Sepulchre

  ‘I beg you,’ she cried, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘Let me speak with him. I will persuade him to give back to you whatever it was he took. I give you my word.’

  ‘Ah, but it is too late for that,’ he said softly, running his fingers down her cheek. ‘I wonder if you even presented my card to your son, chère Marguerite?’ His black hand came to rest on her white throat. He increased the pressure. Marguerite began to choke as she flailed and struggled beneath his tightening grip, desperately stretching her neck up and away from his strong grasp. The look in his eyes, pleasure and conquest in equal measure, terrified her as much as the suffocating violence of his grip.

  Without warning, suddenly he released her.

  She fell back against the chair, gulping for air, gasping. Her eyes were red and her throat was bruised with ugly crimson marks.

  ‘Start with Vernier’s room,’ he instructed his man. ‘Look for his journal.’ He made a shape with his hands. ‘About so large.’

  The servant withdrew.

  ‘Now,’ he said, as if in the midst of a perfectly normal conversation. ‘Where is your son?’

  Marguerite met his eye. Her heart was thudding with dread at what punishment he might inflict upon her. But she had endured ill treatment at the hands of others, and survived it. She could do so again.

  ‘I do not know,’ she said.

  This time, he struck her. Hard, and with his fist, sending her head snapping back. Marguerite gasped as her cheek cracked. Blood welled in her mouth. She dropped her chin and spat into her lap. She flinched as she felt the tug of silk at her neck and the rasp of his leather gloves untying the yellow bow. His breath was coming faster. She could feel the heat of him.

  With his other hand, she felt him pushing up the folds of material above her knees, above her thighs, higher.

  ‘Please, no,’ she whispered.

  ‘It is barely shy of three,’ he said, tucking a curl of hair behind her ear, in a parody of tenderness. ‘We have more than enough time for me to persuade you to talk. And think of Léonie, Marguerite. Such a pretty girl. A little high-spirited for my tastes, but I am sure I could learn to make an exception.’

  He pushed the silk from her shoulders.

  Marguerite became calm, vanishing into herself as she had been forced to do many times before. She cleared her mind, wiping out the image of him. Even now, her strongest emotion was shame at the way her heart had lurched when she had first opened the door and allowed him into the apartment.

  Sex and violence, the old alliance. She had seen it countless times. On the barricades in the Commune, in the back streets, hidden beneath the respectable veneer of the society salons through which latterly she had moved. So many men driven by hate, not desire. Marguerite had made good use of it. She had exploited her looks, her charms, so that her daughter would never have to live the life she had.

  ‘Where is Vernier?’

  He untied her and dragged her from the chair to the floor.

  ‘Where is Vernier?’

  ‘I do not—’

  Holding her down, he struck her again. Then again.

  ‘Where is your son?’ he demanded.

  As Marguerite slipped from consciousness, her only thought was how to protect her children. How not to betray them to this man. She must give him something.

  ‘Rouen,’ she lied through her bloodied lips. ‘They have gone to Rouen.’

  CHAPTER 22

  RENNES-LES-BAINS

  By a quarter past four, having taken in the modest sights of Couiza, Léonie and Anatole were standing on the concourse in front of the station, waiting while the cabman loaded the luggage into the courrier publique.

  Unlike the conveyances Léonie had noticed in Carcassonne, with black leather seats and open tops much like the landaus that drove up and down the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne, the courrier was an altogether more rustic form of transport. Indeed, it resembled a farmhouse cart, with two wooden bench seats running up each side facing inwards, painted red. There were no cushions and it was open to the sides, with a piece of dark canvas, stretched over a thin metal frame, for shade.

  The horses, both greys, wore white embroidered fringes over their ears and eyes to keep the insects away.

  The other passengers included an elderly husband and his much younger wife, from Toulouse. Two elderly birdlike sisters twittered to one another in low voices beneath their hats.

  Léonie was pleased to see that their lunch companion from the Grand Café Guilhem, Dr Gabignaud, was to take the same carriage. Frustratingly, Maître Fromilhague kept Gabignaud close to him. Every few minutes he drew out his watch from his waistcoat pocket by the chain, and tapped the glass face as if suspicious it had stopped working, before putting it away again.

  ‘Clearly a man with pressing matters to attend to,’ Anatole whispered. ‘He’ll be driving the carriage himself soon if we don’t look out!’

  As soon as everyone was settled, the driver climbed up to his cab. He perched himself on top of the sundry collection of suitcases and valises, his legs spread wide, and looked up at the clock on the front of the railway station building. When it struck the half-hour, he flicked his whip and the carriage jerked away.

  Within moments, they were on the open road, heading west out of Couiza. The route ran along the river valley between high hills on either side. The bitter winter and wet spring that punished most of France for so much of the year had, here, created an Eden. Lush pastures, green and fertile, rather than sun-scorched earth, thickly wooded hillsides of fir and holm oak, hazel and Mediterranean chestnut and beech. High on a hill to their left, Léonie glimpsed the outline of a ruined castle. An old wooden sign at the side of the road announced it to be the village of Coustaussa.

  Gabignaud was seated next to Anatole and was pointing out landmarks. Léonie caught only fragments of their conversation over the crescendo of the wheels on the road and the rattling harness of the horses.

  ‘And that?’ Anatole said.

  Léonie followed her brother’s pointing finger. High on a rocky outcrop to the right, well above the road, she could just discern a tiny hillside village, shimmering in the fierce afternoon heat, no more than a collection of dwellings clinging to the precipitous side of the mountain.

  ‘Rennes-le-Château,’ replied Gabignaud. ‘You would not believe it to look at it now, but it once was the ancient Visigoth capital of the region, Rhedae.’

  ‘What caused its decline?’

  ‘Charlemagne, the Crusade against the Albigensians, bandits from Spain, plague, the relentless and unforgiving march of history. Now it’s just another forgotten mountain village. Rather in the shadow of Rennes-les-Bains.’ He paused. ‘Having said that, the Curé works hard for his parishioners. An interesting man.’

  Anatole leaned closer to hear. ‘Why so?’

  ‘He is erudite, clearly ambitious and forceful. It is a matter of much local speculation as to why he should choose to stay so close to home and bury himself away in such a poor parish.’

  ‘Perhaps he believes this is where he can be most effective? ’

  ‘Certainly the village loves him. He’s done a lot of good.’

  ‘In practical matters or of merely a spiritual nature?’

  ‘Both. As an example, the church of Sainte Marie-Madeleine was no more than a ruin when he arrived. Rain coming through, abandoned to mice and birds and mountain cats. But in the summer of 1886, the Mairie voted him two thousand five hundred francs to begin restoration work, principally to replace the old altar.’

  Anatole raised his eyebrows. ‘A sizeable sum!’

  He nodded. ‘I only know what I hear indirectly. The Curé is a most cultured man. It is said that many items of archaeological interest have come to light, which of course greatly interested your uncle.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘An historical altarpiece, I gather. Also a pair of Visigoth pillars and an ancient tombstone - the Dalle des Chevaliers - that is rumoured to be either Merovingian in its p
rovenance or possibly also from the Visigoth era. Being so interested in that period, Lascombe was much engaged in the early stages of the renovations in Rennes-le-Château, which of course resulted in the matter being of interest in Rennes-les-Bains.’

  ‘You too seem to be something of an historian,’ ventured Léonie.

  Gabignaud flushed with pleasure. ‘A hobby, Mademoiselle Vernier, nothing more.’

  Anatole took out his cigarette case. The doctor accepted. Shielding the flame with his arched hand, Anatole struck a match for both of them. ‘And what is the name of this exemplary priest?’ he asked, blowing out the question with the smoke.

  ‘Saunière. Bérenger Saunière.’

  They had reached a straight section of road and the horses picked up speed. The noise grew in volume until further discussion was all but impossible. Léonie did not altogether mind the barrier to conversation. Her thoughts were racing, for somewhere in the morass of Gabignaud’s conversation, she had the sense that she had learned something of some significance.

  But what?

  After a short while, the driver slowed the horses and, with a clanking of harness and the clatter of the unlit lamps against the side of the carriage, left the main road to follow the river valley of the Salz.

  Léonie leaned out as far as she dared, delighted by the beauty of the landscape, the extraordinary vista of sky and rock and woods. Two ruined outposts that turned out to be natural rock formations rather than the shadows of castles loomed over the valley like giant sentinels. Here the ancient forest came almost down to the road’s edge. Léonie felt they were entering a secret place, like an explorer in one of Monsieur Rider Haggard’s entertainments venturing into lost African kingdoms.

  Now the road began to curve elegantly, winding back and over itself like a snake, following the cut of the river. It was beautiful, an arcadia. Everything was fertile, lush and green - olive green, sea green, scrub the colour of absinthe. The silver underside of leaves, lifted by the breeze, shimmered in the sun between the darker tones of fir and oak. Above the tree line, the startling outline of crests and peaks, the ancient silhouettes of menhirs, dolmens and natural sculptures. The antique history of the region was laid out plain to see, like pages in a book.

  Léonie could hear the river Salz running alongside them, a constant companion, sometimes in view, a glint of sunlight on water, sometimes hidden. Like a game of cache-cache, the water sang its presence, rushing over stones, chasing through the entangled branches of the willows that hung low over the river, a guide drawing them ever closer to their destination.

  CHAPTER 23

  RENNES-LES-BAINS

  The horses clattered over a low bridge and slowed to a trot. Ahead, on the bend in the road, Léonie had her first glimpse of Rennes-les-Bains. She could see a white three-storey building with a sign announcing itself to be the Hôtel de la Reine. Beside it was a cluster of rather forbidding, unadorned buildings that she presumed made up the establishment of the thermal spa.

  The courrier slowed to walking pace as they swung into the main street. To the right, it was bounded by the great grey wall of the mountain itself. To the left, there was a collection of homes, boarding houses and hotels. Heavy metal-framed gas lamps were set into the walls.

  Her first impressions were not as she had expected. The town had an air of elegant and contemporary style and prosperity. Generous, scrubbed stone steps and thresholds abutted the roadway, which, although left as nature intended, was clean and passable. The street was lined with bay and laurel trees in wide wooden planters, which seemed to bring the woods down into the town. She saw a rotund gentleman in a buttoned frockcoat, two ladies with parasols, and three nurses, each pushing a chaise roulante. A gaggle of ribboned girls in white frills and petticoats walked with their governess.

  The driver turned off the main road and pulled up the horses.

  ‘La Place du Pérou. S’il vous plaît. Terminus.’

  The small square was bordered by buildings on three sides and shaded by lime trees. The golden sunlight filtered down through the canopy of leaves, casting chequerboard patterns on the ground. There was a water trough for the horses and the respectable town houses were adorned with window boxes filled with the last of the tumbling summer flowers. At a small café with striped awnings, a collection of well-dressed, well-gloved ladies and their escorts were taking refreshment. In the corner was the approach to a modest church.

  ‘All very picturesque,’ muttered Anatole.

  The driver jumped down from his cab and began to unload the luggage.

  ‘S’il vous plaît, Mesdames et Messieurs. La Place du Pérou. Terminus.’

  One by one, the travellers disembarked. There were awkward farewells, common to those who have shared a journey but have little else in common. Maître Fromilhague raised his hat and then disappeared. Gabignaud shook Anatole’s hand and presented his card, saying how much he hoped there would be an opportunity to meet again during their stay, perhaps for a game of cards or at one of the musical soirées that took place in Limoux or Quillan. Then, tipping his hat to Léonie, he hurried away across the square.

  Anatole put his arm around Léonie’s shoulders.

  ‘This does not look as unpromising as I had feared,’ he said.

  ‘It is charming. Quite charming.’

  A young girl in the grey and white uniform of a parlour-maid appeared, out of breath, at the top left-hand corner of the square. She was plump and pretty, with deep black eyes and a suggestive mouth. Strands of thick dark hair were escaping from beneath a white cap.

  ‘Ah! Perhaps our reception committee?’ said Anatole.

  Behind her, also out of breath, arrived a young man with a broad, pleasant face. He wore an open-necked shirt with a red scarf around.

  ‘Et voilà,’ Anatole added, ‘unless I am much mistaken, the explanation for the girl’s lack of punctuality is explained.’

  The maid attempted to tidy her hair, then ran towards them. She bobbed.

  ‘Sénher Vernier? Madomaisèla. Madama sent me to fetch you to the Domaine de la Cade. She asked me to present her apologies, but there is a difficulty with the gig. It’s being repaired, but Madama suggests that it might be quicker on foot . . .’ The maid glanced doubtfully down at Léonie’s calfskin boots. ‘If you don’t mind . . .’

  Anatole looked the girl up and down. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Marieta, Sénher.’

  ‘Very good. And how long might we have to wait for the gig to be repaired, Marieta?’

  ‘I couldn’t say. There is a broken wheel.’

  ‘Well, how far is it to Domaine de la Cade?’

  ‘Pas luènh.’ Not far.

  Anatole peered over her shoulder at the breathless boy. ‘And the luggage will be brought on later?’

  ‘Oc, Sénher,’ she said. ‘Pascal will bring it.’

  Anatole turned to Léonie. ‘In which case, with the lack of any promising alternative, I vote we do as our aunt suggests - and walk.’

  ‘What?’ The word burst, indignantly, from Léonie’s lips before she could help herself. ‘But you hate to walk!’ She touched her fingers to her own ribs, to remind him of the injuries he had sustained. ‘Besides, will it be too much for you?’

  ‘I will be fine.’ He shrugged. ‘I admit, it’s a bore, but what can one do? I would rather press on than kick our heels.’

  Taking Anatole’s words as assent, Marieta gave a quick curtsy, then turned and set off.

  Léonie stared after her, open-mouthed. ‘Of all the . . .’ she exclaimed.

  Anatole threw back his head and laughed. ‘Welcome to Rennes-les-Bains,’ he said, taking Léonie’s hand. ‘Come, petite. Otherwise, we will be left behind!’

  Marieta led them down a shadowed passageway between the houses. They emerged into bright sunlight on an old arched stone bridge. Far, far below, the water flowed over flat rocks. Léonie caught her breath, made dizzy by the sensation of light and space and height.

  ‘Léonie, dépêche
-toi,’ called Anatole.

  The maid crossed the river, then turned sharply right and made for a narrow unmade path that ran steeply up into the trees of the wooded hillside. Léonie and Anatole followed in silent single file, each saving their breath for the climb.

  Higher and steeper they went, along a dappled track of stones and fallen leaves, venturing ever deeper into thick forest. Before long, the path opened out into a wider country track. Léonie could see wheel ruts, cracked and pale through lack of rain, marking the route of countless wheels and hooves. Here, the trees were set further back from the path and the sun cast its long fading shadow between each copse and cluster.