Sepulchre (16 page)
The other passengers included an elderly husband and his much younger wife, from Toulouse. Two elderly birdlike sisters twittered to one another in low voices beneath their hats.
Léonie was pleased to see that their lunch companion from the Grand Café Guilhem, Dr Gabignaud, was to take the same carriage. Frustratingly, Maître Fromilhague kept Gabignaud close to him. Every few minutes he drew out his watch from his waistcoat pocket by the chain, and tapped the glass face as if suspicious it had stopped working, before putting it away again.
As soon as everyone was settled, the driver climbed up to his cab. He perched himself on top of the sundry collection of suitcases and valises, his legs spread wide, and looked up at the clock on the front of the railway station building. When it struck the half-hour, he flicked his whip and the carriage jerked away.
Within moments, they were on the open road, heading west out of Couiza. The route ran along the river valley between high hills on either side. The bitter winter and wet spring that punished most of France for so much of the year had, here, created an Eden. Lush pastures, green and fertile, rather than sun-scorched earth, thickly wooded hillsides of fir and holm oak, hazel and Mediterranean chestnut and beech. High on a hill to their left, Léonie glimpsed the outline of a ruined castle. An old wooden sign at the side of the road announced it to be the village of Coustaussa.
Gabignaud was seated next to Anatole and was pointing out landmarks. Léonie caught only fragments of their conversation over the crescendo of the wheels on the road and the rattling harness of the horses. And that?' Anatole said.
'Charlemagne, the Crusade against the Albigensians, bandits from Spain, plague, the relentless and unforgiving march of history. Now it's just another forgotten mountain village. Rather in the shadow of Rennes-les-Bains.' He paused. 'Having said that, the Curé works hard for his parishioners. An interesting man.'
'Perhaps he believes this is where he can be most effective?' 'Certainly the village loves him. He's done a lot of good.' 'In practical matters or of merely a spiritual nature?' 'Both. As an example, the church of Sainte Marie-Madeleine was no more than a ruin when he arrived. Rain coming through, abandoned to mice and birds and mountain cats. But in the summer of 1886, the Mairie voted him two thousand five hundred francs to begin restoration work, principally to replace the old altar.'
He nodded. 'I only know what I hear indirectly. The Curé is a most cultured man. It is said that many items of archaeological interest have come to light, which of course greatly interested your uncle.' 'Such as?'
'An historical altar piece, I gather. Also a pair of Visigoth pillars and an ancient tombstone the Dalle des Chevaliers - that is rumoured to be either Merovingian in its provenance or possibly also from the Visigoth era. Being so interested in that period, Lascombe was much engaged in the early stages of the renovations in Rennes-le-Château, which of course resulted in the matter being of interest in Rennes-les-Bains.'
Anatole took out his cigarette case. The doctor accepted. Shielding the flame with his arched hand, Anatole struck a match for both of them. And what is the name of this exemplary priest?' he asked, blowing out the question with the smoke.
'Saunière. Bérenger Saunière.'
They had reached a straight section of road and the horses picked up speed. The noise grew in volume until further discussion was all but impossible. Léonie did not altogether mind the barrier to conversation. Her thoughts were racing, for somewhere in the morass of Gabignaud's conversation, she had the sense that she had learned something of some significance. But what?
After a short while, the driver slowed the horses and, with a clanking of harness and the clatter of the unlit lamps against the side of the carriage, left the main road to follow the river valley of the Salz.
Léonie leaned out as far as she dared, delighted by the beauty of the landscape, the extraordinary vista of sky and rock and woods. Two ruined outposts that turned out to be natural rock formations rather than the shadows of castles loomed over the valley like giant sentinels. Here the ancient forest came almost down to the road's edge. Léonie felt they were entering a secret place, like an explorer in one of Monsieur Rider Haggard's entertainments venturing into lost African kingdoms.
Now the road began to curve elegantly, winding back and over itself like a snake, following the cut of the river. It was beautiful, an arcadia. Everything was fertile, lush and green - olive green, sea green, scrub the colour of absinthe. The silver underside of leaves, lifted by the breeze, shimmered in the sun between the darker tones of fir and oak. Above the tree line, the startling outline of crests and peaks, the ancient silhouettes of menhirs, dolmens and natural sculptures. The antique history of the region was laid out plain to see, like pages in a book.
Léonie could hear the river Salz running alongside them, a constant companion, sometimes in view, a glint of sunlight on water, sometimes hidden. Like a game of cache-cache, the water sang its presence, rushing over stones, chasing through the entangled branches of the willows that hung low over the river, a guide drawing them ever closer to their destination.
The horses clattered over a low bridge and slowed to a trot. Ahead, on the bend in the road, Léonie had her first glimpse of Rennes-les-Bains. She could see a white three-storey building with a sign announcing itself to be the Hôtel de la Reine. Beside it was a cluster of rather forbidding, unadorned buildings that she presumed made up the establishment of the thermal spa.
The courrier slowed to walking pace as they swung into the main street. To the right, it was bounded by the great grey wall of the mountain itself. To the left, there was a collection of homes, boarding houses and hotels. Heavy metal-framed gas lamps were set into the walls.
Her first impressions were not as she had expected. The town had an air of elegant and contemporary style and prosperity. Generous, scrubbed stone steps and thresholds abutted the roadway, which, although left as nature intended, was clean and passable. The street was lined with bay and laurel trees in wide wooden planters, which seemed to bring the woods down into the town. She saw a rotund gentleman in a buttoned frockcoat, two ladies with parasols, and three nurses, each pushing a chaise roulante. A gaggle of ribboned girls in white frills and petticoats walked with their governess.
The small square was bordered by buildings on three sides and shaded by lime trees. The golden sunlight filtered down through the canopy of leaves, casting chequerboard patterns on the ground. There was a water trough for the horses and the respectable town houses were adorned with window boxes filled with the last of the tumbling summer flowers. At a small café with striped awnings, a collection of well-dressed, well-gloved ladies and their escorts were taking refreshment. In the corner was the approach to a modest church.
The driver jumped down from his cab and began to unload the luggage. 'S'il vous plaît, Mesdames et Messieurs. La Place du Pérou. Terminus.' One by one, the travellers disembarked. There were awkward farewells, common to those who have shared a journey but have little else in common. Maître Fromilhague raised his hat and then disappeared. Gabignaud shook Anatole's hand and presented his card, saying how much he hoped there would be an opportunity to meet again during their stay, perhaps for a game of cards or at one of the musical soirées that took place in Limoux or Quillan. Then, tipping his hat to Leonie, he hurried away across the square.
A young girl in the grey and white uniform of a parlourmaid appeared, out of breath, at the top left-hand corner of the square. She was plump and pretty, with deep black eyes and a suggestive mouth. Strands of thick dark hair were escaping from beneath a white cap. Ah! Perhaps our reception committee?' said Anatole. Behind her, also out of breath, arrived a young man with a broad, pleasant face. He wore an open-necked shirt with a red scarf around.
'Sénher Vernier? Madomaisèla. Madama sent me to fetch you to the Domaine de la Cade. She asked me to present her apologies, but there is a difficulty with the gig. It's being repaired, but Madama suggests that it might be quicker on foot. . .' The maid glanced doubtfully down at Leonie's calfskin boots. 'If you don't mind . . .'
'What?' The word burst, indignantly, from Leonie's lips before she could help herself. 'But you hate to walk!' She touched her fingers to her own ribs, to remind him of the injuries he had sustained. 'Besides, will it be too much for you?'
Marieta led them down a shadowed passageway between the houses. They emerged into bright sunlight on an old arched stone bridge. Far, far below, the water flowed over flat rocks. Léonie caught her breath, made dizzy by the sensation of light and space and height.
The maid crossed the river, then turned sharply right and made for a narrow unmade path that ran steeply up into the trees of the wooded hillside. Léonie and Anatole followed in silent single file, each saving their breath for the climb.
Higher and steeper they went, along a dappled track of stones and fallen leaves, venturing ever deeper into thick forest. Before long, the path opened out into a wider country track. Léonie could see wheel ruts, cracked and pale through lack of rain, marking the route of countless wheels and hooves. Here, the trees were set further back from the path and the sun cast its long fading shadow between each copse and cluster.
Léonie turned and looked back in the direction they had come. Now she could see, steeply below them but close still, the red and grey sloping roofs of Rennes-les-Bains. She could even identify the hotels and the central square where they had disembarked the carriage. The water shimmered and teased, a ribbon of green and silver, even red with the reflection of autumn leaves, running as smooth as silk.
Ahead stood the stone pillars and gates of a country estate. Wrought-iron railings disappeared as far as the eye could see, shielded by fir and yew. The property seemed both forbidding and aloof. Léonie shivered. For a moment, her spirit of adventure abandoned her. She recalled her mother's reluctance to discuss the Domaine and her childhood spent within it. And then the words of Dr Gabignaud at luncheon echoing in her ears.
Léonie glanced at her brother, then stepped forward with determination and put both hands upon the railings, like a prisoner behind bars. She pressed her flushed cheeks to the cold iron and peered through at the gardens that lay beyond.
Everything was shrouded in a dark, filtered green, chinks of sun reflected through an ancient canopy of leaves. Elderberry trees, shrubs, formal hedges and once-elegant borders were unkempt and lacking colour. The property had an air of beautiful neglect, not yet gone to ruin, but no longer expecting visitors.
A large stone birdbath stood dry and empty in the centre of a wide gravelled path that led straight from the gates into the grounds. To Leonie's left, there was a round stone ornamental pond, a rusty metal frame stretched over it. It, too, was dry. To the right was a row of juniper bushes, growing wild and untended. A little further back was the remains of an orangery, the glass missing and the frame twisted.