Sepulchre (28 page)

 

The driver cracked the whip and the carriage jerked forward and down the drive.

'Tante Isolde did not wish to accompany us?' she asked, raising her voice to be heard over the rattling of the harness and hooves. 'She had estate matters requiring her attention.' 'But the supper party is settled for Saturday evening?' Anatole patted his jacket pocket. 'It is. And I have promised we will play messenger and deliver the invitations.'

The night winds had shaken loose twigs and leaves from the smooth silver trunks of the beech trees, but the track down from the Domaine de la Cade was passably clear of debris and they covered the terrain quickly. The horses were blinkered and held steady, even though the lamps bumped and knocked against the side of the carriage in the holders as they made the descent.

'Did you hear the thunder last night?' said Leonie. 'It was so strange. Dry rumblings, then sudden outbursts, all the time the wind howling.' He nodded. 'It is apparently quite commonplace to have thunderstorms with no rain, especially in the summer, when there might be a string of such storms, one after the other.'

'It sounded as if the thunder was trapped in the valley between the hills. As if it was angry.'

 

Anatole smiled. 'That might have been the blanquette working in you!'

Léonie stuck out her tongue. 'I am suffering no ill effects whatsoever,' she said. She paused. 'The gardener was telling me how the storms are said to come when the ghosts are walking. Or is it the other way round? I am not certain.'

Anatole raised his eyebrows. 'Indeed?'

 

Léonie twisted round to address the driver on his bench.

 

'Do you know of a place called the Lac de Barrenc?' she said, raising her voice to be heard over the rasp of the wheels.

 

'Oc, Madomaisèla.'

 

'Is it far from here?'

 

'Pas luènh.' Not far. 'For the toristas it is a place to visit, though I would not venture up there.'

He pointed with his whip at a dense parcel of woodland and a clearing with three or four stone megaliths, sticking out of the ground as if dropped there by some giant hand. 'Up there is the Devil's Armchair. And, not above a morning's walk, the étang du Diable and the Horned Mountain.'

Léonie was only talking about what she feared in order to gain mastery of it, and she knew it. Even so, she turned back to face Anatole with an expression of triumph on her face.

 

'You see,' she said. 'Everywhere evidence of devils and phantoms.'

 

Anatole laughed. 'Superstition, petite, certainly. Hardly evidence.'

 

The gig set them down in the Place du Pérou.

Anatole found a boy willing to deliver the invitations to Isolde's guests for a sou, then they set off. They began by promenading along the Gran'Rue in the direction of the thermal establishment. They halted a while at a small pavement café, where Léonie drank a cup of strong, sweet coffee and Anatole a glass of sweet absinthe. Ladies and gentlemen in frock coats and walking suits passed. A nurse pushing a perambulator. Girls, their flowing hair decorated with silk ribbons of red and blue, and a boy in knee-length britches with a hoop and stick.

They paid a visit to the largest shop in the town, the Magasins Bousquet, which sold all manner of items from thread and ribbon, to copper pots and pans, to snares and nets and hunting guns. Anatole passed over to Léonie Isolde's list for provisions to be delivered to the Domaine de la Cade on Saturday and allowed her to place the orders.

Léonie enjoyed herself greatly.

They admired the architecture of the town. Many of the buildings on the rive gauche were more substantial than they appeared from the road; indeed, several were many storeys taller and deeper and built down into the gorge of the river. Some were well cared for, if modest. Others were a little out of sorts, the paint peeling and the walls leaning misaligned, as if time lay heavy upon them.
At the river's bend, Léonie had excellent views of the terraces of the thermal spa and the back balconies of the Hôtel de la Reine. More so than from the street, the establishment dominated the vista with its grandeur and importance, its modern buildings and pools and expansive glass windows. Narrow stone steps led down from the terraces directly to the water's edge, where stood a collection of individual bathing huts. It was a testament to progress, to science, a modern-day shrine for contemporary pilgrims in need of physical succour.

A solitary nurse, her winged white hat perched on her head like a giant sea bird, was pushing a patient in a chaise roulante. By the water's edge, at the foot of the Allée des Bains de la Reine, a wrought-iron pergola in the shape of a crown provided shade from the sun. Outside a small travelling kiosk, with a narrow fold-down hatch giving on to the street, a woman with a pale headscarf and broad, suntanned arms was selling cups of apple cider for a couple of centimes. Beside the wheeled café, in character quite like a caravan, was a wooden contraption for pressing apples, its metal teeth grinding slowly as a small boy with scarred hands and wearing a loose shirt several sizes too big for him fed apples of russet and red into it.

Anatole stood in line and purchased two cups. It was too sweet for his palate. Leonie, however, declared it delicious and drank first hers, then the dregs of his, spitting out the stray pips into her handkerchief.

The rive droite - the far bank - had a different character. There were fewer buildings and those that did cling to the hillside, dotted amongst the trees that came down almost to the water's edge, were domestic dwellings, small and modest. Here lived the artisans, the servants, the shopkeepers whose livelihoods depended upon the ailments and the hypochondrias of the urban middle classes from Toulouse, from Perpignan, from Bordeaux. Léonie could see patients sitting in the steaming, iron-rich water of the bains forts, accessed by means of a private covered alleyway. A line of nurses and servants waited patiently on the bank, towels draped across their arms, for their charges to emerge.

When they had explored the whole town to Leonie's satisfaction, she declared herself fatigued and complained that her boots were pinching. They returned to the Place du Pérou, past the poste restante and the telegraph office.

Anatole proposed a pretty brasserie on the south side of the square.

 

'Is this acceptable?' he asked, pointing at the sole free table with his walking stick. 'Or would you prefer to eat inside?'

The wind was playing a gentle game of cache-cache between the buildings, whispering through the alleyways and causing the awnings to flutter. Léonie looked around at the gold and copper and claret leaves, spiralling in the wind, at the delicate traces of sunlight on the ivy-covered building. 'Outside,' she said. 'It is charming. Quite perfect.' Anatole smiled. 'I wonder if this is the wind they call the Cers,' he mused, sitting down opposite her. 'I believe this is a north-westerly, which comes down from the mountains according to Isolde, as opposed to the Marin, which comes from the Mediterranean.' He shook out his napkin. 'Or is that the Mistral?' Léonie shrugged.

Anatole ordered the pâte' de la maison, a dish of tomatoes and a bûche of local goats' cheese, dressed in almonds and honey, to share between them, with a pichet of mountain rosé.

Léonie broke off a morsel of bread and popped it into her mouth. 'I visited the library this morning,' she said. 'A most interesting selection of books, I thought. I am surprised we had the pleasure of your company at all last night.'

His brown eyes sharpened. 'Whatever do you mean?' 'Only that there are more than enough books to keep you occupied for some time and, indeed, that I was surprised you managed to locate Monsieur Baillard's volume among so many' Her eyes narrowed. 'Why? What did you think I meant?'

'Nothing,' replied Anatole, twisting the ends of his moustache. Sensing some evasion, Léonie put down her fork. 'Although now you come to mention it, I do confess I am surprised that you did not remark upon the collection when you came to my chamber last evening before dinner.'

'Remark upon . . . ?'

 

'Why, the collection of beaux livres, for a start.' She fixed her eyes on his face to watch his reaction. And the occultist books also. Some of them looked to be rare editions.'

Anatole did not immediately answer. 'Well, you have accused me, on more than one occasion, of being somewhat tiresome on the matter of antiquarian books,' he said finally. 'I did not wish to bore you.'

Léonie laughed. 'Oh for goodness' sake, Anatole, whatever is the matter with you? I know, from what you yourself have told me, that a good many of these books are considered quite disreputable. Even in Paris. It's not what one would expect in a place like this. And for you to not even mention it, well, it is . . .'

Anatole sat drawing on his cigarette. 'Well?' she demanded. 'Well what?' 'Well, to start with, why are you determined to show no interest?' She drew breath. 'And why should our uncle have such a wide collection of books of such a character? Tante Isolde did not say.'

'In point of fact, she did,' he said sharply. 'You seem determined to be critical of Isolde. Evidently you do not care for her.'

Léonie flushed. 'You are mistaken if that is the impression you have gained. I think Tante Isolde quite charming.' She raised her voice slightly, to prevent him from interrupting her. 'It is not our aunt but more the character of the place that is disquieting, especially when taken together with the presence of such occultist books in the library.'

Anatole sighed. 'I did not notice them. You are making something over nothing. The most obvious explanation, to use your words, is that Oncle Jules had catholic - or, rather, liberal tastes. Or, perhaps, that he inherited many of the books with the house.'

'Some of them are very recent,' she said doggedly. She knew she was provoking him and wished to draw back, but somehow she could not check herself.

And you are the expert on such publications,' he said sceptically. She recoiled at his cold tone. 'No, but that is precisely my point. You are! Hence my surprise that you did not see fit to mention the collection at all.' 'I cannot account for why you are so determined to find some mystery in this - indeed, in everything here. I really cannot comprehend it.'

Léonie leaned forward. 'I tell you, Anatole, there is something strange about the Domaine, whether or not you will admit it.' She paused. 'Indeed, I even find myself wondering if you did go into the library at all.'

'That is enough,' he said, his voice thick with warning. 'I don't know what the devil has got into you today.'

 

'You accuse me of wishing to inject some sort of mystery into the house. I admit that might be so. But, by the same token, you appear determined to do the opposite.'

Anatole rolled his eyes in exasperation. 'Listen to yourself!' he threw out. 'Isolde has made us both most welcome. Her position is an uncomfortable one, and if there is any awkwardness, surely this can be put down to the fact that she herself is a stranger here, living among long-established servants who probably resent an outsider coming in as mistress of the house. From what I gather, Lascombe was often absent and I suppose that the staff had the run of the house. Such comments are not worthy of you.' Realising she had gone too far, Léonie pulled back. 'I only wanted ... Anatole dabbed his mouth at the corners, then tossed his napkin upon the table. 'All I intended was to find you some interesting volume to keep you company last evening,' he said, 'not wishing you to be homesick in an unfamiliar house. Isolde has shown you nothing but kindness and yet you seem determined to find fault in everything.'

Leonie's desire to provoke a quarrel evaporated. She could no longer even remember why she had been so determined to squabble in the first place.

 

'I am sorry if my words offended you, but. . .' she began, but it was too late.

'Nothing I say seems to stop this childish mischief-making of yours,' he said fiercely, 'so there is nothing to profit from continuing the conversation further.' He snatched up his hat and cane. 'Come. The gig is waiting.'

'Anatole, please,' she pleaded, but he was already striding across the square. Leonie, torn between regret and resentment, had no choice but to follow. More than anything, she wished she had held her tongue.

But as they drove out of Rennes-les-Bains, she began to feel aggrieved. The fault was not hers. Well, perhaps in the first instance, but she had meant no harm. Anatole had determined to take insult when none was intended. And hard on the heels of such excuses was another, more insidious consideration.

He defends Isolde over me.

 

It was most unfair after so brief an acquaintance. Worse, the thought made Léonie quite sick with jealousy.

 

CHAPTER 39

The journey back to the Domaine de la Cade was an uncomfortable one. Léonie sulked. Anatole paid her no attention at all. As soon as they arrived, he leapt down from the carriage and vanished into the house without a backward glance, leaving her alone to contemplate a dull and solitary afternoon stretching out before her.

She stormed upstairs to her chamber, not wishing to see anyone, and flung herself face down upon the bed. She kicked off her shoes, letting them drop with a satisfying thump to the floor, leaving her feet to dangle over the edge as if she was floating on a raft on a river.

'J'en ai marre. ' Bored.

The clock on the mantelshelf chimed two. Léonie picked at the stray threads on the embroidered cover, teasing out the emaciated shimmering strands of gold until she had made a pile worthy of Rumpelstiltskin on the bed beside her. She threw a frustrated glance at the clock.

Two minutes past two o'clock. Time was barely moving.

 

She slid off the bed and walked over to the window, lifting the corner of the curtain with her hand. The lawns were flooded with light, rich and golden.

Everywhere Léonie could still see evidence of the damage wrought by the mischievous wind. Yet at the same time, the gardens looked serene. Perhaps she would take a walk. Explore the grounds a little.

Her eyes alighted upon her workbox, and she burrowed through the materials and sequins to where the black book lay.

 

Of course.