The Château Comtal looked like what it now was, a plain military building, efficient, workaday, drab. The Tour de Vade, in the shadow of the walls, was a powder depot. A single sentinel stood guard, picking his teeth. The place wore a mantle of neglect, a building tolerated but not cherished.
Léonie looked for a while from beneath the wide rim of her hat, attempting to see some romance in the plain bridge and the functional narrow gateway into the château itself, but could find none. As she turned away, the thought came into her mind that attempts to rejuvenate the Cité as a tourist landmark were likely to fail. She could not imagine streets such as these thronged with visitors. It was too dull, not designed to appeal to contemporary tastes and fashions. The newly repaired walls, the machine-cut stone and tiles only emphasised how ruined were the authentic surroundings. She could only assume the hope was that when the works were finished the atmosphere would change. That new restaurants, shops, perhaps even a hotel, would bring life again to the winding streets. Léonie strolled up and down the passageways. A few fellow travellers, ladies with their hands warm in fur muffs, gentlemen with walking sticks and top hats, bade her good afternoon.
The wind was even stronger here, and Léonie was obliged to retrieve her handkerchief from her pocket and hold it across her mouth and nose as protection against the worst of the damp air. She picked her way through a complicated chicane, and found herself standing beside an old stone cross looking out over terraced market gardens, with vegetable plots, vines, chicken coops and rabbit hutches. Below, a cluster of small, cramped houses.
From this vantage point, she could see clearly how very high the river was. A restless, swirling black mass of water, speeding through the mills, setting the blades spinning. Beyond, the Bastide lay spread out before her. She could pick out the spire of the cathedral of Saint-Michel and the tall, thin bell tower of the église Saint-Vincent, hard by their hotel. Léonie felt a spike of anxiety. She glanced up at the threatening sky and realised she could find herself confined on the far side of the river, trapped by the water levels rising. The Basse Ville seemed suddenly some distance off. The story she had concocted in her mind to tell Anatole of how she had become disorientated and lost in the narrow streets of the Bastide would be of no matter if she was caught by flooding
A movement above her head made her glance up. A flock of autumn crows, black against the grey sky, flew up over the turrets and battlements, battling against the wind.
Léonie started to hurry. The first spot of rain landed upon her cheek. Then another and another, faster, heavier, colder. Then a rattle of sleet and a single, abrupt crack of thunder. Suddenly all around was water.
The storm, so long threatened, had arrived.
CHAPTER 59
Léonie cast around urgently for shelter, but there was nothing. Caught halfway down the steep and cobbled path that linked the citadel to the quartier Barbacane below, there were no trees, no buildings, no dwellings. Her tired legs protested at the thought of climbing back up to the Cité.
Nothing but to continue down.
She stumbled down the calada, holding her skirts above her ankles to prevent them being soaked by the water cascading over the cobbles like a millrace. The wind boxed her ears and blew the rain beneath the rim of her hat, causing her coat to flap and catch around her legs.
She did not see the two men watching her beside the stone cross at the top of the ramp. One was well-dressed, imposing and stylish, a person of some means and status. The other was short and dark, wrapped in a thick Napoleonic cloak. They exchanged a few words. There was a glint of coins passing from one gloved hand to the dirty palms of the old soldier, then the two men parted company. The soldier vanished into the Cité.
The gentleman followed Léonie down.
By the time Léonie reached the Place Saint-Gimer, she was drenched.
In the absence of any sort of public restaurant or café, her only option was to take shelter in the church itself. She hurried up the charmless modern steps and through the metal gate standing partly open in the black railings.
Léonie pushed open the wooden door and stepped inside. Although the candles were lit on the altar and in the side chapels, she shivered. It was colder inside than out. She stamped her feet to shake off what rain she could, breathing in the scent of wet stone and incense. She hesitated, then, realising she could be stranded within the église de Saint-Gimer for some time, decided that not catching a chill was of more importance than her appearance, and removed both her gloves and her sodden hat.
As her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, Léonie realised with relief that others had been drawn to the church to shelter from the storm. It was a strange congregation. In the nave and side chapels, people milled quietly about. A gentleman in a top hat and greatcoat, with a lady on his arm, sat bolt upright in one of the pews as if they had an unpleasant smell beneath their noses. Local residents of the quartier, many without boots and inadequately dressed, squatted on the flagstones. There was even a donkey, and a woman clutching two chickens, one under each arm.
‘An extraordinary sight,’ said a voice at her ear. ‘But then one must remember that sanctuary welcomes all those who seek it.’
Startled to be directly addressed, Léonie spun around to see a gentleman standing at her elbow. His grey top hat and frock coat marked his class, as did the silver head and tip of his cane and his kid leather gloves. The traditional elegance of his attire made his blue eyes all the more startling. For an instant, Léonie thought she might have seen him before. Then she realised it was just that although broader and more substantial, there was some resemblance in colouring and feature to her brother.
There was something else about him, something about his direct gaze and his vulpine features that caused a quite unexpected tumult in Léonie’s chest. Her heart began to beat a little harder and she felt her skin suddenly warm beneath her sodden clothes.
‘I ...’ She blushed prettily, and looked down.
‘Forgive me, I did not mean to offend you,’ he said. ‘In normal circumstances I would not, of course, address a lady without introduction. Even in such a place.’ He smiled. ‘But these are somewhat unusual circumstances, no?’
His courtesy reassured her.
Léonie raised her eyes. ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘They are rather.’
‘So here we are, fellow travellers seeking refuge from the storm. I felt that perhaps normal rules of etiquette and behaviour might be suspended.’ He tipped his hat to reveal a high forehead and glossy hair, precisely cut to the top of his high collar. ‘So, can we be friends for the duration? I do not offend you to make such a request?’
Léonie shook her head. ‘Not in the slightest,’ she said clearly. ‘Besides, we might find ourselves here, after all, for quite some time.’
She regretted that to her ears her voice sounded strained, too high, too thin to be pleasing. But the stranger was smiling still and did not seem to notice.
‘Quite.’ He looked around. ‘But bearing in mind the proprieties, perhaps if I might make so bold as to introduce myself to you, then we will no longer be strangers. And your guardians need not worry.’
‘Oh, I am . . .’ Léonie stopped. It might not be prudent to reveal that she was alone. ‘I should be delighted to accept your introduction.’
With a half-bow, he pulled a calling card from his pocket. ‘Victor Constant, Mademoiselle.’
Léonie accepted the elegant embossed card with a frisson of excitement, which she attempted to mask by studying the name upon the card. She tried to think of something amusing to say. She wished, too, she had not previously removed her gloves. Beneath his turquoise stare, she felt quite undressed.
‘And may I be so impertinent as to ask your name?’
A laugh slipped out from between her lips. ‘Of course. How stupid of me. I regret that I do not . . . I have neglected to bring any visiting cards,’ she lied, without questioning why. ‘I am Léonie Vernier.’
Constant took her bare han
d and raised it to his lips. ‘Enchanté.’
Léonie felt a jolt as his lips grazed her skin. She heard herself gasp, then felt the red rush into her cheeks, self-conscious at so obvious a reaction, and pulled her fingers away.
Gallantly, he affected not to notice. Léonie liked him for it.
‘Why did you assume I am under the care of a guardian?’ she said, when she could trust herself to speak. ‘I might be accompanied by my husband.’
‘Indeed you might,’ he said, ‘but for one thing. I cannot believe that any husband would be so lacking in chivalry as to leave so beautiful a young wife alone.’ He glanced around the church. ‘And in such company.’
They both cast their eyes around the bedraggled collection of people.
Léonie felt a spurt of pleasure at the compliment, but hid her smile.
‘My husband might have gone simply to summon assistance. ’
‘No man would be such a fool,’ he said, and there was something passionate, almost savage in the way he said the words that caused Léonie’s heart to somersault.
He glanced down at her bare hand, devoid of any marriage band.
‘Well, I admit you are quite perspicacious, Monsieur Constant,’ she replied. ‘And you are indeed correct in your assumption that I have no husband.’
‘What husband would wish to be parted from such a wife, even for an instant?’
She tilted her head. ‘For you, of course, would not treat your wife in such a manner?’ she said, the bold words slipping out before she could check herself.
‘Alas, I am not married,’ he said with a slow smile. ‘I meant merely that if I were lucky enough to enjoy such a precious possession, I would take greater care.’
Their eyes collided, the green and the blue. To cover the surge of emotion she was experiencing, Léonie laughed, causing several of the temporary citizens of Saint-Gimer to turn and stare.
Constant placed his finger to his lips. ‘Shush,’ he said. ‘Our levity, clearly, is not appreciated.’
He had lowered his voice yet further, so she was obliged to draw nearer. Indeed, they were so close as to be almost touching. Léonie could feel the heat of him beside her, as if the entire right side of her body was facing an open fire. She remembered Isolde’s words about love as they had sat on the promontory overlooking the lake, and, for the first time, had a glimpse into what such a feeling might be like.
‘Shall I tell you a secret?’ he asked.
‘By all means.’
‘I believe I know what drew you to this place, Mademoiselle Vernier.’
Léonie raised her eyebrows. ‘Indeed?’
‘You have the air of a young lady upon a solitary adventure. You entered the church alone, drenched from the downpour, which suggests you have no servant with you, for certainly they would have been equipped with an umbrella. And your eyes, quite like emeralds, dazzle with the excitement of the moment.’
A burst of loud and angry words came from a Spanish family close by, drawing Constant’s attention. Léonie felt quite unlike herself, but nevertheless realised the danger.
That, in the intensity of the moment, she might say things she would subsequently wish she had not.
She turned his compliment over in her mind.
Your eyes dazzle quite like emeralds.
‘There are many Spanish textile workers in this quartier,’ Constant said, as if sensing her discomfort. ‘Until the renovations of the medieval fortress were commenced in 1847, the Cité was the centre of the local cloth industry.’
‘You are well-informed, Monsieur Constant,’ she said, trying to keep concentration. ‘Are you involved with the restoration? You are an architect, perhaps?’
She fancied his blue eyes flared with pleasure. ‘You flatter me, Mademoiselle Vernier, but no. Nothing so celebrated. I have merely an amateur interest.’
‘I see.’
Léonie found that she could not think of a single amusing thing to say. Eager to keep the conversation alive, she cast around for a topic of conversation with which to engage him. She wished him to think her witty, intelligent, charming. Fortunately, Victor Constant continued to talk unaided by her.
‘There has been a church dedicated to Saint-Gimer close by this site since the end of the eleventh century. This particular building was consecrated in 1859, after it had become clear that such was the state of disrepair of the original that it would be advisable to build a new church rather than attempt a restoration.’
‘I see,’ she said, then winced.
How dull I sound. How stupid.
‘The church was begun under the auspices of Monsieur Viollet-le-Duc,’ Constant continued, ‘although the construction was quickly handed over to a local architect, Monsieur Cals, to complete to his designs.’
He placed his hands upon her shoulders and turned her round so she was facing up the nave. Léonie caught her breath as a shot of heat surged through her.
‘The altar, the pulpit, the chapels and the screens are all Viollet-le-Duc’s work,’ he said. ‘Quite typical. A blend of styles, north and south. They transferred many of the objects from the original building to here. And although it is rather modern for my tastes, it is nonetheless a place of some character. Do you not agree, Mademoiselle Vernier?’
Léonie felt his hands slip from her shoulders, brushing against the small of her back as they did so. She could only nod, not trusting herself to speak.
A woman sitting in the side aisle on the floor, in the golden shadow of a reliquary casket set into the wall, began to sing a lullaby, to still the restless baby in her arms.
Grateful for the diversion, Léonie turned to look.
Aquèla Trivala
Ah qu’un polit quartier
Es plen de gitanòs.
The words floated across the church to the nave where Léonie and Victor were standing.
‘There is a great charm in simple things,’ he said.
‘That is the language of Occitan,’ she said, wishing to impress. ‘The maids at home speak it when they believe no one is listening.’
She felt his attention sharpen.
‘At home?’ he said. ‘Forgive me, from your clothes and your bearing I assumed you were but travelling in this region. I had taken you for une vraie Parisienne.’
Léonie smiled at the compliment. ‘Again, Monsieur Constant, your perspicacity does you credit. My brother and I are indeed only guests in the Languedoc. We live in the eighth arrondissement, not far from the Gare Saint-Lazare. Do you know the quartier?’
‘Only from the paintings of Monsieur Monet, I regret.’
‘The Place d’Europe is visible from our drawing room windows,’ she said. ‘If you knew the area, you could place our lodgings precisely.’
He gave a regretful shrug. ‘In which case, if it is not too impertinent a question, Mademoiselle Vernier, what brings you to the Languedoc? It is late in the season to be travelling. ’
‘We are staying with a relative for a month. An aunt.’
He pulled a face. ‘My commiserations,’ he said.
It was a moment before Léonie realised he was teasing her.
‘Oh,’ she laughed, ‘Isolde is not at all that kind of aunt. All mothballs and eau de Cologne. She is beautiful and young, also from Paris in the first instance.’
She saw something flash in his eyes - satisfaction, delight even. She blushed with pleasure that he was evidently enjoying their flirtation as much as she.
It is perfectly harmless.
Constant placed his hand on his heart and gave a half-bow.
‘I stand corrected,’ he said.
‘I forgive you for it,’ she replied prettily.
‘And your aunt,’ he said, ‘this beautiful and charming Isolde, previously of Paris, she is now resident in Carcassonne? ’
Léonie shook her head. ‘No. We are in town for a few days. My aunt has business to attend to, concerning her late husband’s estate. We are to go to a concert this evening.’
He nod
ded. ‘Carcassonne is a charming city. Much improved in the past ten years. There are now many excellent restaurants and shops, hotels too.’ He paused. ‘Or have you taken lodgings, perhaps?’
Léonie laughed. ‘We are only here for a matter of days, Monsieur Constant. The Hôtel Saint-Vincent is more than adequate for our needs!’
The door to the church opened, with a gust of cold air, as more travellers came in from the rain. Léonie shivered as her wet skirts wrapped themselves around her cold legs.