Even in the 1890s, when it had been a mental hospital for fifty years, its grounds could reclaim a radiance which was often at its most beguiling when one of the figures in the foreground happened to be that of Monseigneur de Belcastel. Though an inmate, he wore well-cut cassocks and moved with a courtly ease, which, if you were a Mason – many were – and disliked priests, might strike you as ‘fishy’ or even sinister. Yet if you were to engage him in chat, you would find him good company and refreshingly free from self-conceit. His mind was quick, his curiosity lively and his slim ankles twinkled amusingly in their violet silk socks. There was nothing slimy about him, and he had clearly not shirked life’s physical risks. Gouged into his right cheek was a scar so tender that squeamish visitors tried to stay on his left. But his friendliness could foil them, for he had a vivacious way of turning his head, and when he did, the purple scar flashed like a grin and could put off the very people he had hoped to draw close.
