`I said, It is very beautiful', she commented.

  Pierre at a temporary loss for words, hurriedly stood and mumbled an appreciative thank you.

 The Countess finished with the examination, straightened up and looked directly at Pierre.

 `You have a fine talent sir', she told him.

 `Thank you', he repeated. Having regained his composure, he returned her direct look. As their eyes locked, Pierre thought how wonderful she would look captured on canvass. He could picture her golden wheat colour hair, haloed by a shining sun. The light blue eyes verging into grey set off by a purple Mediterranean sky. Her full red lips with a permanent smile that twinkled and set her features alight with youth and vitality.

  With a physical effort, Pierre turned his glance away from the Countess and the spell was broken.

  On the numerous occasions they had met, Pierre had never failed to be impressed by her charm and beauty. How she came to wed the old Count had once been explained to him by a servant.

 At eighteen, without any warning, Silvia Riom, second daughter of Viscount Henri la Riom, had been told she was to marry.

Her marriage had been one of political convenience, as was common among the ruling classes. Taken directly from the convent, she was informed that her marriage would take place within three months.

  The wedding had taken place as planned, and immediately after, she had accompanied her new husband (who, disappointedly, turned out to be forty years her senior), to Agui Mortes. Once there, she fell dutifully into the role of wife, hostess and surrogate mother to the children from the Counts

two previous marriages. A year later, she had given a son to the old, but still virile Count. Pierre also knew how fanatically jealous of his young bride was the Count. His own reputation in Paris as a womaniser had not escaped the attention of the aging nobleman.

 Upon his arrival in Agui Mortes, the Count had kept a very cautious eye on Pierre. His suspicions however seemed to be unfounded. Pierre was never anything but correct and respectful. He taught the children well, took no interest in wenching, wine or politics, and preferred painting animals to hunting them. The Count came to see Pierre as a weak and effeminate man, and as such, incapable of winning a women's heart.

  'I'm sorry I startled you' the Countess said to break the silence between them.

  'It is no problem my lady', replied Pierre. 'The sun was affording ill light for me to carry on much longer'. Once more the Countess looked to the painting, wondering what further there was to say.

  After a few moments in which the silence lay heavier then the humid air around them, she returned her gaze to Pierre.

  `I would have this painting for my chambers when it is complete, will you allow me the honour of purchasing it from', she asked him.

  `My lady, I am pleased, that one so beautiful as yourself should find grace with my work. I will gladly give you this free; as a gift from my heart', Pierre told her, quite surprised at his own boldness.

  The Countess blushed, and replied. `Such a compliment is like a picture itself, to be looked upon and treasured'.

  This time it was Pierre who blushed and as he did, he looked once more directly into the eyes of the Countess. Time stood still then, the world stopped revolving and nothing more existed for Pierre except this beautiful women.

As for the Countess, she stood transfixed, unable to break the lock his eyes held on her. She saw a handsome man, full of goodness and so different from her cold and old husband.

  For what seemed an eternity, the two young people remained perfectly motionless, neither able or wanting to let the moment end. Their eyes were conveying a message to each other, which required no clumsy words. It was that simple. They had fallen in love.

  Most evenings, shortly before sunset, the countess would make her way to the battlements to find Pierre and watch him paint. At first, they would spent their time together just talking. They talked of everything. She, of her home in Rouen, life in the convent and her unhappiness at the contracted marriage. Pierre told her of Paris, university and the intrigues of the royal court.

  Whenever the Count was away on official business (which was often in these troubled times), they took to riding together through the Camargue. On these trips, Pierre showed her how abundant was the wildlife and rich fauna that flourished in a perfect combination of wet soil and hot sun. He took her to see the statue of the black Madonna at Saints-Marias-de-la-mer, and explained why Gypsies made the holy pilgrimage just to touch her.

  On one occasion, they rode all the way to Arles, to visit the magnificent stadium, built by the Romans when they held sway over the civilised world. On their return journey, they made love. It was the first time in their four month relationship, and neither felt any guilt and shame; only perfect happiness that now they had united for ever, and a small sorrow that they had not discovered this heaven earlier. After the first time, they made love at every opportunity, each time giving to one another more passionately than before.

  They both knew they were living on borrowed time, but were desperate to enjoy every second they had.

  It was in Autumn, as the winds of the Mistral started to bring signs of colder weather to come, that fate gave the lovers an ironic and disastrous blow. The count having returned from his latest campaign, commissioned Pierre to paint a portrait of himself. Pierre naturally agreed. When it was finished, the Count was so pleased, he asked Pierre to do another of his wife. Pierre needed little persuasion, it had been his desire for the last eight months to do just this.

  It was decided that Pierre should paint the Countess on the battlements, so as to capture her beauty with that of the surrounding heavens. Pierre (who realised that the affair must end soon, or risk the terrible wrath of the Count), wanted this painting to be his masterpiece.

  For over two months, Pierre laboured on his painting. With the Count at home, his sessions with the Countess Sylvie were the only occasions they could be alone.

Even these brief periods became an ordeal for the lovers, as the Count would often appear unexpectedly to see how the work progressed. After the sessions, Pierre would retire to his chamber, where he would continue painting, pouring all the love and feeling he could no longer openly show onto the canvass.

 The Count himself was no fool, for many months he had suspected his wife had found a lover, for unlike Pierre, she had been unable to hide her true feelings. Everything about her seemed to confirm his suspicions. She often had this far away look in her eyes. She laughed more often then before, and she carried about her a bounce and vitality he had not seen before. All the signs of a women in love were there, but until now, the Count had been unable to detect with who she was conducting an affair.

  It was only when the painting was complete that the identity of her lover was revealed. As Pierre presented his finished work to the Count, he watched the changing expressions move across the old mans features. At first was wonderment and genuine appreciation, to be followed by confusion, then puzzlement which soon turned to a look of understanding. Finally, a look of pure anger and hatred that was so cold and evil, Pierre knew that death was not far away.

  With a violent scream, the Count moved towards Pierre, promising bloody retribution. As Pierre backed away, the Count called his guards and ordered them to arrest and imprison Pierre. As the guards obeyed and held Pierre fast between them, the Count advanced on his prisoner, stopping to pick up his studded leather gauntlet. Gripping the heavy gauntlet tightly in his right hand, he stood directly in front of Pierre and set about lashing the helpless captive across the face. He beat him coldly and methodically, the sharp metal studs gouging long furrows across Pierre's handsome features. Back and forward went the glove, every contact sending a dull thud around the chamber, accompanied by a scream of agony and a fresh spurt of blood from Pierre. It was not long before Pierre passed out from the pain, and with his unconsciousness, the Count managed to regain control of his anger.

  Throwing the blood sodden gauntlet aside, the Count ordered the guards to take him to the dungeons where he would deal with him later. As they dragged Pierre from the room, the Count returned to look at the painting.

  That it would be hailed a masterpiece, the Count was in no doubt. The painting itself captured his wife in her full glory. Wheat coloured hair blowing in the breeze, eyes radiating love and affection, while behind, a sinking red sun formed a halo that surrounded her and emphasised the sensuous lips that smiled and set the painting aglow.

  It did not require much imagination to realise, such a look could only be directed towards a lover, and only one returning such love could have captured such feelings.

Picking up the canvass, the Count moved to the large fireplace against wall, and with a cry of despair, he slung it onto the flames. He stood and watched the labour of one mans love be consumed by fire. Red flames licked the canvass, the heat causing the oils first to run then ignite. As the heat intensified, the fresh oils suddenly combusted, causing the picture to explode in a sheet of searing flame which then devoured the painting Pierre had named "The Countess in red" , and what was undoubtedly his greatest work. His wrath now as hot as the fire itself, the Count slowly made his way down to the dungeons. Entering the main torture chamber (one which had broken and destroyed many a poor wretch unlucky enough to have been brought there), he approached Pierre who now lay prone but conscious on the floor, groaning through his smashed and bloody lips. He ordered the dungeon master to manacle him to the wall and while this was being done, he pulled on a pair of leather gloves. When Pierre was securely manacled, he moved towards him.