The rive droite - the far bank - had a different character. There were fewer buildings and those that did cling to the hillside, dotted amongst the trees that came down almost to the water’s edge, were domestic dwellings, small and modest. Here lived the artisans, the servants, the shopkeepers whose livelihoods depended upon the ailments and the hypochondrias of the urban middle classes from Toulouse, from Perpignan, from Bordeaux. Léonie could see patients sitting in the steaming, iron-rich water of the bains forts, accessed by means of a private covered alleyway. A line of nurses and servants waited patiently on the bank, towels draped across their arms, for their charges to emerge.
When they had explored the whole town to Léonie’s satisfaction, she declared herself fatigued and complained that her boots were pinching. They returned to the Place du Pérou, past the poste restante and the telegraph office.
Anatole proposed a pretty brasserie on the south side of the square.
‘Is this acceptable?’ he asked, pointing at the sole free table with his walking stick. ‘Or would you prefer to eat inside?’
The wind was playing a gentle game of cache-cache between the buildings, whispering through the alleyways and causing the awnings to flutter. Léonie looked around at the gold and copper and claret leaves, spiralling in the wind, at the delicate traces of sunlight on the ivy-covered building.
‘Outside,’ she said. ‘It is charming. Quite perfect.’
Anatole smiled. ‘I wonder if this is the wind they call the Cers,’ he mused, sitting down opposite her. ‘I believe this is a north-westerly, which comes down from the mountains according to Isolde, as opposed to the Marin, which comes from the Mediterranean.’ He shook out his napkin. ‘Or is that the Mistral?’
Léonie shrugged.
Anatole ordered the pâté de la maison, a dish of tomatoes and a bûche of local goats’ cheese, dressed in almonds and honey, to share between them, with a pichet of mountain rosé.
Léonie broke off a morsel of bread and popped it into her mouth.
‘I visited the library this morning,’ she said. ‘A most interesting selection of books, I thought. I am surprised we had the pleasure of your company at all last night.’
His brown eyes sharpened. ‘Whatever do you mean?’
‘Only that there are more than enough books to keep you occupied for some time and, indeed, that I was surprised you managed to locate Monsieur Baillard’s volume among so many.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Why? What did you think I meant?’
‘Nothing,’ replied Anatole, twisting the ends of his moustache.
Sensing some evasion, Léonie put down her fork. ‘Although now you come to mention it, I do confess I am surprised that you did not remark upon the collection when you came to my chamber last evening before dinner.’
‘Remark upon . . . ?’
‘Why, the collection of beaux livres, for a start.’ She fixed her eyes on his face to watch his reaction. ‘And the occultist books also. Some of them looked to be rare editions.’
Anatole did not immediately answer. ‘Well, you have accused me, on more than one occasion, of being somewhat tiresome on the matter of antiquarian books,’ he said finally. ‘I did not wish to bore you.’
Léonie laughed. ‘Oh for goodness’ sake, Anatole, whatever is the matter with you? I know, from what you yourself have told me, that a good many of these books are considered quite disreputable. Even in Paris. It’s not what one would expect in a place like this. And for you to not even mention it, well, it is . . .’
Anatole sat drawing on his cigarette.
‘Well?’ she demanded.
‘Well what?’
‘Well, to start with, why are you determined to show no interest?’ She drew breath. ‘And why should our uncle have such a wide collection of books of such a character? Tante Isolde did not say.’
‘In point of fact, she did,’ he said sharply. ‘You seem determined to be critical of Isolde. Evidently you do not care for her.’
Léonie flushed. ‘You are mistaken if that is the impression you have gained. I think Tante Isolde quite charming.’ She raised her voice slightly, to prevent him from interrupting her. ‘It is not our aunt but more the character of the place that is disquieting, especially when taken together with the presence of such occultist books in the library.’
Anatole sighed. ‘I did not notice them. You are making something over nothing. The most obvious explanation, to use your words, is that Oncle Jules had catholic - or, rather, liberal - tastes. Or, perhaps, that he inherited many of the books with the house.’
‘Some of them are very recent,’ she said doggedly.
She knew she was provoking him and wished to draw back, but somehow she could not check herself.
‘And you are the expert on such publications,’ he said sceptically.
She recoiled at his cold tone. ‘No, but that is precisely my point. You are! Hence my surprise that you did not see fit to mention the collection at all.’
‘I cannot account for why you are so determined to find some mystery in this - indeed, in everything here. I really cannot comprehend it.’
Léonie leaned forward. ‘I tell you, Anatole, there is something strange about the Domaine, whether or not you will admit it.’ She paused. ‘Indeed, I even find myself wondering if you did go into the library at all.’
‘That is enough,’ he said, his voice thick with warning. ‘I don’t know what the devil has got into you today.’
‘You accuse me of wishing to inject some sort of mystery into the house. I admit that might be so. But, by the same token, you appear determined to do the opposite.’
Anatole rolled his eyes in exasperation. ‘Listen to yourself !’ he threw out. ‘Isolde has made us both most welcome. Her position is an uncomfortable one, and if there is any awkwardness, surely this can be put down to the fact that she herself is a stranger here, living among long-established servants who probably resent an outsider coming in as mistress of the house. From what I gather, Lascombe was often absent and I suppose that the staff had the run of the house. Such comments are not worthy of you.’
Realising she had gone too far, Léonie pulled back. ‘I only wanted . . .’
Anatole dabbed his mouth at the corners, then tossed his napkin upon the table. ‘All I intended was to find you some interesting volume to keep you company last evening,’ he said, ‘not wishing you to be homesick in an unfamiliar house. Isolde has shown you nothing but kindness and yet you seem determined to find fault in everything.’
Léonie’s desire to provoke a quarrel evaporated. She could no longer even remember why she had been so determined to squabble in the first place.
‘I am sorry if my words offended you, but . . .’ she began, but it was too late.
‘Nothing I say seems to stop this childish mischief-making of yours,’ he said fiercely, ‘so there is nothing to profit from continuing the conversation further.’ He snatched up his hat and cane. ‘Come. The gig is waiting.’
‘Anatole, please,’ she pleaded, but he was already striding across the square. Léonie, torn between regret and resentment, had no choice but to follow. More than anything, she wished she had held her tongue.
But as they drove out of Rennes-les-Bains, she began to feel aggrieved. The fault was not hers. Well, perhaps in the first instance, but she had meant no harm. Anatole had determined to take insult when none was intended. And hard on the heels of such excuses was another, more insidious consideration.
He defends Isolde over me.
It was most unfair after so brief an acquaintance. Worse, the thought made Léonie quite sick with jealousy.
CHAPTER 39
The journey back to the Domaine de la Cade was an uncomfortable one.
Léonie sulked. Anatole paid her no attention at all. As soon as they arrived, he leapt down from the carriage and vanished into the house without a backward glance, leaving her alone to contemplate a dull and solitary afternoon stretching out before her.
She stormed up
stairs to her chamber, not wishing to see anyone, and flung herself face down upon the bed. She kicked off her shoes, letting them drop with a satisfying thump to the floor, leaving her feet to dangle over the edge as if she was floating on a raft on a river.
‘J’en ai marre.’ Bored.
The clock on the mantelshelf chimed two.
Léonie picked at the stray threads on the embroidered cover, teasing out the emaciated shimmering strands of gold until she had made a pile worthy of Rumpelstiltskin on the bed beside her. She threw a frustrated glance at the clock.
Two minutes past two o’clock. Time was barely moving.
She slid off the bed and walked over to the window, lifting the corner of the curtain with her hand. The lawns were flooded with light, rich and golden.
Everywhere Léonie could still see evidence of the damage wrought by the mischievous wind. Yet at the same time, the gardens looked serene. Perhaps she would take a walk. Explore the grounds a little.
Her eyes alighted upon her workbox, and she burrowed through the materials and sequins to where the black book lay.
Of course.
It was the ideal opportunity to search for the sepulchre. Return to her earlier plan for passing the day. Perhaps she would even find the Tarot cards. She took out the book. This time, Léonie read every word.
An hour later, dressed in her new worsted jacket, sturdy walking boots and with her hat perched on her head, Léonie sneaked out onto the terrace.
There was nobody in the gardens, but she walked fast nonetheless, not wishing to have to explain herself. She passed the cluster of rhododendron and juniper bushes almost at a run, keeping up the pace until she was out of plain view of the house. Only once she was through the opening in the high box hedge did she slow and catch her breath. She was perspiring already. She stopped and removed her scratchy hat, enjoying the feel of the wholesome air on her bare head, and pushed her gloves deep into her pockets. She felt exhilarated to be so completely alone and unobserved, the mistress of herself.
At the edge of the woods, she stopped, feeling the first prickings of caution. There was a palpable sense of quiet, the scent of bracken and fallen leaves. She glanced back over her shoulder, in the direction that she had come, then into the sombre light of the wood. The house was all but out of sight.
What if I cannot find my way back?
Léonie looked up at the sky. Provided she was not too long, provided the weather held, she could simply head home to the west, in the direction of the setting sun. Besides, these were private woods, managed and tended, set within an estate. It was hardly like venturing into the unknown.
There is nothing to cause alarm.
Having talked herself into continuing, feeling much like a heroine in an adventure serial, Léonie set out along an overgrown path. Soon she found herself standing at the crossroads of two paths. To the left there was an air of neglect and stillness. The box trees and laurel seemed to drip with condensation. The downy oak and sharp needles of the pins maritimes seemed to bow under the unwelcome weight of time with a blighted and exhausted aspect. The right-hand path was positively mundane in comparison.
If there was a long-forgotten sepulchre within the grounds, then surely it would be deep within the woods? Far out of sight of the house itself?
Léonie took the path to the left, into the shadows. The track had an unfrequented air. There were no fresh wheel ruts made by the gardener’s barrow, no indication that the leaves had been raked, no sense that anyone had recently passed this way.
Léonie realised she was walking uphill. The path was growing rougher and less clear. Stones, uneven earth and fallen branches tumbled from the overgrown thicket on either side. She felt enclosed, as if the landscape was pushing in upon her, shrinking. On one side, above the path, was a steep embankment, covered with dense green undergrowth and boughs of hawthorn and an intense tangle of yew, knitted together like iron-black lace in the half-light. Léonie felt a fluttering of nerves in her chest. Every branch, every root spoke of abandonment. Even the animals seemed to have forsaken the benighted woods. No birds sang, no rabbits or foxes or mice moved in the undergrowth to their burrows.
Soon the ground beside the path fell away sharply to the right. Several times Léonie dislodged a stone with her foot and heard it tumble into the chasm below. Her misgivings grew. It required no great leap of imagination to summon the spirits or ghosts or apparitions that both the gardener and Monsieur Baillard, in his book, claimed haunted these glades.
Then she emerged on to a platform in the hillside, open on one side to reveal the panorama of the distant mountains. There was a small stone bridge over a culvert, where a strip of brown earth intersected the path beneath it at right angles, a low channel worn away by the fierce rushing of meltwaters in spring. It was dry now.
Far away, through the opening, glimpsed over the heads of the smaller trees, the entire world seemed suddenly spread out before her like a picture. The clouds scudding across the seemingly endless sky, a late summer afternoon heat haze or mist floating in the troughs and curves of the hills.
Léonie took a deep breath. She felt magnificently distant from all of civilisation, from the river and the grey and red roofs of the houses below in Rennes-les-Bains, from the thin outline of the cloche-mur and the silhouette of the Hôtel de la Reine. Cocooned in her wooded silence, Léonie could imagine the noise in the cafés and bars, the clatter in the kitchens, the rattle of harness and gig in the Gran’Rue, the yell of the cabman as the courrier took up position in the Place du Pérou. And then the thin tolling of the church bell carried on the wind to where she stood listening.
Three o’clock already.
Léonie listened until the faint echo had died away. Her spirit of adventure faded with the sound. The words of the gardener came back to her.
Keep your soul close.
She wished she had asked him - asked somebody - for directions. Always wishing to do things for herself, she hated to ask for help. More than anything, she regretted not bringing the book itself.
But I have come too far to turn back now.
Léonie raised her chin and walked on with determination, fighting the creeping suspicion that she was going in the wrong direction entirely. Instinct had led her this way in the first place. She had no map, no words of instruction. Again regretted the lack of forethought and pride that had caused her not to at least enquire after a map of the Domaine. Not that she had observed such a thing in the library earlier.
It crossed her mind that no one knew where she had gone. If she should fall or lose her way, nobody would know where to find her. It occurred to her, too, that she should have left some sort of trail. Fragments of paper or, like Hansel and Gretel in their woods, white pebbles to mark the way home.
There is no reason you should become lost.
Léonie walked deeper, further into the grounds. Now she found herself in a wooded glade, ringed by a circle of wild juniper bushes covered with late-ripening berries, as if birds never penetrated this deep into the forest.
Shadows, distorted shades, slipped in and out of her vision. Within the green mantle of the wood, the light was thickening, stripping away the reassuring and familiar world and replacing it with something unknowable, something more ancient. Winding through the trees, the briars, the copse, an afternoon mist had set in, stealing up without a word of warning or announcement. There was an absolute and impenetrable stillness as the sodden air muffled all sound. Léonie felt its chill fingers wrapping themselves around her neck like a muffler, curling around her legs beneath her skirts like a cat.
Then, suddenly ahead of her she glimpsed, through the trees, the outline of something not made of wood or earth or bark. A small stone chapel, no bigger than would accommodate six or eight worshippers, its roof steeply pitched and a small stone cross upon the arched entrance.
Léonie caught her breath.
I have found it.
The sepulchre was surrounded by a host of gnarled yew trees, their
roots twisted and misshapen like an old man’s hands, overshadowing the path. There were no impressions in the mud. The brambles and briars were all overgrown.
Feeling pride and anticipation in equal measure, Léonie stepped forward. Leaves rustled and twigs snapped beneath her boots. Another step. Closer, now, until she stood before the door. She tilted her head and looked up. Above the wooden arch, symmetrical and perfectly pointed, were two lines of verse painted in antique black lettering.
Aïci lo tems s’en
Va res l’Eternitat.
Léonie read the words twice aloud, rolling the strange sounds over in her mouth. She pulled her all-weather pencil from her pocket and scribbled them down on a scrap of paper.
There was a noise behind her. A rustling? A wild animal? A mountain cat? Then a different sound, as if a rope was being drawn across the deck of a ship. A snake? Her confidence evaporated. The dark eyes of the forest seemed to be pressing in upon her. The words in the book now came back to her with a dreadful clarity. Premonitions, hauntings, a place where the veil between worlds was drawn back.