by Kate Mosse
Marieta knocked upon her door at seven o’clock.
‘Madomaisèla?’ she said, peeking her head around the half-open door. ‘Madama Isolde has sent me to help you dress. Are you decided upon what you will wear?’
Léonie nodded, as it was never in question. ‘The green gown with the square neck. And the sous-jupe with the broderie anglaise trim.’
‘Very good, Madomaisèla.’
Marieta fetched the garments, conveying them over outstretched arms, and laid them carefully upon the bed. Then, with deft fingers, she helped Léonie into her corset over her chemise and undergarments, lacing it tight at the back and fastening the hooks and eyes at the front. Léonie twisted first to the left, then the right, to see her reflection in the glass, then smiled.
The maid climbed on to the chair and lowered first the petticoat, then the dress itself over Léonie’s head. The green silk was chill against her skin as it fell in shimmering folds like water touched by sunlight.
Marieta jumped down and dealt with the fastenings, then sat back on her heels to arrange the hemline, while Léonie adjusted the sleeves.
‘How would you like me to dress your hair, Madomaisèla? ’
Léonie returned to the dressing table. Tilting her head to one side, she wound a thick handful of her tumbling curls around her hand and twisted them up on to the top of her head. ‘Like so.’
She let the hair drop, and then pulled towards her a small brown leather jewellery case. ‘I have tortoiseshell combs with inlaid abalone pearls in my jewellery box, which match the earrings and pendant I intend to wear.’
Marieta worked quickly, but carefully. She fixed the clasp of the platinum leaf and pearl necklace around Léonie’s neck, then stood back to admire her handiwork.
Léonie had a long, hard look in the cheval glass, tilting the mirror to obtain a full view. She smiled, pleased with what she saw. The gown hung well, neither too plain nor too extravagant for a private dinner. It flattered her colouring and her figure. Her eyes were clear and bright and her complexion was excellent, neither too pale nor too high a colour.
From downstairs, the raucous clamour of the bell. Then the sound of the front door being opened as the first guests arrived.
The two girls locked eyes.
‘Which gloves would you like, the green or the white?’
‘The green with the beading around the cuff,’ said Léonie. ‘There is a fan of much the same colour in one of the hat boxes at the top of the closet.’
When she was ready, Léonie swept up her chatelaine bag from the top of the chest of drawers, then slipped her stockinged feet into green silk slippers.
‘You look a picture, Madomaisèla,’ breathed Marieta. ‘Beautiful.’
A volley of noise hit Léonie when she emerged from her room and stopped her in her tracks. She peeped over the balcony to the hall below. The servants were dressed in hired livery for the evening and looked very smart. It added to the sense of occasion. She fixed a dazzling smile on to her face, made sure that her dress was quite perfect, and then, with butterflies in the pit of her stomach, went down to the join the party.
At the entrance to the drawing room, Pascal announced her in a strong and clear voice, and then rather spoiled the effect by giving her a wink of encouragement as she walked through.
Isolde was standing before the fireplace talking to an illcomplexioned young woman. With her eyes she called Léonie over to join them.
‘Mademoiselle Denarnaud, may I present my niece, Léonie Vernier, the daughter of my late husband’s sister.’
‘Enchantée, Mademoiselle,’ said Léonie prettily.
During the course of the short exchange, it transpired that Mademoiselle Denarnaud was an unmarried sister of the gentleman who had helped them with their luggage at Couiza on the day of their arrival. Denarnaud himself raised his hand and waved when he saw Léonie looking across the room at him. A rather more distant cousin, she learned, worked as the housekeeper to the Curé of Rennes-le-Château. Another large family, Léonie thought remembering how Isolde had mentioned at supper two nights ago that the Abbé Saunière himself was one of eleven siblings.
Her attempts at conversation were met with a cold stare. Although perhaps no older than Isolde, Mademoiselle Denarnaud was wearing a matronly heavy brocade gown more suited to a woman of twice her years and a hideously old-fashioned bustle, of the kind not seen in Paris for some years. The contrast between her and their hostess could not have been greater. Isolde had dressed her hair in ringlets of yellow curls piled high on her head and held in place by pearl combs. Her golden taffeta and ivory silk gown, fine enough to Léonie’s eye to have come from the latest collection by Charles Worth, was shot through with crystal and metallic thread. At her neck she wore a high choker in the same fabric, with a pearl brooch set in the middle. As she talked and moved, her dress caught the light and shimmered.
With relief, Léonie spotted Anatole standing by the windows, smoking and talking to Dr Gabignaud. She excused herself and slipped across the room to join the gentlemen. The scent of sandalwood soap, hair oil and a freshly pressed black dinner jacket greeted her as she approached. Anatole’s face lit up when he saw her.
‘Léonie!’
He slipped an arm around her waist and hugged her tight. ‘May I say, you look quite charming.’ He took a step back to let the doctor into the conversation. ‘Gabignaud, you remember my sister?’
‘Indeed I do.’The doctor gave a crisp bow. ‘Mademoiselle Vernier. And may I add my compliments to those of your brother.’
Léonie blushed charmingly. ‘It is quite a gathering,’ she said.
Anatole identified the other guests for her. ‘You remember Maître Fromilhague? And Denarnaud and his sister, who keeps house for him.’
Léonie nodded. ‘Tante Isolde introduced me.’
‘And that is Bérenger Saunière, the parish priest of Rennes-le-Château and friend of our late uncle.’
He pointed to a tall and muscular man, with a high forehead and strong features rather at odds with his long black robes.
‘Seems a charming fellow,’ Anatole continued, ‘although not a man given to trivialities.’ He nodded to the doctor. ‘He was rather more interested in Gabignaud’s medical investigations than the mundane pleasantries I had to offer.’
Gabignaud smiled, acknowledging the truth of it. ‘Saunière is an extremely informed man, in all manner of things. He has an appetite for knowledge. Always asking questions.’
Léonie looked at the priest a moment longer, then her gaze moved on.
‘And the lady with him?’
‘Madame Bousquet, a distant relative of our late uncle.’ Anatole dropped his voice. ‘Had not Lascombe taken it upon himself to marry, she would have inherited the Domaine de la Cade.’
‘Yet she has accepted the invitation to dine?’
He nodded. ‘The bond between Madame Bousquet and Isolde is hardly that of sisters, but it is civilised. They receive one another. Indeed, Isolde admires her.’
Only now did Léonie notice a tall, very thin man standing a little behind their small group. She half turned to observe him. He was dressed most unusually, in a white suit, rather than customary black evening wear, and sported a yellow handkerchief in the breast pocket of his jacket. His waistcoat, too, was yellow.
His face was lined and his skin almost transparent with antiquity, and yet it seemed to Léonie that no great sense of age hung about him. There was though, she thought, an underlying sadness. As if he was a man who had suffered and seen much.
Anatole turned to see who or what had so caught her attention. He leaned closer to whisper in her ear. ‘Ah, that is Rennes-les-Bains’ most celebrated visitor, Audric Baillard, author of that strange little pamphlet that engaged you so.’ He smiled. ‘Quite the eccentric, apparently. Gabignaud’s been telling me that he always dresses in that singular manner, regardless of the occasion. Always in a pale suit, always with a yellow cravat.’
Léonie turned to the d
octor. ‘Why is that?’ she asked, sotto voce.
Gabignaud smiled and shrugged. ‘I believe in memory of friends once lost, Mademoiselle Vernier. Fallen comrades, I’m not entirely certain.’
‘You can ask him yourself, petite, at dinner,’ said Anatole.
The conversation prospered until the sound of the gong being struck called the party in to dinner.
Isolde, escorted by Maître Fromilhague, led her guests from the drawing room and across the hall. Anatole accompanied Madame Bousquet. Léonie, on Monsieur Denarnaud’s arm, kept Monsieur Baillard in her sights. Abbé Saunière and Dr Gabignaud brought up the rear with Mademoiselle Denarnaud between them.
Pascal, splendid in borrowed red and gold livery, threw open the doors as the party approached. There was an immediate murmur of appreciation. Even Léonie, who had seen the dining room in various stages of preparation during the course of the morning, was dazzled by the transformation. The magnificent glass chandelier was alive with three tiers of white wax candles. The long oval table was dressed with armfuls of fresh lilies, lit by three silver candelabra. On the sideboard were serving tureens, their lids domed and gleaming like armour. Light from the candles sent shadows dancing along the walls across the painted faces of past generations of the Lascombe family that hung upon the walls.
The ratio of four ladies to six gentlemen made the table a little uneven. Isolde sat at the head, with Monsieur Baillard at the foot. Anatole was on Isolde’s left, with Maître Fromilhague to her right. Beside Fromilhague was Mademoiselle Denarnaud and next to her, Dr Gabignaud. Léonie was next, with Audric Baillard on her right. She gave a shy smile, as the servant pulled out her chair and she sat.
On the far side of the table, Anatole had the pleasure of Madame Bousquet, followed by Charles Denarnaud and Abbé Saunière beyond.
The servants poured generous measures of blanquette de Limoux into flat basin-like glasses, as wide as coffee bowls. Fromilhague concentrated his attentions on his hostess, all but ignoring Denarnaud’s sister, which Léonie thought discourteous although she could not entirely blame him for it. In their brief conversation, she had thought her a most dull woman.
After a few formal exchanges with Madame Bousquet, Léonie could hear Anatole was already launched into animated conversation with Maître Fromilhague about literature. Fromilhague was a man of strong opinions, dismissing Monsieur Zola’s latest novel, L’Argent, as dreary and immoral. He condemned other habitués of Zola’s erstwhile writing fraternity, such as Guy de Maupassant - who, rumour had it, having tried to take his own life, was now confined at Dr Blanche’s asylum in Paris. In vain, did Anatole try to suggest that a man’s life and his work might be treated separately.
‘Immorality in life debases the art,’ was Fromilhague’s stubborn response.
Soon most of the table were engaged in the debate.
‘You are quiet, Madomaisèla Léonie,’ came a voice at her ear. ‘Does literature not interest you?’
She turned with relief to Audric Baillard. ‘I adore to read. But in company such as this, it is difficult to make one’s opinions heard.’
He smiled. ‘Ah, yes.’
‘And I confess,’ she continued, blushing a little, ‘I find much contemporary literature utterly wearisome. Page after page of ideas, exquisite turns of phrase and clever ideas, but where nothing ever happens!’
A smile flickered in his eyes. ‘It is stories that capture your imagination?’
Léonie smiled. ‘My brother, Anatole, always tells me I have rather low tastes, and I suppose he is right. The most thrilling novel I have read is The Castle of Otranto, but I am also a fan of Amelia B. Edwards’ ghost stories and anything by Monsieur Poe.’
Baillard nodded. ‘He was gifted. A troubled man, but so adept at capturing the dark side of our human nature, don’t you think?’
Léonie felt a spike of pleasure. She had endured too many tedious soirées in Paris being all but ignored by the majority of guests, who seemed to believe that she would have no opinions worth the hearing. Monsieur Baillard appeared to be different.
‘I do,’ she agreed. ‘My favourite of Monsieur Poe’s stories, although I confess it gives me nightmares each time I read it, is “The Tell-Tale Heart”. A murderer driven mad by the sounds of the beating heart of the man he has slaughtered and concealed beneath the floorboards. Quite brilliant!’
‘Guilt is a powerful emotion,’ he said quietly.
Léonie looked at him closely for a moment, waiting for him to expound, but he said nothing more.
‘May I be impertinent and ask you a question, Monsieur Baillard?’
‘Of course.’
‘You are dressed, well . . .’ She broke off, not wishing to cause offence.
Baillard smiled. ‘Unconventionally? Not in the usual uniform? ’
‘Uniform?’
‘Of a gentlemen these days at dinner,’ he said, his eyes twinkling.
Léonie gave a sigh. ‘Well, yes. Although it was not that so much, as that my brother said that you were known to always wear yellow. In memory of fallen comrades, he said.’
Audric Baillard’s face seemed to cloud over.
‘That is so,’ he said quietly.
‘Did you fight at Sedan?’ she asked, then hesitated. ‘Or . . . my papa fought for the Commune. I never knew him. He was deported and . . .’
For a moment Audric Baillard’s hand covered hers. She felt his skin, paper thin, through the material of her gloves, and the lightness of his touch. Léonie did not know what overcame her at that moment, only that an anguish she had never realised she felt, was suddenly put into words.
‘Is it always right to fight for what you believe in, Monsieur Baillard?’ she said quietly. ‘I have often wondered. Even if the cost to those around you is so great?’
He squeezed her fingers. ‘Always,’ he said quietly. ‘And to remember those who fall.’
For an instant, the noise of the room receded. All the voices, the laughter, the chink of glasses and silver cutlery. Léonie looked directly at him and felt her gaze, her thoughts, absorbed by the wisdom and experience flickering in his pale, dignified eyes.
Then he smiled. His eyes crinkled and the intimacy was broken.
‘The Good Christians, the Cathar believers, were forced to wear a yellow cross pinned to their clothing to mark them out.’ His fingers patted the sunflower-yellow handkerchief in his pocket. ‘I wear this in remembrance.’
Léonie tilted her head. ‘You feel deeply for them, Monsieur Baillard,’ she said, smiling.
‘Those who have gone before us are not necessarily gone, Madomaisèla Vernier.’ He tapped his chest. ‘They live here.’ He smiled. ‘You did not know your father, you say, and yet he lives in you? Yes?’
To her astonishment, Léonie felt tears spring to her eyes. She nodded, unable to trust herself to speak. It was, in some respects, a relief when Dr Gabignaud asked her a question and she was obliged to answer.
CHAPTER 43
Course after course was brought to the table. Fresh trout, pink and melting from the bone like butter, followed by dainty lamb cutlets served on a bed of late asparagus. The men were poured a strong Corbières, a hearty local red wine from Jules Lascombe’s excellent cellar. For the ladies, a semi-sweet white wine from Tarascon, rich and dark, the colour of singed onion skins.
The air grew hot with conversation and opinion, arguments of faith and politics, of north and south, of country living versus the town. Léonie glanced across at her brother. Anatole was in his element. His brown eyes sparkling, his black hair glistening, she could see how he was charming both Madame Bousquet and Isolde herself. At the same time, she could not fail to notice there were shadows beneath his eyes. And that, in the dancing light of the candles, the scar on his eyebrow looked particularly vivid.
Léonie took some little time to recover from the strong emotions her conversation with Audric Baillard had aroused in her. Little by little, self-consciousness and embarrassment at having revealed hers
elf so openly - and so unexpectedly - began to give way to curiosity that she should have done so. Having recovered her composure, she became impatient for an opportunity to rekindle their conversation. But Monsieur Baillard was deeply engaged in debate with the Curé, Bérenger Saunière. To her other side, Dr Gabignaud seemed determined to fill every moment with talking. Only with the arrival of dessert did the opportunity present itself.
‘Tante Isolde says you are an expert in many matters, Monsieur Baillard. Not only the Albigensians, but Visigoth history, also Egyptian hieroglyphs. On my first evening here, I read your monograph Diables et Esprits Maléfiques et Phantômes de la Montagne. There is a copy here in the library.’