This is NOT commissioned by the French Tourist Board – It's sort of 'O' meets Dracula, if you like.
*
Sandra and Rachel had been going to take a package deal to the Greek Islands. Just like every year. But they left it too late to book, and all the best offers were gone by the time they decided they could get away together for two weeks in July. So they ended up piling their luggage into Sandra's not-too-wonderfully prepared Ford and heading off into France, for a spot of sightseeing, gastronomy, and just simple tourism. It sounded like a good idea at the time.
And so it turned out, at least until they reached the dark, lowering mountains of the Vosges, and the weather turned sultry and downright unpleasant.
'Bloody hell,' said Sandra, tossing her long blond hair out of her eyes so that she could better see a stretch of road, 'if it rains much more, I'll think we're back in Manchester.'
Rachel groaned beside her, thinking she could have been toasting her long slim body on a Greek beach, attracting the usual procession of hopeful admirers. They certainly weren't going to get laid around here, that was for sure, she mused.
They stopped at a bar in the next village, and found it was run by English ex-patriots. They ordered beers, and were regaled with stories that made them feel no better about their holiday at all. The owner's wife told them that there had been a succession of disappearances, all of young foreign girls, in the region, stretching back almost twenty years, 'And probably before that,' she said, 'but we've only lived here that long.' With that, she went back to emptying ashtrays, and seemed almost to delight in the girls' discomfiture.
As they left, she shot them a parting, 'Last one was an American hitch-hiker, only last year – never seen again!'
They walked out of the door, and under an awning onto which the rain was drilling down with gusto. They could hardly see the car, across the road.
'Should we go back and ask her if she's got a room to let?' asked Sandra.
'What, and have the old cow tell us horror stories all evening?' said Rachel, 'Besides, it's only five o'clock – we've time to find a hotel yet.'
They scuttled across the road and dived into the car, soaked but laughing, and set off down the narrow, twisting roads again. If anything, the rain intensified, and it was becoming difficult to keep the windscreen clear enough to see the road in front. Sandra had to keep wiping it with a rag to keep it from misting over, and the wipers were having trouble keeping up with the downpour. The next village was bigger, but the only hotel was closed, and looked as if it had been for years, so they had to carry on – onwards and upwards, as the road wound up a hillside through a dense forest of tall trees with rocky outcrops. As they got higher, the car started to protest, and Sandra tapped the petrol gauge, but it wasn't that – she had half a tank left.
'I don't believe this,' she said, as the engine stuttered again, then finally died.
'You'd better,' said her friend, 'I think we're in the shit.'
They looked around them, and all they could see were trees and rocks, but there was a track leading off to the right – no sign, but a well-used and maintained track just the same, flanked by two large stone pillars. There was a mail-box beside it – a sure indication that there was some kind of house up the track.
Sandra made several abortive attempts to start thee engine again, gave up in despair, and finally let the handbrake off and allowed the car to run backwards into the side of the road, out of the way of any traffic. (Traffic, she thought – now there's a thing! They hadn't seen a car for hours)
'I suppose I'd better go and see if I can find a telephone,' said Rachel, pointing at the track.
'You're not leaving me here alone,' said Sandra, and they both got out in the rain, locked the car, and started to trudge up the track, which wound on up the hill. It seemed to take for ever, but they saw smoke rising from the trees.
'At least they've got a fire,' said Sandra, 'It's none too warm up here.'
It was true. The mountain air, combined with the chilling effect of the rain, had brought their temperature down, and they now craved a bit of warmth. Sandra glanced at her watch. It was only seven, but seemed almost dark, and when they came within range of them, lights shone from through the trees with the intensity of night-time.
They rounded a corner and Rachel gasped, 'Look, Sandra, bloody hell, it's a fucking great castle.'
And it was, indeed, a huge grey stone pile of a fortress, set high on the mountainside, complete with turrets and battlements, hidden from all sides by the towering forest.
Somewhat daunted, they had, however, no option but to seek whatever help they could find there, and they marched up to the first entrance they could find, a huge oak door, set at the top of a flight of six wide stone stairs. Rachel tugged at a big old-fashioned iron bell-pull, and a great clanging noise sounded from within, startling them to the core.
They had to wait only a few seconds, before a young man appeared, opening the door wide to them.
'Entrez,' he said, 'quel surprise – deux mademoiselles, et comme il pleut!'
Sandra's French was just about equal to the occasion, but she was in no mood to try out too much in the way of linguistics that evening, and was almost grateful when the ever-practical Rachel chipped in and said, 'Our car is broken down, back there on the road.'
The young man, who she could now see was remarkably handsome, smiled, and said, in perfect English, 'Please don't worry. We have plenty of room for you here, and you will be our guests. It will be a pleasure to have two beautiful English ladies here – you may stay as long as you wish. My name is Jean-Marc. I shall have Celine show you to your rooms and provide you with dry clothes. Your car will be taken care of.'
Sandra opened her mouth to speak, but he turned on his heel and was gone, leaving them stood, dripping, in the palatial hallway.
Thirty seconds later, a darkly pretty little maid minced in on unrealistically high stilettos. She wore a microscopic black miniskirt and seamed fishnet stockings, the tops of which could be seen as she walked.
'Venez,'
she said, and led them up a wide staircase, and along a short carpeted corridor, off which led many doors. She threw open two, one at each side, and indicated with a flourish that they should take one each.
Sandra's first reaction was that she would almost have preferred to share a room with her friend in this great spooky castle, but the luxury of a room to herself also had its compensation, when she looked at the huge four-poster bed. Celine was in the room with her as the thoughts crossed her mind, opening the double doors of the huge, old-fashioned wardrobe, and indicating, with a very Gallic wave of her hand, the clothes it contained. It was truly amazing.
After the maid had gone, the first thing Sandra wanted to do was to get out of her wet things, so she went into the adjoining bathroom, and threw off all her clothes, slipping into the towelling robe she found behind the door. Then she went across the corridor to find that Rachel had done similarly, and was drying her black hair vigorously with a towel.
'Wow,' she said, 'what a place.'
'And what a guy, Jean-Marc! I saw him first,' said Rachel.
'Have you seen all the clothes in the wardrobe?' asked Sandra, changing the subject, but just then, Rachel's bedside telephone gave a discreet ring. Hesitantly, she picked it up.
'Yes,' she said,
'Hello,' said Jean-Marc, 'please both dress for dinner, and we'll expect you at eight-thirty. Just come down the stairs and turn to the left.' He rang off and she was left holding a dead instrument.
