Sepulchre

  ‘There will be a pair of duelling pistols, Monsieur, each with a single shot. Should you be carrying another instrument, I will fail to find it.’ He gave an ingratiating smile. ‘Although I cannot believe such a man as you, Monsieur, would fail to hit your target on the first attempt.’

  Constant looked contemptuous at the craven flattery.

  ‘I never miss,’ he said.

  CHAPTER 77

  ‘Damn and blast it to hell,’ Anatole shouted, kicking the ground with the heel of his boot.

  Pascal walked over to the makeshift shooting gallery he had set up in the clearing in the woods ringed by wild juniper bushes. He set up the bottles again in a row, then returned to Anatole and reloaded the pistol for him.

  Of the six shots, two had gone wide, one had hit the trunk of a beech tree and two the wooden fencing, dislodging three bottles through the vibration. Only one had hit its target, although just nicking the base of the thick glass bottle.

  ‘Try again, Sénher,’ Pascal said quietly. ‘Keep your eye steady.’

  ‘That’s what I’m doing,’ Anatole muttered with ill-temper.

  ‘Raise your eye to the target, then drop it again. Imagine the shot as it travels down the barrel.’ Pascal stepped away. ‘Steady, Sénher. Take your aim. Don’t rush.’

  Anatole raised his arm. This time he imagined that, instead of a bottle that once had held ale, it was Victor Constant’s face in front of him.

  ‘Now,’ said Pascal softly. ‘Hold steady, hold steady. Fire.’

  Anatole hit it full square. The bottle shattered, exploding in a shower of glass like a cheap firework. The sound ricocheted off the trunks of the trees, sending birds flapping in alarm from their nests.

  A tiny puff of smoke slipped from the end of the barrel. Anatole blew across the top, then turned with his eyes glinting with satisfaction to face Pascal.

  ‘Good shot,’ the servant said, his broad, impassive face for once the mirror to his thoughts. ‘And . . . when is this engagement?’

  The smile faded from Anatole’s face. ‘Tomorrow at dusk.’

  Pascal walked across the glade, the twigs cracking underfoot, and lined up the remaining bottles once again. ‘Shall we see if you can hit a second time, Sénher?’

  ‘God willing, I shall only have to do it once,’ Anatole said to himself under his breath.

  But he permitted Pascal to reload the pistol and keep him at it, until every last bottle had been struck and a smell of powder, gunshot and old ale hung in the air of the wooded clearing.

  CHAPTER 78

  At five minutes before midday, Léonie quit her chamber and walked along the passageway and down the main staircase. She appeared composed and the mistress of her emotions, but her heart was beating like a toy soldier’s tin drum.

  As she crossed the tiled hall, her heels seemed to strike ominously loudly, or so it seemed, in the silent house. She glanced down at her hands and noticed there were flecks of paint, green and black, on her nails. She had, during the course of her anxious morning, completed the illustration of La Tour, but she was not satisfied with it. However lightly she had flecked the leaves on the trees or tried to colour the sky, there was an unnerving and brooding presence that spoke through the strokes of her brush.

  She walked passed the glass display cases that led to the door of the library. The medals, curiosities and mementos barely registered on her mind, so absorbed was she in anticipating the interview to come.

  On the threshold, she hesitated. Then she lifted her chin high, raised her hand, and knocked sharply upon the door with more courage than she felt.

  ‘Come.’

  At the sound of Anatole’s voice, Léonie opened the door and stepped inside.

  ‘You wished to see me?’ she said, feeling as if she had been summoned before the magistrates’ bench rather than into the company of her beloved brother.

  ‘I did,’ he said, smiling at her. The expression on his face and the look in his brown eyes relieved her, although she realised that he too was anxious. ‘Come in, Léonie. Sit down.’

  ‘You are scaring me, Anatole,’ she said quietly. ‘You seem so grave.’

  He put his hand on her shoulder and steered her to a chair with a tapestry seat. ‘It is a serious matter about which I wish to speak to you.’

  He pulled out the chair for her to sit, then walked some distance off and turned to face her, hands behind his back. Now Léonie noticed he was holding something between his fingers. An envelope.

  ‘What is it?’ she said, her spirit lurching at the thought that her worst fears might be about to be realised. What if Monsieur Constant had, by some skill and effort, acquired the address and written directly to her. ‘Is it a letter from M’man? From Paris?’

  A strange look came over Anatole’s face, as if he had just remembered something that had slipped his mind, but it was quickly covered.

  ‘No. At least, yes, it is a letter, but it is one I have myself written. To you.’

  Hope sparked inside her chest that all might yet be well. ‘To me?’

  Anatole smoothed his hand over his hair and sighed. ‘It is an awkward situation in which I find myself,’ he said quietly. ‘There are . . . matters of which we must speak, but now that the moment is here, I find myself humbled, tongue-tied in your presence.’

  Léonie laughed. ‘I cannot see how that could be,’ she said. ‘You would not be embarrassed in front of me, surely?’

  She had intended her words to tease, but the very sombre expression on Anatole’s face froze the smile on her lips. She leapt out of her chair and ran over to him.

  ‘Whatever is it?’ she demanded. ‘Is it M’man? Isolde?’

  Anatole looked down at the letter in his hand. ‘I have taken the liberty of committing the confession to paper,’ he said.

  ‘Confession?’

  ‘Contained within is information that I should - that we should - have shared with you some time ago. Isolde would have done so, but I believed I knew best.’

  ‘Anatole!’ she cried, shaking his arm. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘It is better you read it in private,’ he said. ‘There is a situation that has arisen, far more serious, which requires my immediate attention. And your help.’

  He slipped his arm out of Léonie’s small hand, and pushed the letter at her.

  ‘I hope you can forgive me,’ he said, his voice breaking. ‘I shall wait outside.’

  Then, without further word, he strode across the room to the door, jerked it open, and was gone.

  The door rattled shut. Then the silence rushed back.

  Bewildered by what had just taken place, and distressed by Anatole’s evident anguish, Léonie looked down at the envelope. Her own name was printed in black ink in Anatole’s elegant, romantic hand.

  She stared at it, fearful of what might be inside, then ripped it open.

  Vendredi, le 30 octobre

  Ma chère petite Léonie -

  Always, you accused me of treating you like a child. Even when you were still in ribbons and short skirts and I struggling with my lessons. This time, the charge is fair. For tomorrow evening at dusk, I shall be in the clearing in the beech woods preparing to face the man who has made every attempt to ruin us.

  If it does not fall out in my favour, then I do not wish you to be left without explanation to all those questions you would surely ask of me. Whatever the outcome of the duel, I wish you to know the truth of the matter.

  I love Isolde with my heart and soul. It was she at whose graveside you stood in March, a desperate attempt for her - for us - to seek safety from the violent intentions of a man with whom she had a brief, ill-judged liaison. To dissemble her death and her burial seemed the only way for her to escape from the shadow under which she lived

  Léonie reached out and found the back of the chair. Carefully, she sat herself down upon it.

  I admit that I expected you to uncover our deception. During those difficult spring months and the early summer, even while the at
tacks upon me in the newspapers continued, at every turn, I expected you to tear off the mask and denounce me, but I played my part too well. You, who are so true of heart and purpose, why would you doubt that my pinched lips and haggard eyes were the consequences not of dissipation but of grief?

  I must tell you that Isolde never wished to deceive you. From the moment we arrived at the Domaine de la Cade and she made your acquaintance, she had faith that your love for me - and she hoped in time that this same love would extend to her as a sister - would allow you to put moral considerations aside and support us in our deception. I disagreed.

  I was a fool.

  As I sit writing this, on what might be the eve of my last day upon this earth, I admit that my greatest fault was moral cowardice. One fault, among many.

  But these have been glorious weeks here, with you and Isolde, in the peaceful paths and gardens of the Domaine de la Cade.

  There is more. A final deception, for which I pray you can find it in your heart if not to forgive, at least to understand. In Carcassonne, while you explored the innocent streets, Isolde and I were married. She is now Madame Vernier, your sister by the bonds of law as well as affection.

  I am also to be a father.

  But on that same happiest of days, we learned that he had discovered us. This is the true explanation for our abrupt departure. It is too the explanation for Isolde’s decline and fragility. But it is clear that her health cannot withstand the assaults upon her nerves. The matter cannot remain unresolved.

  Having discovered the deception of the funeral, somehow he has hunted us, first to Carcassonne, and now to Rennes-les-Bains. It is why I have accepted his challenge. It is the only way to settle the issue for good.

  Tomorrow evening, I will face him. I seek your help, petite, as I should have sought it many months previously. I have great need of your service, to keep the particulars of the duel from my beloved Isolde. Should I not return, I commend the safety of my wife and child to you. The house is secure in possession.

  Your affectionate and loving brother

  A -

  Léonie’s hands dropped into her lap. The tears she had struggled to keep at bay began to roll silently down her cheeks. She wept for the pity of it, for the deception and the misunderstandings that had kept them apart. She cried - for Isolde, for the fact that she and Anatole had deceived her, that she had ever deceived them - until all her emotion was spent.

  Then her thoughts sharpened. The reason for Anatole’s untimely expedition from the house this morning was now explained.

  In a matter of days, hours, he could be dead.

  She ran to the window and threw the casement wide. After the brilliance of the early morning, the day was now overcast. Everything was still and damp beneath the ineffective rays of the weak sun. An autumn fog was floating over the lawns and gardens, shrouding the world in a deceptive calm.

  Tomorrow at dusk.

  She looked at her reflection in the tall library window, thinking how strange it was that she could appear the same, yet be so utterly changed. Eyes, face, chin, mouth, all in the same place as they had been but three minutes earlier.

  Léonie shivered. Tomorrow was Toussaint, the Eve of All Saints. A night of terrible beauty, when the veil between good and ill was at its slightest. It was a time when such events could take place. A time, already, of demons and evil deeds.

  The duel must not be allowed to go ahead. It was down to her to prevent it. So dreadful a charade could not be permitted to continue. But even as the thoughts raced furiously around her head, Léonie knew it was no use. She could not deflect Anatole from his chosen course of action.

  ‘He must not miss his target,’ she muttered under her breath. Ready to face him now, she went to the door and pulled it open.

  Her brother was standing outside in a fug of cigarette smoke, the anguish of the waiting minutes while she had been reading carved clearly upon his face.

  ‘Oh, Anatole,’ she said, throwing her arms around him.

  His eyes filled with tears. ‘Forgive me,’ he whispered, allowing himself to be held. ‘I am so very sorry. Can you forgive me, petite?’

  CHAPTER 79

  Léonie and Anatole spent much of the rest of that day in one another’s company. Isolde rested in the afternoon, giving them time together to talk. Anatole was so bowed down by the burden of anticipation and how circumstances had conspired against him that Léonie felt herself the older sibling.

  She alternated between rage at having been so deceived, and for so many months, and affection for the evident love he had for Isolde and the lengths he had gone to protect it.

  ‘Did M’man know of the deception?’ she challenged several times, haunted by the memory of herself standing beside an untenanted casket in the Cimetière de Montmartre. ‘Was I the only one not party to the hoax?’

  ‘I did not confide in her,’ he replied. ‘Although I believe she understood that there was more to the matter than met the eye.’

  ‘No death,’ she said quietly. ‘And the clinic? Was there a child?’

  ‘No. Another lie to shore up our deception.’

  It was only in the quiet moments, when Anatole had momentarily taken his leave of her, that Léonie allowed back the trepidation of what the following day might bring. He would say little of his enemy, suffice that he had damaged Isolde greatly in the short time they had been acquainted. Anatole did admit that the man was a Parisian and that he had clearly been successful in unpicking the false trail laid for him and tracked them to the Midi. However, he professed to be at a loss as to how he had made the leap from Carcassonne to Rennes-les-Bains. Nor would he utter his name.

  Léonie listened to the story of the obsession, the desire for revenge that drove their enemy - the attacks upon her brother in the columns of the newspapers, the assault upon his person in the Passage des Panoramas, the efforts to which he was prepared to go to ruin both Isolde and Anatole - and heard the real fear behind her brother’s words.

  They did not discuss the outcome should Anatole miss his target. Pressed by her brother, Léonie gave her word that, should he fail in his task and be unable to protect them, she would find some immediate way of leaving the Domaine de la Cade under cover of night with Isolde.

  ‘He is not a man of honour, then?’ she said. ‘You fear he will not abide by the rules of engagement?’

  ‘I fear he will not,’ he replied gravely. ‘Should things go ill tomorrow, I would not wish Isolde to be here when he comes to find her.’

  ‘He sounds a devil.’

  ‘And I, a fool,’ said Anatole quietly, ‘for thinking it could end in any other way than this.’

  Later that evening, after Isolde had retired for the night, Anatole and Léonie met in the drawing room to agree on a plan of campaign for the following day.

  She disliked being party to a deception - especially having been the victim of such concealment herself - but she accepted that, in her condition, Isolde could not know of what was to happen. Anatole tasked her with occupying his wife so that, at the appointed hour, he and Pascal could slip away. He had sent word to Charles Denarnaud inviting him to be his second, a request that had been accepted without hesitation. Dr Gabignaud, an unwilling participant, was to provide medical assistance should it be required.

  Though she nodded with apparent acquiescence, Léonie had not the slightest intention of abiding by Anatole’s wishes. She could not contemplate sitting idly in the drawing room, watching the hands of the clock make their slow march, knowing that her brother was engaged in such a combat. She knew she would have to find some way of passing off responsibility for Isolde between the hours of dusk and nightfall, although she could not yet conceive of how this might be achieved.

  But she gave no indication of her intended disobedience, in either word or deed. And Anatole was so absorbed in his fevered plannings that he did not think to doubt her compliance.

  When he, too, retired for the night, quitting the drawing room with a single candl
e to light his way to bed, Léonie remained behind for some time, thinking, deciding how to arrange things for the best.

  She would be strong. She would not permit her fears to master her. All would be well. Anatole would wound or kill his enemy. She refused to entertain an alternative.

  But even as the hours of night slipped by, she was aware that wishing would not make it so.

  CHAPTER 80

  SATURDAY 31ST OCTOBER

  The Eve of All Saints came in with a chill and pink dawn. Léonie had barely slept, so felt the weight of the passing minutes pressing down upon her. After breakfast, where neither she nor Anatole could manage to eat much, he spent the morning time closeted with Isolde.