The Disappearance at Père-Lachaise

by Claude Izner

  To all the usual people!

  And to our dear Invisible Ones

  ‘Are you still there? You are undoubtedly dead, but from where I am, you can speak to the dead.’

  Victor Hugo

  ‘We are all ghosts…’

  Élisabeth d’Autriche

  The Père-Lachaise Cemetery

  Victor Legris’s Paris

  Contents

  Plan of the Père-Lachaise Cemetery

  Plan of Victor Legris’s Paris

  The Père-Lachaise Mystery

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Appendix

  Notes

  Prologue

  Cauca province, Columbia.

  November 1889

  They had finally reached Las Juntas after a difficult descent through forests dripping with humidity. A bearded man led the way. Behind him were two Indian bearers, carrying a fourth man in a hammock slung between two poles that rested on their shoulders. They were about half a mile outside the village on a stony path bordered with flowering lavender. The twenty or so shacks surrounded by meagre plantations of maize and tobacco stood out against the charred foothills of the Andes Cordillera. Down below, the restless waters of the river Dagua rolled towards the Pacific Ocean.

  The path they had been following ended in front of the grandly named Hacienda del Dagua, an abandoned house dating back to the time when Las Juntas had been a lively centre of commerce between Cali and Buenaventura. All that remained of it now was rubble overgrown with weeds. Only one bedroom, its roof caved in, was still standing.

  The bearers placed the improvised stretcher on some straw-filled crates and left hurriedly, muttering the words, ‘Duendes, duendes.’ The bearded man pulled a face. Under normal circumstances a haunted house would have aroused his curiosity, but for three days now nothing had gone as planned, and he felt a growing indifference to the world around him. He watched the Indians leave, removed his haversack and looked around the room.

  A mass of cobwebs hung like a thick veil over a jumble of broken carriage wheels, metal cogs, the remains of a telegraph machine and dozens of empty bottles. The man picked up a yellow, worm-eaten volume – the pages almost turned to dust: Stances à la Malibran by Alfred de Musset. He laughed to himself. Musset, here of all places! How absurd! He dropped the book and bent over the body lying across the straw-filled crates. The dying man was about the same height as him, but of heavier build. His unbuttoned shirt revealed his chest bathed in sweat, each intake of breath rattling as though it were his last. Red froth bubbled from his mouth. The bullet had hit him in the back, piercing his lung. He’s not long for this world, thought the bearded man, surprised at how detached he felt.

  He opened the haversack and spread its contents on the compacted earth: a wallet, a couple of cartridges, some underclothes, a knife, some ordnance survey maps. An envelope was sticking out of the wallet, addressed to ‘M. Armand de Valois, Geologist with the Inter-Oceanic Company, c/o Señora Caicedo, Hotel Rosalie, Cali, Colombia’. He opened the letter and read it out in a low voice:

  29th July 1889

  My dearest Armand,

  How are you, my duck? Your letter was waiting for me yesterday on my return from Paris. I thoroughly enjoyed my stay at Houlgate. My friend Adalberte de Brix (President Brix’s widow, you remember) was renting a villa close to mine. We went on a few pleasant walks together and played lawn tennis, badminton and croquet and met some charming people – in particular the well-known English spiritualist M. Numa Winner. Just imagine, he predicted both M. de Lesseps’s bankruptcy and the cessation of work on the canal as far back as two years ago! I visited him at his house several times in the company of Adalberte. Since her son Alberic was taken in his prime, she has developed a boundless passion for séances and has consulted several mediums, with no real success, until she encountered M. Numa Winner. And now, my darling, can you imagine, she has spoken to young Alberic through him. I should never have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes. It was astonishing! Young Alberic implored his mother to stop mourning his departure and said that he was happy where he was, and cried out ‘Free! Free at last!’ What a comfort, don’t you agree? I asked M. Numa some questions of my own, and he assured me that your troubles will soon be over and that you will enjoy a well-earned rest. You see, my duck, your little wife is thinking of you. Did I tell you that your bookseller M. Legris, from Rue des Saints-Pères, was involved in a series of sordid murders at the Universal Exposition? Raphaëlle de Gouveline told me that he was seen about with a Russian émigrée, a loose woman who poses nude as an artist’s model. Nothing would surprise me about that man; he doesn’t wear a top hat and has a Chinese servant. I shall end here as I have a fitting with Mme Maud, on Rue du Louvre. It’s a wonderful dress; the cut is quite…But hush, now, it’s going to be a surprise. Your little wife wishes to look pretty for your return. Write to me soon. I send you a thousand heliotrope-scented kisses.

  Your Odette

  The sky was clouding over. The man put the letter back in the envelope and replaced it in the wallet, which he slipped into the dying man’s pocket. As he did so, something darted through the air above him, then disappeared. He lit a candle and moved it about slowly. He could see nothing. But he had recognised the flight of a vampire bat – an animal that sucked the blood from people’s toes as they slept. In a fit of disgust, he seized a bottle and hurled it. It shattered against the wall. The wounded man coughed; he was suffocating. His breathing quickened and he fixed his eyes on the tall figure standing over him. He tried to sit up, but his strength was draining away with the blood oozing from his mouth and he fell back. It was over. The bearded man crossed himself mechanically, murmured, ‘May his soul rest in peace, Amen.’ He closed the dead man’s eyes.

  Now he had to carry out his plan without fail. He would wait until dawn before washing the body – and, most importantly, concealing the wound. Then he would notify the local official, who would come and certify the death and arrange with the magistrate for the speediest burial possible. Las Juntas had been chosen because it had no priest or carpenter; the body would be buried in the ground wrapped in a simple shroud, and in a few months only the bones would remain.

  The man threw himself down without taking off his boots. But despite his exhaustion, he could not sleep. He was thinking about what he needed to do. When it was all over, a good mule would get him to the port of Buenaventura in five or six days’ time, and there he’d board a Panama-bound steamer from the English Steamship Company. He’d arrive in Barranquilla in time to catch the train. Twenty-four hours later, the ship La-Fayette would leave Colombian waters and in mid-December she’d drop anchor at St Nazaire.

  He searched in the dead man’s pocket and pulled out a half-crushed cigar, which he lit. The vampire bat, hanging from a joist, watched anxiously as the tiny red eye glowed in front of the man’s mouth.

  Chapter One

  Four months later…

  ‘Lord, he was so good and kind. We loved him so dearly! Lord, he was…’

  The words, tirelessly repeated, filtered through the veil masking the face of a woman who sat huddled against a carriage window. From time to time, another woman, seated opposite, emphasised them with a hurriedly executed sign of the cross. This litany, barely audible above the screech of axles and the clatter of wheels over paving stones, had long since ceased to have meaning, like a
monotonous nursery rhyme.

  The cabman pulled on the reins and the carriage came to a halt beside the entrance to the Père-Lachaise cemetery on Rue de Rondeaux. He came down from his perch to settle up with the gatekeeper and, having slipped the man a coin, clumsily heaved himself back on to his seat and gave a crack of his whip.

  The carriage entered the cemetery gates moments ahead of a funeral cortège and proceeded down one of the looped avenues. The rain formed a halo of light above the vast graveyard. On either side of the avenue was a succession of chapels, cenotaphs and mausoleums adorned with plump cherubs and weeping nymphs. Among the tombs was a maze of footpaths and avenues invaded by undergrowth, still relatively sparse in these early days of March. Sycamores, beeches, cedars and lime trees darkened an already overcast sky. On turning a bend, the carriage narrowly avoided colliding with a tall, white-haired man who was engaged in contemplating the ample posterior of a bronze nymph. The horse reared up, the cabman let out a stream of oaths and the old man shook his fist and cried out: ‘Damn you, Grouchy!1 I’ll cut you down!’ before stumbling off. The cabman muttered a few threats, reassured his passengers and, with a click of his tongue, calmed his horse, which set off towards an avenue running southwards, where it stopped beside the tomb of the surgeon Jacques René Tenon.

  A very young woman in simple black clothes consisting of a woollen dress, a waisted jacket covered with a shawl, and a cotton bonnet from which a few strands of blonde hair had escaped, opened the carriage door and jumped to the ground to help another woman, also blonde, but more buxom, of heavier build, and in full mourning. It was she who had invoked the Lord from behind her veil. In her chinchilla hat and astrakhan coat she looked more suitably dressed for a polar expedition than a visit to a cemetery. The women stood side by side for a moment, staring at the carriage as it gradually darkened into a silhouette against the fading afternoon light. The fur hat leaned towards the cotton bonnet.

  ‘Tell him to wait for us in Rue de Repos.’

  The younger woman passed the order on to the cabman and paid him. He doffed his oilcloth topper and with a loud ‘Gee up!’ hastened away.

  ‘I ain’t waiting about for queer birds who don’t know ’ow to tip a bloke. They can go ’ome on foot!’ he muttered.

  ‘Denise!’ cried the woman in the fur hat.

  ‘Yes, Madame,’ the young girl replied, hurrying to her side.

  ‘Come along now, give it to me. What are you gaping at?

  ‘Nothing, Madame. I’m just a bit…scared.’ She pulled a flat rectangular package out of her basket and handed it to her mistress.

  ‘Scared? Of what? Of whom? If there’s one place where the Almighty is sure to be watching over us, it is here in this cemetery. Our dear departed are close by, they are all around us, they can see us and speak to us!’ cried the woman.

  Denise grew more flustered. ‘That’s what scares me, Madame.’

  ‘You poor, foolish child! What am I to do with you? I shall see you shortly.’

  Alarmed, the young girl grasped her mistress’s arm. ‘Am I not going with you?’

  ‘You will remain here. He wishes to see me alone. I shall return in an hour and a half.’

  ‘Oh, Madame, please. It’ll be dark soon.’

  ‘Nonsense, it’s not yet four o’clock. The gates close at six. If you don’t want to die ignorant, you’ve plenty of time to visit the tombs. I recommend Musset’s, over there in the hollow where they’ve planted a willow. It isn’t very grand but the epitaph is most beautiful. I don’t suppose you know who he is. Perhaps you’d better go up to the chapel. It’ll do you no harm to say a prayer.’

  ‘Please, Madame!’ implored the young girl. But Odette de Valois was already walking away briskly. Denise shivered and took shelter under a chestnut tree. The rain had turned to drizzle and a few birds had resumed their singing. A ginger cat moved stealthily amongst the tombstones, and the lamplighter, carrying his long cane in one hand, crossed the avenue and winked at the young girl. Telling herself she couldn’t stand there for ever, she tied her shawl over her bonnet and wandered about beneath the gas lamps, around which raindrops formed haloes.

  She tried to put her mind at ease by recalling the walks she’d taken in the Forêt de Nevet with her cousin Ronan, with whom she’d been in love when she was thirteen. How handsome he had been and what a shame that he had chosen another! Lost in thought, she gradually forgot her fears as she relived the few happy moments of her childhood: the two years spent in Douarnenez with her uncle the fisherman, her aunt’s kindness, her cousin’s attentiveness. And then the return to Quimper, her mother’s illness and death, her father’s increasing violence after he took to drink, and the departure of her brothers and sisters, leaving her all alone at home, dreaming that a prince would come and whisk her away to Paris…

  She was suddenly reminded where she was when she came upon a dilapidated, pseudo-Gothic mausoleum adorned with interlocking names. She walked over to it and read that the remains of Hélöise and Abélard had lain there since the beginning of the century. Was it not strange that her memories of Ronan had brought her to the tomb of these legendary lovers? And what if Madame was right? What if the dead…

  ‘Soldiers, your general is relying on your bravery! It’ll be a bloody battle, but we’ll take this enemy stronghold and plant our flags here! Zounds! Let them have it!’ roared a drunkard, popping out from behind the monument.

  Denise recognised the old man who’d nearly been knocked over by the carriage. Arms flailing, he rushed towards her. She turned and ran.

  Odette de Valois stood motionless in front of a funerary chapel that was more substantial than its neighbours, its baroque pediment decorated with acanthus and laurel leaves in bas-relief. After looking around to make sure she was alone, she placed the key in the lock of the fine wrought-iron gate. The hinges creaked as it opened. She entered and descended the two steps that led to an altar at the back of the chapel. She placed her package between two candelabra and proceeded to light the candles. She looked up at a stained-glass window depicting the Virgin Mary, and crossed herself before kneeling on a prayer stool. The candles illuminated the stucco plaques with their gilded names and dates:

  Antoine Auguste de Valois

  Division General

  High-ranking officer of the Legion of Honour

  1786–1882

  Eugénie Suzanne Louise

  His Wife

  1801–1881

  Anne Angélique

  Courtin de Valois

  1796–1812

  Pierre Casimir Alphonse

  de Valois

  Notary

  1812–1871

  Armand Honoré Casimir

  de Valois

  Geologist

  1854–1889

  Straightening up, Odette read out in a low voice the words inscribed on a marble tablet:

  Lord, he was so good and kind!

  We loved him so tenderly!

  You have given him eternal rest

  In the bosom of a strange land.

  We are stricken by your justice.

  Let us pray for him and live in a way

  That will reunite us with him in heaven.

  She placed her hands together and, raising her voice, began to recite the Lord’s Prayer. Then she stood up and, unwrapping the package, cried out excitedly:

  ‘Armand, it is I, Odette, your Odette! I am here, I have brought what you asked for in the hope you might forgive the past. Give me a sign, my duck. Come to me, come, I beg you!’

  The only reply was the sound of rain splashing on stone. She sighed and knelt down again. The shadow of a tree, resembling a Hindu goddess with many arms, danced between the candelabra. Her eyes glued to it, the woman moved her lips silently. She stared in wonder, hypnotised by the dancing shape that grew and grew, until it reached the stained-glass window. She wanted to cry out but could only find the strength to whisper, ‘At last!’

  Denise was wandering, lost, in the Jewish part of t
he cemetery. She walked past the tombs of the tragedienne Rachel, and Baron James de Rothschild, without noticing them. She was afraid of bumping into the old drunkard again, and had only one desire: to find Tenon’s tomb.

  Finally she got her bearings. There in front of her stood the memorial cenotaph to André Chenier, built by his brother Marie-Joseph. She read one of the epitaphs, finding it beautiful: ‘Death cannot destroy that which is immortal.’

  Musing over the words in an attempt to forget how dark it was becoming, she turned right. She had no watch, but her inner clock told her it was time to go to the meeting place. When she arrived, there was no one there. She stood for a while, shivering with fright and cold. Her shawl was soaked through by the fine rain. Finally, she could wait no longer. She ran back up the avenue. She remembered from a previous brief visit with her mistress that the chapel dedicated to the de Valois family was a little further up, a few yards from the tomb of the astronomer Jean-Baptiste Delambre. She cried out as she ran:

  ‘Come back, Madame, I beg you! Saint Corentin, Saint Gildas, Holy Mother of God, protect me!’

  At last she could see the funerary chapel where a faint light was glowing. Looking anxiously around, she began to walk cautiously towards it. All of a sudden, a shadow darted out of a bush, chased by another. She recoiled in terror. Two cats.