Sepulchre (13 page)

'OK, I believe it represents you, but at the same time, I don't think it's indicating an injustice done to you. I'm inclined to think that it's more that you might find yourself called upon to right some wrong. You as an agent of justice.' She looked up. 'Maybe this was what I was sensing earlier. That there is something else - something more - lying behind the explicit stories being indicated in the spread.'

Meredith cast her eyes over the ten cards lying upon the table. Laura's words were spinning in her head.

 

It's about investigating possibilities, discovering unconscious motivations and desires.

The Magician and the Devil, both with ice-blue eyes, the former the double octave of the latter. All the eights, the number of recognition, of achievement.
Meredith reached forward and took out first the fourth card from the spread and then the last. Strength and Justice. Somehow, they seemed to belong together.

'For a moment,' she said quietly, talking as much to herself as to Laura, 'I thought I understood. As if, somewhere beneath the surface, it all made sense.'

 

'And now?'

Meredith looked up. For a moment, the two women held each other's gaze. 'Now it's just pictures. Just patterns and colours.' The words hung between them. Then, without warning, Lauras hands darted forward and she gathered up the cards, as if she didn't want to leave the spread intact for a moment more.

'You should take them,' she said. 'Work things out for yourself' Meredith did a double-take, sure she must have misheard. 'Excuse me?' But Laura was holding out the cards. 'This deck belongs with you.' Realising she hadn't misunderstood, Meredith started to object. 'I couldn't possibly. . .'

But now Laura was reaching under the table. She brought out a large square of black silk and folded the cards up within it. 'There,' she said, pushing them across the table. Another Tarot tradition. Many people believe you should never buy a deck of cards for yourself. That you should always wait for the right deck to be given to you as a gift.'

Meredith shook her head. 'Laura, I can't possibly accept them. Besides, I wouldn't know what to do with them.' She stood up and put on her jacket. Laura stood too. 'I believe you need them.' For a moment, their eyes met once more. 'But I don't want them.' If I accept them, there'll be no way back.

'The deck belongs with you.' Laura paused. And I think, deep down, you know it.'

Meredith felt the room pressing in on her. The colourful walls, the patterned cloth on the table, the stars and sickle moons and suns, pulsating, growing larger, smaller, shifting shape. And there was something else, a rhythm sounding in her head, almost like music. Or the wind in the trees.

Enfin. At last.

Meredith heard the word as clearly as if she'd spoken herself. It was so sharp, so loud, that she turned around, thinking that perhaps a person had come in behind her. There was no one there.
Things shifting between past and present.

She wanted nothing to do with the cards, but in the face of Laura's determination, she felt she'd never get out of the room if she didn't accept them.

 

She took them. Then, without another word, she turned and ran down the stairs.

 

CHAPTER 17

Meredith wandered the Parisian streets with no track of time, holding the cards in her hands and feeling like, at any moment, they might blow up and somehow take her with them. She didn't want them, yet she understood she wasn't going to be able to bring herself to get rid of them.

It was only when she heard the bells of the church of Saint-Gervais striking one o'clock that she realised she was on track to miss her flight to Toulouse.

 

Meredith pulled herself together. She flagged down a taxi and, yelling at the driver that there'd be a good tip if he could get her there quickly, they screeched out into the traffic.

They made it to rue du Temple in ten minutes flat. Meredith threw herself out of the cab and, leaving it on the meter, charged into the lobby, up the stairs and into her room. She tossed the things she'd need into her tote bag, grabbed her laptop and charger, and then raced back down. She checked the stuff she wasn't taking with the concierge, confirmed she'd be back in Paris at the end of the week for a couple more nights, then jumped into the car and headed across town to Orly airport.

She made it with just fifteen minutes to spare.

The whole time, Meredith was on automatic pilot. Her efficient, organised self kicked in, but she was only going through the physical motions while her brain was elsewhere. Half-remembered phrases, ideas grasped, subtleties missed. All the things Laura had said.

How it made me feel.

Only when she was going through security did Meredith realise that in her hurry to get out of the tiny room, she'd forgotten to pay Laura for the session. A wave of embarrassment washed over her. Working out that she'd been there for at least an hour - maybe closer to two - she made a mental note to mail the money and extra besides as soon as she got to Rennes-les-Bains.
Sortilège. The art of seeing the future in the cards.

As the plane took off, Meredith pulled her notebook from her bag and started to scribble down everything she could remember. A journey. The Magician and the Devil, both with blue eyes, neither to be entirely trusted. Herself as an agent of justice. All the eights.

As the 737 swept through the blue skies of northern France, over the Massif Central, chasing the sun down to the south, Meredith listened to Debussy's Suite Bergamasque on her headphones and wrote until her arm ached, filling page after small, lined page with neat notes and sketches. Laura's words replayed over and over in her head, like they were on some kind of loop, fighting with the music.

Things slipping between past and present.

 

And all the time, like an unwanted guest, the presence of the cards lurking in her bag in the luggage bins above her head.

 

The Devil's Picture Book.

 

PART III

 

Rennes-les-Bains September 1891

 

CHAPTER 18

 

PARIS

 

THURSDAY 17TH SEPTEMBER 1891

 

The decision having been taken to accept Isolde Lascombe's invitation, Anatole set things in motion for immediate departure.

As soon as breakfast was finished, he went to send the wire and purchase train tickets for the following day, leaving Marguerite to take Léonie shopping for items she might need during her month in the country. They went first to La Maison Leoty to acquire a set of expensive undergarments, which transformed her silhouette and made Léonie feel quite adult. At La Samaritaine, Marguerite bought her a new tea dress and walking suit appropriate for autumn in the country. Her mother was warm and affectionate, but distant, and Léonie realised that she had something on her mind. She suspected that it was Du Pont's credit against which Marguerite made their purchases and resigned herself to the fact that they might return to Paris in November and find themselves with a new father.

Léonie was excited, but also curiously out of sorts, a state of affairs she put down to the events of the previous evening. She had no chance to speak to Anatole nor to discuss with him the coincidence of timing that had led to the invitation arriving so opportunely for his needs.

After lunch, making the most of the mild and pleasant afternoon, Marguerite and Léonie went walking in Parc Monceau, a favourite haunt of the ambassadors' children from the embassies nearby. A group of boys were playing Un, Deux, Trois Loup with great exuberance, shouting and yelling encouragement to one another. A gaggle of girls in ribbons and white petticoats, watched over by nannies and dark-skinned bodyguards, were engaged in a game of hopscotch. La Marelle had been one of Leonie's favourite childhood games, and she and Marguerite stopped to watch the girls throw the pebble into the square and jump. From the look on her mother's face, Léonie knew she too was remembering the past with affection. She took advantage to ask a question.

'Why is it that you were not happy at the Domaine de la Cade?'

 

'It was not an environment in which I felt comfortable, chérie, that is all.'

 

'But why? Was it the company? The place itself?'

 

Marguerite shrugged, as she always did, unwilling to be drawn.

 

'There must be a reason,' Léonie pressed.

Marguerite sighed. 'My half-brother was a strange, solitary man,' she said finally. 'He did not wish for the company of a much younger sibling, let alone to be partly responsible for his father's second wife. We felt always like unwelcome guests.'

Léonie thought a moment. 'Do you think I will enjoy myself there?'

 

'Oh yes, I am certain of it,' Marguerite said quickly. 'The estate is quite beautiful, and I imagine that in thirty years there will have been many improvements.'

 

'And the house itself?'

 

Marguerite did not answer. 'M'man?'

 

'It was a long time ago,' she said firmly. 'Everything will have changed.'

 

The morning of their departure, Friday 18th September, dawned damp and blustery.

Léonie woke early, with a fluttering of nerves in her stomach. Now the day had arrived, she was suddenly nostalgic for the world she was leaving behind. The sounds of the city, the rows of sparrows sitting upon the rooftops of the buildings opposite, the familiar faces of neighbours and tradesmen, all seemed invested with a poignant charm. Everything brought tears to her eyes.

Something of the same seemed to have affected Anatole also, for he was ill at ease. His mouth was pinched and his eyes were wary, as he stood watchful at the drawing room windows, casting nervous glances up and down the street.

The maid announced that the carriage had arrived.

 

'Inform the driver we will be down immediately,' he said.

 

'You are travelling in those clothes?' Léonie teased, looking at his grey morning suit and frock coat. 'You look as if you are going to your offices.'

 

'That is the idea,' he said grimly, walking across the drawing room towards her. 'Once we are away from Paris, I will change into something less formal.'

 

Léonie blushed, feeling stupid not to have realised. 'Of course.'

 

He picked up his top hat. 'Hurry petite. We do not wish to miss our train.'

 

In the street below, their luggage was loaded into the fiacre. 'Saint-Lazare,' Anatole shouted, to make his voice heard over the cracking of the wind. 'Gare Saint-Lazare.'

Léonie embraced their mother and promised to write. Marguerite's eyes were rimmed red, which surprised her and, in turn, made her tearful too. As a consequence, their final few minutes in the rue de Berlin were more emotional than Léonie had anticipated.

The fiacre pulled away. At the last moment, as the gig rounded the corner into the rue d'Amsterdam, Léonie pushed down the window and called back to where Marguerite stood, alone, on the pavement. 'Au revoir, M'man.'

Then she sat back in the seat and dabbed at her glistening eyes with her handkerchief. Anatole took her hand and held it.

 

'I am certain she will get along fine without us,' he reassured her. Léonie sniffed. 'Du Pont will look after her.'

 

'Did you make a mistake? Does the Express not depart from the Gare Montparnasse rather than Saint-Lazare?' she said a little later, once the urge to cry had passed.

 

'If anyone comes calling,' he said in a conspiratorial whisper, 'I wish them to believe in the fiction that we are heading for the western suburbs. Yes?'

She nodded. 'I see. A bluff.' Anatole grinned and tapped the side of his nose. On their arrival at the Gare Saint-Lazare, he had their luggage moved to a second cab. He made a great play of chatting with the driver, but Léonie noticed he was sweating, even though it was damp and cold. His cheeks were flushed and his temples slicked with beads of perspiration. Are you unwell?' she asked with concern.

'No,' he said immediately, then added, 'But this . . . subterfuge, it is a strain on my nerves. I shall be fine once we are away from Paris.'

 

'What would you have done,' Léonie said curiously, 'had the invitation not arrived when it did?'

Anatole shrugged. 'Made alternative arrangements.' Léonie waited for him to say more, but he remained silent. 'Does M'man know about your. . . commitments at Chez Frascati?' she asked in the end.

Anatole avoided the question. 'If anyone should come asking, she is well primed to perpetrate the fiction that we have gone to Saint-Germain-en-Laye. Debussy's people are from there, so . . .' He put both hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. 'Now, petite, are you satisfied?' Léonie tilted her chin. 'I am.'

'And no more questions?' he teased.

 

She gave an apologetic grin. 'I will try.'

On their arrival at the Gare Montparnasse, Anatole all but threw the fare at the driver and shot into the station as if he had a pack of hunting dogs at his heels. Léonie played along with the pantomime, understanding that whereas he had wanted them to be noticed at Saint-Lazare, here he wished to be inconspicuous.

Inside the station, he looked for the board listing departures, then put his hand to the pocket of his waistcoat before appearing to think better of it.

 

'Have you mislaid your watch?'

 

'It was taken during the assault,' he said cursorily.

They walked along the platform to find their seats. Léonie read the notices on the carriages of the places in which the train was scheduled to stop: Laroche, Tonnerre, Dijon, Mâcon, Lyon-Perranche at six o'clock this evening, then Valence, Avignon and finally Marseille.

Tomorrow, they were due to take the coast train from Marseille to Carcassonne. Then on Sunday morning, they would depart Carcassonne for Couiza-Montazels, the closest railway station to Rennes-les-Bains. From there, according to their aunt's instructions, it was only a short carriage ride to the Domaine de la Cade, in the foothills of the Corbières.

Anatole purchased a newspaper and buried himself behind it. Léonie watched the people go by. Top hats and morning suits, ladies in wide sweeping skirts. A beggar with a thin face and grimed fingers lifted up the window of their first-class carriage to beg for alms until the guard chased him off.