Sepulchre (68 page)

Léonie ran to the window. On the distant horizon, she could see a line of flaming torches, gold and ochre against the black night sky. Then, closer at hand, she heard the sound of glass breaking.

CHAPTER 94

 

Louis-Anatole ran into the room, breaking free of Marieta, and threw himself into Léonie's arms. He was pale and his bottom lip was quivering, but he tried to smile.

'Who are they?' he said in a small voice. Léonie squeezed him tight. 'They are bad men, petit! She turned back to the window, shading her eyes against the glass. Still some way off, but the mob was advancing on the house. Every invader held a burning torch in one hand, a weapon in the other. It looked like an army on the eve of battle. Léonie assumed they were only waiting for Constant's signal to attack.

'There are so many of them,' she murmured. 'How has he turned the whole town against us?'

 

'He played upon their natural superstitions,' Baillard replied. 'Republican or Royalist, they have grown up hearing stories of the demon that stalks the land.' 'Asmodeus.'

'Different names for different times, but always the same face. And if the good people of the town profess not to believe such stories during the hours of daylight, at night their deeper, older souls whisper to them in the dark. Of supernatural beings that rip and tear and cannot be killed, of sombre and forbidden places where spiders spin their webs.'

Léonie knew he was right. A memory flashed into her mind of the night of the riot at the Palais Gamier in Paris. Then just last week, the hatred on the faces of people she knew in Rennes-les-Bains. She knew how quickly, how easily, blood lust could sweep through a crowd. 'Madama?' said Pascal urgently.

Léonie could see the flames darting and licking the black air, reflecting off the damp leaves of the tall sweet chestnut trees that lined the driveway. She dragged the curtain across and stepped back from the window.

'To hound my brother and Isolde into their graves, even that seems not enough,' she murmured. She glanced down at Louis-Anatole's black curly head nestled against her and hoped he had not heard.
'Can we not talk to them?' he said. 'Tell them to leave us alone?'

'The time for talking has passed, my friend,' Baillard replied. 'There comes always a moment when the desire to act, however ill the cause, is stronger than the wish to listen.'

 

'Are we going to have to fight?' he said.

 

Baillard smiled. A good soldier knows when to stand and face his enemies, and when to withdraw. Tonight we will not fight.'

 

Louis-Anatole nodded.

 

'Is there any hope?' Léonie whispered.

 

'There is always hope,' he said softly. Then his expression hardened. He turned to Pascal, 'Is the gig ready?'

He nodded. 'Ready and waiting in the clearing by the sepulchre. It should be far enough away to evade the attention of the mob. I have hopes I can get us out from there without being observed.'

'Ben, ben. Good. We will go from the back, cutting across the path and into the woods, praying their target is the house itself in the first instance.'

 

'What of the servants?' Léonie asked. 'They must leave too.'

 

A deep flush spread over Pascal's broad, honest face. 'They will not,' he said. 'They wish to defend the house.'

 

'I do not want anyone to come to harm on our account, Pascal,' Léonie said immediately.

 

'I will tell them, Madama, but I do not think it will alter their resolve.'

 

Léonie could see his eyes were wet.

 

'Thank you,' she said quietly.

 

'Pascal, we will take care of your Marieta until we join you.'

 

'Or, Sénher Baillard.' He paused to kiss his wife, then left the room.

 

For an instant, no one spoke. Then the urgency of the situation pressed down upon them once more, and everyone was jolted into action.

 

'Léonie, bring only what is absolutely essential. Marieta, fetch Madama Léonie's valise and furs. It will be a long and cold journey.'

 

Marieta swallowed a sob.

'In my travelling valise, Marieta, already packed, there is a small wallet of paper, inside my workbox. Paintings, about so big.' Léonie made the shape of a missal with her hands. 'Take the workbox with you. Keep it safe. But bring me the wallet, will you?'

Marieta nodded and rushed into the hall,

 

Léonie waited until she had gone, then turned back to Monsieur Baillard.

'This is not your battle either, Audric,' she said. 'Sajhë,' he said softly. 'My friends call me Sajhë.' She smiled, honoured by the unexpected confidence. 'Very well, Sajhë. You told me once, many years ago now, that it was the living not the dead who would be most in need of my services. Do you remember?' She glanced down at the little boy 'He is all that matters now. If you take him, then I will know at least that I have not failed in my duty.'

He smiled. 'Love - true love - endures, Léonie. Your brother, Isolde, your mother, they knew this. They are not lost to you.'

Léonie remembered Isolde's words to her as they sat upon the stone bench on the promontory the day after the very first supper party at the Domaine de la Cade. She had been speaking of her love for Anatole, although Léonie had not known it at that time. A love so strong that without it Isolde's life had been intolerable. She would have wished for such a love for herself.

'I want you to give me your word that you will take Louis-Anatole to Los Seres.' She paused. 'Besides, I would not forgive myself if harm came to you.'

 

He shook his head. 'It is not yet my time, Léonie. There is much I must do before I will be allowed to make that journey'

 

She darted a glance at the familiar yellow handkerchief, a silken square of colour just visible in the pocket of his jacket.

 

Marieta reappeared in the doorway, holding Louis-Anatole's outdoor clothes.

 

'Here,' she said. 'Quick, now.'

 

The little boy obediently went to her and allowed himself to be dressed. Then, suddenly, he darted away from her and into the hall.

 

'Louis-Anatole!' Léonie called after him.

'There is something I must fetch,' he cried, appearing moments later with the piece of piano music in his hand. 'We will not wish to be without music where we are going,' he said, looking round at the grim faces of the adults. 'Well, we would not!'

Léonie crouched down. 'You are quite right, petit.,

 

'Although,' he faltered, 'I do not know where it is we are going.'

 

Outside the house, a shout erupted. A cry to battle.

 

Léonie quickly stood up, feeling her nephew's little hand slide into hers.

Fuelled by fear and the darkness and the terror of all things that were abroad in these hours of the Eve of All Saints, the men armed with fire and clubs and hunting rifles began their advance on the house.

'And so it begins,' Baillard said. 'Corage, Léonie.'

 

Their eyes locked. Slowly, as if even now reluctant, he passed her the deck of Tarot cards.

 

'You remember your uncle's writings?'

 

'Perfectly.'

 

He gave a slight smile. 'Even though you returned the book to the library and led me to believe you never revisited it?' he chided gently.

 

Léonie blushed. 'I may, once or twice, have reacquainted myself with its contents.'

'It is fortunate, perhaps. The old are not always wise.' He paused. 'But, you understand that your fate is tied up with this? If you choose to breathe life into the paintings you have done, if you call forth the demon, you know he will take you too?'
Fear glittered in her green eyes. 'I do.'

'Very well.'

 

'What I do not understand is why the demon, Asmodeus, did not take my uncle.'

 

Baillard shrugged. 'Evil attracts evil,' he said. 'Your uncle did not wish to forfeit his life and fought the demon. But he was marked for ever afterwards.'

 

'But what if I cannot-'

 

'Enough now,' he said firmly. 'It will become clear, I believe, in the moment.'

Léonie took the black silk package and buried it in the capacious pocket of her cloak, then rushed to the mantelshelf above the fire and took a box of matches balanced on the corner of the marble surround.

On her tiptoes, she placed a kiss upon his forehead. 'Thank you, Sajhe,' she whispered. 'For the cards. For everything.'

 

The hall was dark as Léonie, Audric Baillard, Louis-Anatole and Marieta emerged from the drawing room.

In every corner, every nook, Léonie could hear or see signs of activity. The gardener's son, Emile, now a strong and tall man, was organising the indoor staff with any weapon he could lay his hands on. An old musket, a cutlass taken from the display cases, sticks. The outdoor servants were armed with hunting rifles, rakes, spades and hoes.

Léonie felt Louis-Anatole's shock at the familiar faces of his day-to-day life transformed. His hand tightened in hers.

 

She stopped and set her voice high and clear.

'I do not wish you to risk your lives,' she said. 'You are loyal and brave -I know my late brother and Madama Isolde would feel the same, were they here to witness this - but this is not a fight we can win.' She looked around the hall, taking in the familiar and less familiar faces. 'Please, I beg you, leave now while you have the chance. Go back to your families and your children.'

No one moved. The glass of the black and white framed portrait hanging above the piano glinted, catching her eye. Léonie hesitated. The souvenir of a sunny afternoon in the Place du Pérou, so long ago: Anatole seated, Isolde and herself standing behind, all three of them content m one another's company. For a moment, she was tempted to take the photograph with her. But mindful of the instruction to take only what was essential, she stayed her hand. The portrait remained where it had always been, as if keeping watch over the house and those in it.

Seeing there was nothing to be done, Léonie and Louis-Anatole slipped out through the glazed metal doors on to the terrace. Baillard and Marieta followed. Then, from the assembled crowd behind her, a voice rang out.

'Good luck, Madama Léonie. And to you, pichon. We will be here when you return.'

 

'Et à vous aussi,' the little boy replied in his sweet voice.

It was cold outside. The frost nipped at their cheeks and made their ears hurt. Léonie pulled her hood up over her head. They could hear the mob on the far side of the house, still some way off, but the sound struck fear into them all.

'Where are we going, Tante Léonie?' Louis-Anatole whispered.

 

Léonie heard the fear in his voice. 'We are going through the woods to where Pascal is waiting with the gig,' she said.

 

'Why is he waiting there?'

 

'Because we do not want anyone to see us or hear us,' she said quickly. 'Then, still very quiet, mind, we will ride to Monsieur Baillard's house in the mountains.'

 

'Is it a long way?'

 

'It is.'

 

The boy was quiet for a moment. 'When will we be coming back?' he asked.

 

Léonie bit her lip. 'Think of it as a game of cache-cache. Just a game.' She put her finger to her lips. 'But we must hurry now, Louis-Anatole. And be very quiet, very, very quiet.'

 

'And very brave.'

 

Léonie's fingers went round the deck of cards in her pocket. 'Oh yes,' she murmured. And brave.'

 

CHAPTER 95

Mettez le feu? Down by the lake, on Constant's order, the mob - now at the rear of the house
- plunged their torches into the woody base of the box hedge. Minutes passed, then the hedge began to burn, first the network of branches, then the trunks, crackling and spitting like the fireworks on the walls of La Cité. The fire rose and swayed and took hold.

Then the cold voice came again. 'A l'attaque?

 

The men came swarming across the lawns, around the water, trampling the borders. They leapt up the steps to the terrace, pushing over the ornamental planters.

 

Constant followed, limping, at a distance, a cigarette in his hand and leaning heavily on his stick, as if following a parade on the Champs-Elysées.

At four o'clock that afternoon - when he was certain that Léonie Vernier was already on her way to Coustaussa - Constant had had yet another slaughtered child brought home to torment its parents. His man had carried the slashed corpse on an ox-cart to the Place du Pérou where he sat waiting. It had taken little skill, even with his depleted energies, to catch the attention of the crowd. Such terrible injuries could not be inflicted by an animal, but only by something unnatural. A creature being concealed at the Domaine de la Cade. A devil, a demon.

A groom from the Domaine had been in Rennes-les-Bains at the time. The small crowd had turned on the boy, demanding to know how the creature was controlled, where it was kept. Though nothing could make him admit to the absurd tales of sorcery, this only inflamed the crowd.

It was Constant himself who suggested they storm the house to see for themselves. Within moments, the idea had taken hold and become their own. A little later, he allowed them to persuade him to organise the assault on the Domaine de la Cade.

Constant paused at the foot of the terrace, exhausted by the effort of walking. He watched the mob divide into two columns, spreading out to front and side, swarming up the stone stairs on to the terrace at the back of the house.

The striped awning that ran the length of the terrace went up first, sparked by a boy climbing up the ivy and wedging his flaming torch into the folds of material at the end. Although damp from the October air, the material caught and ignited in seconds, and the torch fell through on to the terrace. The smell of oil and canvas and fire filled the night in a cloud of choking black smoke.
Someone called out above the chaos, 'Les diaboliques? The sight of the flames seemed to inflame the passions of the villagers. The first window was broken, the glass shattering at the end of a steel-capped boot. A shard became wedged in the man's thick winter trousers, and he kicked it away. More windows followed. One by one the elegant rooms were breached by the violence of the crowd, jabbing their torches in to ignite the curtains.

Three others picked up a stone urn and used it as a battering ram on the door. Glass and metal buckled and shattered as the frame gave way. The trio dropped the urn and the mob flooded into the hall and the library. With rags soaked in oil and tar, they set fire to the mahogany shelves. One by one the books ignited, the dry paper and antique leather bindings catching as easily as straw. Crackling and spitting, the flames leapt from one shelf to the next.