He had let her go. He had, after all, not intended to hurt her. He loved her, worshipped her, adored her. But her betrayal was too much to bear. She had driven him to it.
After that night, she disappeared from Paris. Throughout November and December, Constant thought of her endlessly. It was simple. He loved her, and in return, she had wronged him. His body and his mind would throw out relentless and spiteful reminders of their time together - her scent, her willowy grace, how still she would sit beside him, how grateful she had been for his love. How modest she had been, how obedient, how perfect. Then, the humiliation of how she had abandoned him would come flooding back, together with an anger fiercer and more savage than before.
To obliterate the memory of her, Constant took refuge in the usual pastimes open to a gentleman of urbane habits and deep pockets. Gambling dens, nightclubs, laudanum to counteract the increasingly heavy doses of mercury he was obliged to take to alleviate the symptoms of his worsening condition. There was a succession of midinettes, whores who looked passing like her, their soft flesh paying the price for her disloyalty. He was strikingly good-looking. He could be generous. He knew how to charm and coax, and the girls were willing enough, until the moment they realised how depraved were his appetites.
Nothing gave him respite. Nothing eased his anguish at her treachery.
For three months, Constant survived without her. At the end of January, however, everything changed. As the ice on the Seine began to melt, a rumour reached his ears that not only was she back in Paris, and a widow now, but that there was a lover. That she had given to another man what she had witheld from him.
Constant’s torment was overwhelming, his rage appalling. The need to be revenged upon her - upon them - possessed him utterly. He imagined her bloody and bleeding in his hands, suffering as she had caused him to suffer. To punish the whore for her perfidy became his sole purpose in life.
It was a simple matter to discover his rival’s name. The fact that Vernier and she were lovers was the first thought that came to him each dawn as the sun rose. It was the last thought that was left to him as the moon arrived to greet the night.
As January yielded to February, Constant started his campaign of persecution and retribution. He began with Vernier, intending to destroy his good name. His tactic was simple. Gossip dripped into the ear of the less reputable newspaper columnists, drop by drop. Forged letters passed palm to greasy palm. Rumours fed into the labyrinthine networks of clandestine groups of initiates and acolytes and mesmerists that swarmed beneath the respectable façade of Paris, each obligingly suspicious and in constant fear of betrayal. The rotting titbits of news, twilight whisperings, the anonymous publication of slanders.
Lies all, but plausible lies.
But even his crusade against Vernier, well executed as it was, gave Constant no respite. Nightmares still stalked his dreams and even his days were filled with images of the lovers entwined in one another’s arms. The relentless progress of his illness, too, stole sleep from him. When Constant shut his eyes he was assaulted by nightmarish images of himself, scourged and nailed to a cross. He suffered visions of his body lying extinguished on the ground, a modern-day Sisyphus crushed by his own rock, or pinned like Prometheus while she crouched upon his chest and ripped out his liver.
In March came a resolution of sorts. She died and with that death came, for him, a release of sorts. Constant watched from the sidelines as her casket was lowered into the wet ground of the Cimetière de Montmartre, feeling as if a burden had been taken from his shoulders. After that, with great satisfaction, he had watched Vernier’s life crumble under the weight of his grief.
Spring gave way to the heat of July and August. For a while, Constant had been at peace. September came in. Then a chance comment overheard, a glimpse of blond hair beneath a blue hat on the Boulevard Haussmann, whisperings in Montmartre of a coffin buried six months previously without a tenant. Constant sent two men to question Vernier, on the night of the riot at the Palais Garnier, but they were interrupted before they could learn anything of value.
He flicked through the pages of the journal once more until he again reached the date of 16th September last. The page was empty. Vernier had made no record of the riot at the Opéra, no reference to the attack upon him in the Passage des Panoramas. The last entry in the journal was dated two days previously. Constant turned the page and read it again. Large, confident letters - a solitary word.
‘FIN.’
He felt cold rage flood through him. The three letters seemed to dance on the page before his eyes, mocking him. After everything he had endured, to discover that he was the victim of a hoax pulled at the cords of his bitterness with an art all of its own. How lunatic it seemed with hindsight to ever have thought that dishonouring Vernier would be sufficient to grant him peace. Constant knew, now, what he had to do.
He would hunt them down. Then he would kill them.
The servant placed a tumbler of brandy at his elbow. ‘General Du Pont may soon be here . . .’ he murmured, then withdrew to the window.
Conscious, now, of the time passing, Constant picked up the sheet of greased brown paper in which the notebook had been wrapped. The presence in the apartment of the journal puzzled him. Why would Vernier have left the journal behind if he were not intending to return? Because he had left in such haste? Or perhaps because he did not propose to be absent from Paris for long.
Constant downed the brandy in one and hurled the glass into the grate. It shattered into a thousand glittering, sharp pieces. The servant flinched. For a moment the air seemed to vibrate with the violence of the act.
Constant stood and replaced the dining chair, precisely beneath the table. He walked to the mantelpiece and opened the glass face of the Sèvres clock. He pushed the hands forward until they showed half past eight. Then he struck the heavy back of the clock against the edge of the marble surround until the mechanism stopped working. Crouching down, he placed the clock face down among the glinting shards of the brandy tumbler.
‘Open the champagne and fetch two glasses.’
The man did as instructed. Constant went to the couch. He took a fistful of hair in his hand and lifted Marguerite Vernier’s head into his arms. The sweet metallic smell of the abattoir hung about her. The pale cushions around her were dyed crimson and a smudged pool of blood stained her chest, like the overblown bloom of a hothouse flower.
Constant tipped a little champagne into Marguerite’s mouth. He pressed the rim of a glass against her split lips until the faintest smear of lipstick was visible, then filled it halfway with champagne and placed it on the table beside her. He poured a little into the second glass too, and then laid the bottle on its side on the floor. Slowly the liquid began to empty, a ribbon of bubbles streaming on to the carpet.
‘Our reptilian comrades of the Fourth Estate are aware that there might be something for them tonight?’
‘Yes, Monsieur.’ For an instant, the servant’s mask slipped. ‘The lady . . .Is she dead?’
Constant did not answer.
The servant crossed himself. Constant walked to the sideboard and picked up a framed photograph. Marguerite was seated in the centre of the picture, with her children standing behind her. He read the name of the studio and the date. October 1890. The daughter’s hair was still worn loose. A child still.
The servant coughed. ‘Are we to travel to Rouen, Monsieur? ’
‘Rouen?’
He twisted his fingers nervously, recognising the look in his master’s eyes.
‘Forgive me, Monsieur, but did not Madame Vernier say her son and daughter had travelled to Rouen?’
‘Ah. Yes, she showed more courage . . . initiative . . . than I expected. But, Rouen? I doubt that was their destination. Perhaps she really did not know.’
He thrust the photograph at his man.
‘Get out and ask after the girl. Someone will talk. Somebody always does. People will remember her.’ He gave a cold smile. ‘She will lead u
s to Vernier and his whore.’
CHAPTER 27
DOMAINE DE LA CADE
Léonie screamed. She threw herself upright, her heart thudding against her ribs. The candle had blown itself out and the room was cloaked in darkness.
For a moment she thought she was back in the drawing room at the rue de Berlin. Then she looked down and saw Monsieur Baillard’s monograph lying on the pillow beside her, and realised.
Un cauchemar.
Of demons and spirits, of phantoms and clawed creatures and the ancient ruins where the spider spins her web. The hollow eyes of ghosts.
Léonie fell back against the wooden headboard, waiting for her pulse to stop racing. Images of a stone sepulchre beneath a grey sky, withered garlands draped over a worn escutcheon. A family coat of arms, long corrupt and dishonoured.
Such dark dreams.
She waited for her pulse to stop racing, but if anything, the hammering inside her head was getting louder.
‘Madomaisèla Léonie? Madama has sent me to ask if there is anything you need?’
With relief, Léonie recognised Marieta’s voice.
‘Madomaisèla?’
Léonie composed herself and then called out. ‘Viens.’
There was a rattling at the door, then, ‘Forgive me, Madomaisèla, but it is locked.’
Léonie did not remember turning the key. Swiftly she slipped her chilled feet into her silk savates and ran to open the door.
Marieta gave a quick bob. ‘Madama Lascombe and Sénher Vernier have sent me to ask if you might join them.’
‘What is the time?’
‘Nearly half past nine.’
So late.
Léonie rubbed the nightmare from her eyes. ‘Of course. I can do for myself. If you could tell them I will be down presently?’
She slipped into her undergarments, then put on a plain evening dress, nothing elaborate. She arranged her hair with combs and pins, dabbed a little eau de Cologne behind her ears and on her wrists, and then descended to the drawing room.
Both Anatole and Isolde stood up as she entered. Isolde was dressed simply in a high-necked turquoise-blue dress with half-sleeves decorated with French jet glass beads. She looked exquisite.
‘I am sorry to have kept you waiting,’ Léonie apologised, kissing first her aunt and then her brother.
‘We were about to give up on you,’ Anatole said. ‘What would you like? We are drinking champagne - no, my apologies, Isolde, not champagne. Would you like the same? Or something else?’
Léonie frowned. ‘Not champagne?’
Isolde smiled. ‘He is teasing you. It is a blanquette de Limoux, not champagne, but a local wine much like it. It is sweeter and lighter, more thirst-quenching. I confess,I have quite a taste for it now.’
‘Thank you,’ Léonie said, accepting a glass. ‘I began to read Monsieur Baillard’s pamphlet. The next I knew, Marieta was knocking upon the door and it was past nine o’clock.’
Anatole laughed. ‘Is it so very dull that it sent you to sleep?’
Léonie shook her head. ‘Quite the opposite. It was fascinating. It appears the Domaine de la Cade - or, rather, the site that the house and grounds currently occupy - has long been at the heart of a great many superstitions and local legends. Ghosts, devils, spirits walking at night. Most common are stories concerning a ferocious black wild creature, half devil, half beast, stalking the countryside when times are bad, snatching children and livestock.’
Anatole and Isolde caught one another’s eye.
‘According to Monsieur Baillard,’ Léonie continued, ‘that is why so many of the local landmarks have names that hint at this supernatural past. He relates one tale concerning a lake in the Tabe mountain, the étang du Diable, which is said to communicate with Hell itself. If one throws stones into it, clouds of sulphurous gas apparently rise up out of the water, bringing ferocious storms. And another story, going back to the summer of 1840, which was particularly dry. Desperate for the rains, a miller from the village of Montségur climbed up to the Tabe mountain and threw a live cat into the lake. The animal thrashed and struggled like a demon, so vexing the Devil that he made it rain upon the mountains for the two months following.’
Anatole stretched back, draping his arm along the back of the settee. In the grate, a good fire crackled and spat.
‘What superstitious nonsense!’ he said affectionately. ‘I almost regret putting such a book into your hands.’
Léonie pulled a face. ‘You may mock, but there is always some measure of truth in these stories.’
‘Well spoken, Léonie,’ said Isolde. ‘My late husband was much interested in the legends associated with the Domaine de la Cade. His particular passion was the Visigoth period of history, but he and Monsieur Baillard sometimes talked late into the night about all manner of subjects. The Curé from our sister village of Rennes-le-Château also sometimes joined them.’
A sudden image of the three men huddled together over books flashed into Léonie’s mind, and she wondered if Isolde had resented being so often excluded.
‘Abbé Saunière.’ Anatole nodded. ‘Gabignaud mentioned him on the journey from Couiza this afternoon.’
‘Having said that,’ Isolde continued, ‘it would be fair to say that Jules was always cautious in Monsieur Baillard’s company.’
‘Cautious? How so?’
Isolde waved her slim white hand. ‘Oh, perhaps cautious is the wrong word. Reverential, almost. I am not entirely certain what I mean. He had great respect for Monsieur Baillard’s age and knowledge, but was also somewhat in awe of his learning.’
Anatole replenished the glasses, then rang the bell for another bottle.
‘You say Baillard is a local man?’
Isolde nodded. ‘He has furnished lodgings in Rennes-les-Bains, although his main residence is elsewhere. Somewhere in the Sabarthès, I believe. He is an extraordinary man, but a very private one. He is circumspect about his past experiences and his interests are wide-ranging. In addition to local folklore and customs, he is also an expert on the Albigensian Heresy.’ She gave a light laugh. ‘Indeed, Jules remarked once that one might almost believe Monsieur Baillard had been a witness at some of those medieval battles, so vivid were his descriptions.’
They all smiled.
‘It is not the best time of year, but perhaps you would like to visit some of the ruined frontier castles?’ Isolde said to Léonie. ‘Weather permitting.’
‘I would like that very much.’
‘And I shall place you next to Monsieur Baillard at dinner on Saturday, so you may question him all you wish about devils and superstitions and the myths of the mountains.’
Léonie nodded, remembering Monsieur Baillard’s tales. Anatole, too, fell silent. A different mood had entered the room, slipping in among the easy conversation when no one was watching. For a while, the only sounds were the ticking of the golden hands of the long-case clock and the spitting of the flames in the hearth.
Léonie found her eyes drawn to the windows. They were shuttered against the evening, yet she was strongly aware of the darkness beyond. It seemed to have a living, breathing presence. It was only the wind whistling around the corners of the building, but it seemed to her as if the night itself was murmuring, conjuring up the ancient spirits of the woods.
She glanced at her aunt, beautiful in the soft light, and so still.
Does she feel it too?
Isolde’s expression was serene, her features impassive. It was impossible for Léonie to tell what she might be thinking. Her eyes did not flicker with the grief of her husband’s absence. And there was no suggestion of anxiety or nervousness at what might lie beyond the stone walls of the house.
Léonie looked down at the blanquette in her glass, then drained the last of it.
The clock chimed the half-hour.
Isolde announced her intention to write the invitations for Saturday’s supper party, and withdrew to the study. Anatole took the squat green bottle of Bened
ictine from the tray and declared he would remain a while longer and smoke a cigar.
Léonie kissed her brother good night and quitted the drawing room. She walked across the hall, a little unsteady on her feet, with memories of the day in her mind. Of those things that had given her pleasure, and those that had intrigued. How clever it was of Tante Isolde to guess that Anatole’s favourite bonbons were Pearls of the Pyrenees. How comfortable, for the most part, the three of them had been in one another’s company. She thought of the adventures she might have, and how she would explore the house and, weather permitting, the grounds.