Ratafia de champagne turned out to be a rather strong liquor, but when combined with the sweet flavor of the melon it tasted simply divine. If we hadn’t run out of fruit, we would have spent the rest of the day under the garden table instead of sitting at it.
After dinner, Claude cloistered himself in his office to work on something related to a trial that would be happening in the coming days, and we moved to the TV room to watch an old Alfred Hitchcock movie on the expensive, state-of-the-art home theatre system. We snuggled up contentedly on the dark green couch to enjoy letting the master of suspense scare us once again.
When we were back in our bedroom, I snuggled comfortably against Tadeusz and closed my eyes.
“You know,” I said. “I’ve always felt like there was some kind of sadness oozing from these old walls. Now, I wonder if it was Marie’s misery over her unrequited love that might have seeped into... everything. Let’s not fight any more. I feel like we’re making her distress worse.”
“I’m happy to agree to that, but you have to stop provoking me,” he said quietly. “But… I need you to change a little, for our sake.”
“Change?” I echoed, moving uneasily against him. “I don’t understand.”
“I feel like you’re drifting away from me,” he said. I opened my mouth to argue, but he held up his hand to stop me. "Don’t interrupt, please. I need to say this. For a while now, I’ve been feeling like you have less and less room for me in your life, that I’m becoming a burden to you. You’ve become combative and quarrelsome.”
“But—” I tried to protest, but Tadeusz interrupted me.
“I don’t think you realize how it looks to me,” he said, “but that’s what I’m seeing. You used to be different.”
“Honey,” I tried again, and this time he let me get a word in. “You’re probably right about me behaving differently, but it has nothing to do with my feelings for you. I’ve just been so busy and tired. You know how much I have on my mind right now, and to be brutally honest, I’m not getting any younger. Sometimes I just want to go home, hide in a corner, turn the phone off, and pretend I’m not there.”
“Then why don’t you want to live together?”
“Hmm…” I murmured thoughtfully, pausing to consider my answer carefully. “Maybe it’s just because I’ve always been independent, and don’t know if I can adjust to living with someone every day. I’m afraid I won’t be able to adapt. Plus, we both have our habits, and any one of them could turn out to ruin everything.”
“If you loved me…” He stopped when he saw the expression on my face. “No, no, no emotional blackmail! I think that if you really loved me, you’d want to be with me always, not just when you have the time and inclination.”
“Jesus!” I groaned helplessly. “We’re not twenty and thinking about starting a family here. What we have is a different kind of love, a mature kind of love.”
“Different?” He moved away from me a little. “How is it any different? Love is love. It’s either there, or it isn’t.”
“Do I really have to give you a lecture? There are different kinds of love, and each of them can be just as wonderful as the others. There’s the love between friends, the love between parent and child, the love between lovers in the freshest bloom of life, the love between husband and wife… And sometimes there’s even the special kind of love it takes to love an old ass like you!”
“Then why don’t you want to be with me?” he complained, his tone almost pathetic now. “Why don’t you want to marry me?”
My jaw fell open, and silence fell with it. For a while, the only sound was the gentle rustle of wind in the fireplace, and the old walls making their mysterious sounds.
“But… you’ve never asked me?” I said at last.
“Well,” he huffed, looking a little embarrassed and a touch confused. “I mean, maybe I didn’t ask directly, but I thought I’d strongly implied it.”
“Um… perhaps you ‘implied it’ when I wasn’t around, because I have no recollection of any such implication.”
“But if I asked, what would you say?” he demanded.
“There’s only one way to find out,” I replied.
Tadeusz leapt out of bed, threw his robe on, and tossed mine at me.
“Come here,” he demanded, towing me towards the fireplace. I followed, amused and struggling to tie my robe closed with just the one free hand. The bedroom was quite cold, thanks to the constant draft that came down the chimney, but that didn’t stop him. Still holding my hand, he dropped down on one knee and looked up at me.
“Will you marry me?” he asked softly, his whole demeanor changing in an instant.
In semi-darkness, dressed in our long robes, we must have looked like characters from a historical play – or perhaps, the former occupants of this very chateau. At first the situation amused me, but then I suddenly realized that Tadeusz was dead serious. I felt a lump of emotion form in my throat, and tears sprang into my eyes.
“Yes,” I whispered. “Yes, you big, dumb oaf. Yes. Finally!”
The next morning, right after breakfast, we went to see Sophie’s cousin, Paul Vieillard.
The little winery at the edge of the town center’s plaza seemed very pleasant. There were several tables outside with crisp white tablecloths, shade umbrellas, red and black checkered linens, and little wooden flowerpots to give them a nice, homey atmosphere. Paul greeted us outside, and invited us into the cool interior.
“I think there’s going to be a storm today,” he said as he guided through the winery. The air is very still, but humid. It’s hard to breathe outside.”
He paused to hand out instructions to his workers in the back, and a short while later we were sitting around a table in the corner of the room. Luckily, he spoke English – not much, but enough to hold a conversation that everyone could participate in.
“Please, tell me more about your discovery,” he said, as a youth in a white apron brought us a bottle of chilled champagne and glasses. “I already feel that this is going to be something worth celebrating.”
Paul listened intently as we told our tale, without interrupting, only offering the occasional nod or frown to show his understanding. Claude told most of it, while I occasionally added details to flesh it out. For the sake of expediency, we carried out this first part of the conversation in French, to make it as easy as possible for Paul to follow. Tadeusz already knew the story anyway, so he was content to drink his wine and look around.
“I have to tell you,” he said when we finally finished our tale, “that such suspicions regarding the identity of our distant ancestors have lingered within our family for a long time. There was a lot of talk about it when my father was still alive, but after he died the topic fell silent. I didn’t have much interest in it, so I felt no need to pursue it. Apart from our suspicions, we didn’t have even the tiniest shred of proof that it might have been Chopin. My father did seem to know something about the mystery, but he stopped sharing it with us when he realized we had no interest. I do remember that he was constantly taking notes, collecting things, writing letters. We thought it was just an old man’s quirkiness, and no one asked for details. But now…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “You’ve managed to pique my interest, where he could not. Phillippe didn’t leave any letters or journals behind. Your discovery is something completely new, and it changes everything. I’ll gladly join the search. What can I do?”
We didn’t know. After some discussion, it was decided that he would go through his father’s notes and the items he’d collected, to see if there were any clues about that mysterious ancestor could be.
“I wouldn’t get my hopes up,” he warned us with a sigh. “After my father’s death, I spent some time sorting his papers, but there wasn’t much left. A lot of it was destroyed in a fire we had about ten years ago – faulty wiring, the firefighters said. It’s a good thing Papa didn’t live to see it, his notes and collections of photographs both new and old, all gone up in smoke
. Only a fraction of the collection survived. By some lucky accident, a few of the photographs were being kept in a newer part of the house, which survived undamaged – such as around here.” He made a circle with his hand, gesturing all around us.
The winery’s walls were hung with photographs, black and white images capturing scenes from Trigny’s past: men and women with huge baskets in the vineyard, crowds of smiling people gathered in a familiar-looking garden, a flock of the faithful leaving the church, and the winery with its distinctive sign above the door, though it seemed smaller than it did today.
“Yes, I expanded the winery after the fire,” Paul said with a smile when I commented on the last photograph. “Now we have a lot more space to work with. So, Claude – do you recognize that garden there?”
“Is it our garden?” he asked, rising from his chair to get a better look at the photograph. “Oh, yes, that is our garden – I recognize the kitchen window and a bit of the east wing. We don’t have any pictures like this one…”
“That was part of my father’s collection,” Paul told him. “It may have even been taken by him, we don’t know. I’d be happy to make a copy of it, if you’d like?”
While they were talking, my attention was drawn to a series of caricatures that hung over the counter.
“Those are some of our regulars,” Paul said proudly. “My son, Stanislas, is quite a gifted artist.”
They were fantastic illustrations, drawn by a very confident hand, depicting men and women of all shapes, sizes, and ages. Economical, mischievous lines drew attention to people’s physical characteristics in the least flattering way possible. In one, a huge woman loomed over a small, cowering man; if they were husband and wife, then there was no doubt who wore the pants in that household. In another was a world-weary man barely visible behind an enormous wine glass. Next to it was a drawing of a woman with her hands on her hips, and a Cheshire Cat smile as wide as her face.
“What do the, ah… models? Think about them?” I asked carefully. Paul shrugged.
“Some got offended,” he admitted. “As usually happens with those kind of people. Others loved them. My son doesn’t particularly care, and spends much of his free time drawing more caricatures. Not all of them fit in here, so there are plenty hanging around the house.”
Suddenly, birds chirped in my purse. I excused myself and stepped outside to take the call. The sun bore down mercilessly and there were dark clouds gathering on the horizon, reinforcing the idea that a storm was imminent.
The call was from Mark, curious to hear whether we’d made any further discoveries – and to check on me, apparently.
“Forgive me for asking, but how are your… personal matters? Are things any better?” he asked, sounding genuinely embarrassed but curious as well. “I hate to be nosy, but you looked so sad. I’ve been worried.”
“Yes, much better,” I replied, feeling a flush of warmth when I remembered the previous night’s proposal. “Everything is fine – wonderful, even – though I think Tadeusz is a little jealous of you.”
“Jealous? Of me?” Mark laughed heartily. “I’m very flattered, but…” He hesitated for a moment, maybe searching for the right words to avoid offending me. “He has nothing to worry about. I’m already spoken for.”
“Of course. Speaking of being spoken for – how are things for you?”
“Better,” he admitted, sounding relieved. “I think you brought me some good luck, or at least gave me some good advice. If not for our meeting and conversations, I might have made the wrong decision and regretted it. To be honest, I was very close to ending that relationship at the time. Now, everything’s turned out for the best.”
“I’m relieved to hear that,” I told him honestly. Now, I have something to tell you that’s going to make you nearly as happy. Imagine, if you please…” Then I launched into the part of the story he’d missed since our last meeting, and told him all about the letter in the prayer book, and our discovery in the attic.
“Fantastic!” he exclaimed once I finished telling the tale. “What a revelation! Perhaps you would like to pop into Paris for a day? Come, have dinner with us. It all sounds terribly interesting, and I’d love to have a look at that letter. What a find!”
I agreed on behalf of both my myself and Tadeusz – though I wasn’t sure what his reaction was going to be to the invitation – and hurried back into the winery to write down the rather complicated address he gave me.
Afterwards, I explained who had called and why. Despite my worries, Tadeusz had no complaints.
“It could prove to be a useful conversation,” he said, then he threw me a long glance. I thought I sensed a hint of a threat in his voice, but I couldn’t be sure whether it was real or just my imagination. “Mark is very intelligent man, a connoisseur of the arts, and a big fan of Chopin. He could help us a lot. It’ll be interesting to meet his wife. I’m sure she’s equally cultured and educated.”
We talked for a while longer about the caricatures, and about Paul’s other, equally-talented children.
“My youngest, Christine, is studying art in Paris,” he told us proudly. “Anne, the middle one, is the music teacher at our local school.” He laughed and shook his head. “I never had an ounce of artistic talent. They used to say that an elephant stepped on my ear when I was a child. I only sing in church, during mass, and even then I do it quietly so that the priest won’t chase me out. And drawing? Hah! My stick figures look like blobs. I gave up on the arts a long time ago.”
We said our goodbyes to our very welcoming host, and departed with promises that we’d keep one another up to date on our respective tasks in relation to the mystery.
Just as we were leaving, there was a crack of thunder and the heavens opened, forcing us to dash back to the chateau in the pouring rain.
Chapter Thirteen
We set out for Paris early the next morning, so we’d have time to explore the city a little before dinner at Mark’s. We planned to visit the Père Lachaise cemetery, which we hadn’t had time to visit during our previous stay.
“But do come back tomorrow afternoon,” Claude instructed, handing us the keys to the apartment on Rue Ferdinand Duval again, where we were going to spend the night. “Sophie’s coming home, and we must tell her all about our discoveries.”
Getting around Paris by car was a real nightmare, just like in any other large European city. As the congestion got worse and worse over the years, more and more citizens had opted to leave their cars in parking lots and switch over to the Métro and buses. We, too, decided to leave the car at the apartment, and walked from there to the Hôtel de Ville Métro Station. There, we searched the huge plan for the nearest connection to Père Lachaise.
“Okay, we’ll take Line 11 towards Mairie des Lias,” I explained to Tadeusz. “Then, at Republique we change over to Line 3 heading for Gallieni.”
Along the way to the platform, we passed a young man so full of piercings that his face nearly jingled. He was playing a guitar and singing one of the classic hits of The Beatles – quite well, actually. Certainly well enough that he’d acquired a rather sizeable pile of coins in his guitar case.
“Have you noticed the great acoustics in here?” Tadeusz asked.
“Yes,” I replied. “That’s probably why buskers prefer to sing here, rather than up at street level.”
We made it to the Métro station at Père Lachaise without any problems. As soon as we left the subway, we noticed the huge stone wall that ran along the far side of the bustling Ménilmontant Boulevard. We crossed the street and headed for the entrance, which was clearly marked by small stone pillars, connected by chains.
A large map of the cemetery stood to the left of the entrance, but I had one a map and guidebook of my own that I’d bought from a nearby florist last time I’d visited.
“You can really get lost in here without a map,” I explained, unfolding the sheet of paper. I’d marked directions and a sightseeing route on it in red pen a few years earlier.
“This way, my dear tourist.” I waved my hand ahead of me. “We’ll pass the grave of the author Colette, then head straight on to the mausoleum of the philosopher Peter Abelard and his wife, Heloise.”
“Yes ma’am!” The tourist in question seemed quite pleased and ready to be guided. “Lead on, chief.”
“The cemetery’s name comes from the confessor of Louis XIV, the Father de la Chaise,” I began to read from my well-worn guide. “The site was originally owned by wealthy merchant, until the Jesuits took possession of the original house in the 17th century and converted it into a Jesuit retreat. Father de la Chaise lived there for a time. In 1763, the crown seized the property during the general eviction of Jesuits from the city. In 1801, the prefect, Nicholas Frochot, issued a decree to turn the grounds into a cemetery. The first burial took place in 1804.”
Many of the mausoleums we passed looked like small chapels. Some were obviously well-maintained and cared for, while others showed signs of neglect. Many of their doors had been left ajar, to reveal dark, dusty interiors, the melted remains of candles, and crumbled cushions that had once protected the knees of mourners.
Colette’s grave was modest and unadorned. On a simple stele of black, shiny marble was the simplest of inscriptions: ‘Here rests Colette.’ Nothing more, nothing less.
“I heard a story that cats regularly flock to her grave,” I said, glancing around. “Apparently she was quite a cat-lover. I guess if the story is true, they only come at night.”
Tadeusz snorted with laughter. We moved on, to a white structure with tall towers, set atop slim columns: the tomb of Abelard and Heloise. Star-crossed lovers, if ever there were some, whose remains had been moved from their original resting place to Père Lachaise in 1817. Inside, on a white catafalque, an artists had sculpted two stone silhouettes that lay stiffly next to one another.
“Do you want to see Jim Morrison’s grave?” I asked, glancing at the map.
Daguerreotype: The Mystery of Frédéric Chopin Page 18