Sepulchre

by Kate Mosse

  The thought that he would not know where to find her - or, equally, that he might be thinking ill of her for her discourtesy in not keeping to their discreet arrangement - played endlessly on her mind.

  CHAPTER 70

  Her chance came three days later.

  On Wednesday evening, Isolde was improved enough to join Anatole and Léonie for dinner in the dining room. She ate little. Or, rather, she sampled many dishes, but none seemed to her liking. Even the coffee, freshly brewed from the beans Léonie had purchased for her in Carcassonne, was not to her taste.

  Anatole fussed around her, endlessly suggesting different collations that might tempt her, but in the end only succeeded in persuading her to eat a little white bread and churned butter, with a little chèvre trois jours and honey.

  ‘Is there anything? Whatever it is, I will endeavour to get it for you.’

  Isolde smiled. ‘Everything tastes so peculiar.’

  ‘You must eat,’ he said firmly. ‘You need to recover your strength and ...’

  He stopped short. Léonie noticed a look pass between them and again wondered what he had been about to say.

  ‘I can go down into Rennes-les-Bains tomorrow and purchase whatever you would like,’ he continued.

  Léonie suddenly had an idea. ‘I could go,’ she said, trying to keep her voice light. ‘Rather than tear you away, Anatole, it would be my pleasure to go down to the town.’ She turned to Isolde. ‘I am well-acquainted with your tastes, Tante. If the gig could be spared in the morning, Pascal could drive me.’ She paused. ‘I could bring back a tin of crystallised ginger from the Magasins Bousquet.’

  To her delight and excitement, Léonie saw a spark of interest flare in Isolde’s pale grey eyes.

  ‘I confess, that is something I could manage,’ she admitted.

  ‘And perhaps, also,’ Léonie added, quickly running through Isolde’s favourite treats in her mind, ‘I could visit the patissier and purchase a box of Jesuites?’

  Léonie detested the heavy, sickly cream cakes, but was aware that Isolde could be occasionally persuaded to indulge herself.

  ‘They might be a little rich for me at present,’ Isolde smiled, ‘but some of those black pepper biscuits might be quite the thing.’

  Anatole was smiling at her and nodding.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘That is settled then.’ He covered Léonie’s small hand with his. ‘I am more than happy to come with you, petite, if you wish it.’

  ‘Not at all. It will be an adventure. I am certain there are plenty of things to occupy your time here.’

  He glanced across at Isolde. ‘True,’ he concurred. ‘Well, if you are certain, Léonie.’

  ‘Quite certain,’ she said briskly. ‘I will leave at ten o’clock, so as to be back in good time for luncheon. I shall compile a list.’

  ‘You are kind to go to so much trouble,’ Isolde said.

  ‘It is my pleasure,’ Léonie replied, truthfully.

  She had done it. Provided she could slip away to the poste restante without Pascal’s knowledge some time during the course of the morning, she would be able to put her mind at rest as to Monsieur Constant’s intentions towards her, for good or ill.

  When Léonie retired for the evening, she was dreaming of how it might feel to hold his letter in her hand. What such a billet-doux might say, the feelings that might be expressed therein.

  Indeed, by the time she finally fell asleep, she had already composed, a hundred times over, a beautifully drafted response to Monsieur Constant’s - imagined - elegantly stated protestations of affection and regard.

  The morning of Thursday 29th October was glorious.

  The Domaine de la Cade was bathed in a soft copper light, beneath an endless blue sky, spotted here and there with generous white clouds. And it was mild. The days of storms had gone out, bringing in their place the memory of the scent of summer breezes. An été indien.

  At a quarter past ten, Léonie stepped down from the gig in the Place du Pérou, dressed for the occasion in her favourite crimson day dress, with matching jacket and hat. With her shopping list in her hand, she promenaded along the Gran’Rue, visiting each of the shops in turn. Pascal accompanied her to carry her various purchases from the Magasins Bousquet; from Les Frères Marcel Pâtisserie et Chocolaterie, boulangerie artisanale; and from the haberdashery where she purchased some thread. She paused for a sirop de grenadine at the street-side café adjoining the Maison Gravère, where she and Anatole had taken coffee on their first expedition, and felt quite at home.

  Indeed, Léonie felt as if she belonged to the town and the town to her. And although one or two people with whom she had a passing acquaintance were a little cold to her, or so it seemed - the wives looking away and the husbands barely lifting their hats as she passed - Léonie dismissed the notion that she could have given some offence. She now believed wholeheartedly that although she considered herself thoroughly Parisian, in point of fact she felt more alive, more vital, in the wooded landscape of mountains and lakes of the Aude than ever she had done in the city.

  Now, the thought of the dirty streets and soot of the 8th arrondissement, not to mention the limitations placed upon her freedom, appalled her. Certainly, if Anatole could persuade their mother to join them for Christmas, then Léonie would be more than content to remain at the Domaine de la Cade until the New Year and beyond.

  Her tasks were quickly accomplished. By eleven o’clock, all that remained was to slip away from Pascal for long enough to make her detour to the poste restante. She asked him to convey the packages back to the gig, which had been left in the care of one of his many nephews by the drinking trough a little to the south of the main square. She then declared that she intended to pay her respects to Monsieur Baillard.

  Pascal’s expression hardened. ‘I was not aware he had returned to Rennes-les-Bains, Madomaisèla Léonie,’ he said.

  Their eyes met. ‘I do not know for certain that he has,’ she admitted. ‘But it is no trouble to walk there and back. I shall meet you in the Place du Pérou presently.’

  As she was speaking, Léonie suddenly realised how she could engineer an opportunity to read the letter in private. ‘In point of fact, Pascal,’ she added quickly, ‘you may leave me. I believe I shall walk all the way back to the Domaine de la Cade instead. You need not wait.’

  Pascal’s face flushed red. ‘I am certain Sénher Anatole would not wish me to abandon you here to make the return journey on foot,’ he said, his expression making it clear that he knew how her brother had scolded Marieta for letting Léonie slip from her charge in Carcassonne.

  ‘My brother did not give you instructions that I should not be left unaccompanied?’ she said immediately. ‘Did he?’

  Pascal was forced to concede that he had not.

  ‘Well, then. I am confident of the path through the woods,’ she said firmly. ‘Marieta brought us through the rear entrance to the Domaine de la Cade, as you know, so it is not unknown to me. It is such a fine day, possibly the last of this year’s sun, I cannot believe my brother would not wish me to take advantage of the good air.’

  Pascal did not move.

  ‘That will be all,’ Léonie said, more sharply than she intended.

  He stared at her a moment longer, his broad face impassive, then suddenly he grinned. ‘As you wish, Madomaisèla Léonie,’ he said in his calm, steady voice, ‘but you shall answer to Sénher Anatole, not I.’

  ‘I shall tell him that I insisted you left me, yes.’

  ‘And by your leave, I shall send Marieta to unlock the gates and walk to meet you halfway down. In case you mistake the path.’

  Léonie felt humbled, both by Pascal’s good nature in the face of her ill temper, and also by his concern for her well-being. For the truth was that despite her fighting talk, she was a little anxious at the thought of going alone all the way through the woods.

  ‘Thank you, Pascal,’ she said softly. ‘I promise I will be quick. My aunt and brother will not ev
en notice.’

  He nodded, then, with his arms full of the packages, turned on his heel and walked away. Léonie watched him go.

  As he turned the corner, something else caught her eye. She glimpsed a person in a blue cape darting into the passageway that led to the church, as if he did not wish to be seen. Léonie frowned, but put it out of her mind as she retraced her steps back towards the river.

  As a precaution in case Pascal should take it upon himself to follow her, she had decided to walk to the poste restante via the road in which Monsieur Baillard’s lodgings were to be found.

  She smiled at a couple of Isolde’s acquaintances, but did not stop to pass the time of day with anyone. Within minutes, she had reached her destination. To her intense surprise, the blue shutters of the tiny house were pinned back.

  Léonie stopped. Isolde had been certain Monsieur Baillard had quit Rennes-les-Bains for the foreseeable future. At least until the feast day of St Martin, or so she had been told. Had the house been let to someone else for the interim? Or had he returned ahead of time?

  Léonie glanced down the rue de l’Hermite, which led, at the river end, to the street where the poste restante was situated. She was in a fever of excitement about the possibility of receiving her letter. She had thought of little else for days. But having enjoyed a period of exquisite anticipation, she was suddenly fearful that her hopes might be on the point of being dashed. That there might be no communication from Monsieur Constant.

  And she had been regretting the absence of Monsieur Baillard now for some weeks. If she passed by without stopping and later discovered she had missed an opportunity to renew her acquaintance with him, she would never forgive herself.

  If there is a letter, it will still be there in ten minutes’ time.

  Léonie stepped forward and rapped upon the door.

  For a moment, nothing happened. She leant her ear closer to the painted panels and could just pick out the sound of feet walking across a tiled floor.

  ‘Oc?’ came a child’s voice.

  She took a step back as the door was opened, suddenly shy that she had taken it upon herself to call uninvited. A small dark-haired boy, with eyes the colour of blackberries, stood looking up at her.

  ‘Is Monsieur Baillard at home?’ she said. ‘It is Léonie Vernier. The niece of Madame Lascombe. From the Domaine de la Cade.’

  ‘He is expecting you?’

  ‘He is not. I was passing so took the liberty of paying an impromptu visit. If it is inconvenient...’

  ‘Que ès?’

  The boy turned. Léonie smiled with pleasure at the sound of Monsieur Baillard’s voice. Emboldened, she called out.

  ‘It is Léonie Vernier, Monsieur Baillard.’

  Moments later, the distinctive figure in the white suit she remembered so clearly from the evening of the dinner party appeared at the end of passageway. Even in the gloom of the narrow entrance, Léonie could see he was smiling.

  ‘Madomaisèla Léonie,’ he said. ‘An unexpected pleasure.’

  ‘I have been undertaking certain tasks for my aunt - she has been unwell - and Pascal has gone ahead. I had thought you were away from Rennes-les-Bains at present, but when I saw the shutters pinned back, I ...’

  She realised she was gabbling, and checked her tongue.

  ‘I am delighted you did so,’ Baillard said. ‘Please, do come in.’

  Léonie hesitated. Although he was a man of some reputation, an acquaintance of Tante Isolde and on visiting terms with the Domaine de la Cade, she was aware it might be considered inappropriate for a young girl to enter the house of a gentleman alone.

  But then who is here to witness it?

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘I should be delighted.’

  She stepped over the threshold.

  CHAPTER 71

  Léonie followed Monsieur Baillard down the passageway, which opened into a pleasant room at the rear of the tiny house. A single large window dominated the whole of one wall.

  ‘Oh,’ she exclaimed. ‘The view is quite as perfect as a picture. ’

  ‘It is,’ he smiled. ‘I am fortunate.’

  He rang a small silver bell that sat on a low side-table next to the wing armchair in which he had clearly been sitting, beside the wide stone fireplace. The same boy reappeared. Léonie discreetly cast her eyes around the room. It was a plain and simple chamber, with a selection of mismatched chairs, a boudoir table behind the sofa. Bookcases covered the length of the wall opposite the fireplace, every inch of them filled.

  ‘There, now,’ he said. ‘Please, take a seat. Tell me your news, Madomaisèla Léonie. I trust all is well at the Domaine de la Cade. You said your aunt was indisposed. Nothing serious, I hope?’

  Léonie removed her hat and gloves, then settled herself opposite him.

  ‘She is much improved. We were caught out in the ill weather last week and my aunt developed a chill. The doctor was called, but the worst is over and every day she grows stronger.’

  ‘Her condition hangs in the balance,’ he said, ‘and it is early days. But all will be well.’

  Léonie looked at him, puzzled at this non sequitur, but at that moment the boy returned carrying a brass tray with two ornate glass goblets and a silver jug on it, much like a coffee pot but with swirling diamond patterns, and the question died on her lips.

  ‘It comes from the Holy Land,’ her host told her. ‘A gift from an old friend, many years ago now.’

  The servant handed her a glass filled with a thick red liquid.

  ‘What is this, Monsieur Baillard?’

  ‘A local cherry liqueur, guignolet. I a dmit, I am rather partial to it. It is particularly good when taken with these black pepper biscuits.’ He nodded and the boy offered the plate to Léonie. ‘They are a local speciality and can be purchased everywhere, but I judge those baked here at the Frères Marcel quite the best I have tasted.’

  ‘I bought some myself,’ Léonie replied. She took a mouthful of guignolet, then immediately coughed. It was sweet, tasting intensely of wild cherries, but very strong indeed.

  ‘You have returned earlier than we were expecting,’ she said. ‘My aunt led me to believe that you would be away until November at least, perhaps even until Noel.’

  ‘My business was quicker to conclude than I had expected, so I returned. There are stories coming up from the town. I felt here I might be of more use.’

  Use? Léonie thought it an odd word, but said nothing of it.

  ‘Where did you go, Monsieur?’

  ‘To visit old friends,’ he said quietly. ‘Also, I have a house some way into the mountains. In a tiny village called Los Seres, not so far from the old fortress citadel of Montségur. I wished to ensure that it was ready, should I need to repair there in the foreseeable future.’

  Léonie frowned. ‘Is that likely, Monsieur? I was under the impression that you had taken lodgings here in town in order to avoid the rigours of winter in the mountains.’

  His eyes sparkled. ‘I have lived through many mountain winters, Madomaisèla,’ he said softly. ‘Some hard, others less so.’ He fell silent a moment and seemed to drift into thought. ‘But, tell me,’ he said finally, gathering himself together once more. ‘What of you these past weeks? Have you had any further adventures, Madomaisèla Léonie, since last we met?’

  She met his gaze. ‘I have not returned to the sepulchre, Monsieur Baillard,’ she said, ‘if that is your meaning.’

  He smiled. ‘That was indeed my meaning.’

  ‘Although, I must confess, the subject of Tarot has continued to hold some interest for me.’ She scrutinised his expression, but his timeworn face gave nothing away. ‘I have begun a sequence of paintings also.’ She hesitated. ‘Reproductions of the images from the walls.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘They are studies, I suppose. No, in point of fact, they are rather copies.’

  He leaned forward in his chair. ‘And you have attempted all of them?’

  ‘Well, no,
’ she answered, although thinking it a singular question. ‘Just those at the beginning. What they term the major arcana, and even then, not each character. I find that I am disinclined to attempt certain of the images. For example, Le Diable.’

  ‘And La Tour?’