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Maggie dozed for a while as the car sped on and Lissa felt herself getting drowsy after the excellent meal, but she fought her sleepiness away when Paul told her that St Denis was only two kilometres away.
‘We go down now into the valley,’ he explained. ‘One can hardly see the Château from the village because of the trees, but I will stop at the bridge where there is a view.’
St Denis was a delightful village, with narrow streets, and tall houses, their stonework washed in pastel colours. There was a small market in the town square, which was ringed by plane trees, and Paul’s car was instantly recognised and became the focus for good-natured attention. Paul drove slowly, keeping a careful eye on the throng of people, children and animals, and giving smiling waves to the many greetings that came his way.
‘Now I know how royalty feels,’ Lissa said as the car threaded its way out of the square and through another narrow street. They turned a corner and the river was before them—a placid rather shallow affair spa
‘Allons-y,’ he commanded, and led her on to the bridge. Before her the road curved upwards into a dark mass of trees. Lissa followed his pointing finger and caught a glimpse of grey towers rearing above the massed trunks. She was filled with a strange breathless excitement. It was like all the fairy tales she had ever known—with the castle crouching almost unseen among the clustering trees—a place where one might find the Sleeping Beauty, or even Bluebeard, who had been the Frenchman Gilles de Rais, Lissa recalled with some amusement.
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