare at him.
    ‘I’ll consider your behaviour later. In the meantime, yes you may take her; it will give me an opportunity to get dressed.’
    ‘What …?’ Marcel looked puzzled.
    ‘Oh go on … go!’ Gaston snapped. ‘I just need to get my legs under me, that’s all.’

    ‘Raoul, no … no… don’t let go. I’m a sick man, remember.’ Gaston, somewhat dishevelled, in his dress uniform, stood swaying in the doorway of his bedroom. General Daendels’s celebratory dinner was over; tomorrow Gaston’s hussars would head south as escort to the officer delegated to bring the good news to Paris.
    ‘Pissed out of your mind, you are sir, and that’s the truth,’ Raoul responded, unimpressed. His campaign against Gaston’s ego was single-minded but private. Woe betide anyone, of any rank from general down, who said a word against his lieutenant.
    ‘Nonsense. Look, I can stand,’ said Gaston. ‘But I am the one constant point in a world gone mad. Are we