Sepulchre (32 page)

'Indeed I do.' The doctor gave a crisp bow. 'Mademoiselle Vernier. And may I add my compliments to those of your brother.'

 

Léonie blushed charmingly. 'It is quite a gathering,' she said.

 

Anatole identified the other guests for her. 'You remember Maître Fromilhague? And Denarnaud and his sister, who keeps house for him.'

 

Léonie nodded. 'Tante Isolde introduced me.'

 

'And that is Bérenger Saunière, the parish priest of Rennes-le-Château and friend of our late uncle.'

He pointed to a tall and muscular man, with a high forehead and strong features rather at odds with his long black robes.
'Seems a charming fellow,' Anatole continued, 'although not a man given to trivialities.' He nodded to the doctor. 'He was rather more interested in Gabignaud's medical investigations than the mundane pleasantries I had to offer.'

Gabignaud smiled, acknowledging the truth of it. 'Saunière is an extremely informed man, in all manner of things. He has an appetite for knowledge. Always asking questions.'

 

Léonie looked at the priest a moment longer, then her gaze moved on.

 

'And the lady with him?'

 

'Madame Bousquet, a distant relative of our late uncle.' Anatole dropped his voice. 'Had not Lascombe taken it upon himself to marry, she would have inherited the Domaine de la Cade.'

 

'Yet she has accepted the invitation to dine?'

 

He nodded. 'The bond between Madame Bousquet and Isolde is hardly that of sisters, but it is civilised. They receive one another. Indeed, Isolde admires her.'

Only now did Léonie notice a tall, very thin man standing a little behind their small group. She half turned to observe him. He was dressed most unusually, in a white suit, rather than customary black evening wear, and sported a yellow handkerchief in the breast pocket of his jacket. His waistcoat, too, was yellow.

His face was lined and his skin almost transparent with antiquity, and yet it seemed to Léonie that no great sense of age hung about him. There was though, she thought, an underlying sadness. As if he was a man who had suffered and seen much.

Anatole turned to see who or what had so caught her attention. He leaned closer to whisper in her ear. 'Ah, that is Rennes-les-Bains' most celebrated visitor, Audric Baillard, author of that strange little pamphlet that engaged you so.' He smiled. 'Quite the eccentric, apparently. Gabignaud's been telling me that he always dresses in that singular manner, regardless of the occasion. Always in a pale suit, always with a yellow cravat.'

Léonie turned to the doctor. 'Why is that?' she asked, sotto voce. Gabignaud smiled and shrugged. 'I believe in memory of friends once lost, Mademoiselle Vernier. Fallen comrades, I'm not entirely certain.' 'You can ask him yourself, petite, at dinner,' said Anatole.

The conversation prospered until the sound of the gong being struck called the party in to dinner.
Isolde, escorted by Maître Fromilhague, led her guests from the drawing room and across the hall. Anatole accompanied Madame Bousquet. Leonie, on Monsieur Denarnaud's arm, kept Monsieur Baillard in her sights. Abbé Saunière and Dr Gabignaud brought up the rear with Mademoiselle Denarnaud between them.

Pascal, splendid in borrowed red and gold livery, threw open the doors as the party approached. There was an immediate murmur of appreciation. Even Leonie, who had seen the dining room in various stages of preparation during the course of the morning, was dazzled by the transformation. The magnificent glass chandelier was alive with three tiers of white wax candles. The long oval table was dressed with armfuls of fresh lilies, lit by three silver candelabra. On the sideboard were serving tureens, their lids domed and gleaming like armour. Light from the candles sent shadows dancing along the walls across the painted faces of past generations of the Lascombe family that hung upon the walls.

The ratio of four ladies to six gentlemen made the table a little uneven. Isolde sat at the head, with Monsieur Baillard at the foot. Anatole was on Isolde's left, with Maître Fromilhague to her right. Beside Fromilhague was Mademoiselle Denarnaud and next to her, Dr Gabignaud. Léonie was next, with Audric Baillard on her right. She gave a shy smile, as the servant pulled out her chair and she sat.

On the far side of the table, Anatole had the pleasure of Madame Bousquet, followed by Charles Denarnaud and Abbé Saunière beyond.

The servants poured generous measures of blanquette de Limoux into flat basin-like glasses, as wide as coffee bowls. Fromilhague concentrated his attentions on his hostess, all but ignoring Denarnaud's sister, which Léonie thought discourteous although she could not entirely blame him for it. In their brief conversation, she had thought her a most dull woman.

After a few formal exchanges with Madame Bousquet, Léonie could hear Anatole was already launched into animated conversation with Maître Fromilhague about literature. Fromilhague was a man of strong opinions, dismissing Monsieur Zola's latest novel, L'Argent, as dreary and immoral. He condemned other habitués of Zola's erstwhile writing fraternity, such as Guy de Maupassant - who, rumour had it, having tried to take his own life, was now confined at Dr Blanche's asylum in Paris. In vain did Anatole try to suggest that a man's life and his work might be treated separately.

'Immorality in life debases the art,' was Fromilhague's stubborn response.

 

Soon most of the table were engaged in the debate. 'You are quiet, Madomaisèla Leonie,' came a voice at her ear. 'Does literature not interest you?'

 

She turned with relief to Audric Baillard. 'I adore to read. But in company such as this, it is difficult to make one's opinions heard.' He smiled. 'Ah, yes.'

'And I confess,' she continued, blushing a little, 'I find much contemporary literature utterly wearisome. Page after page of ideas, exquisite turns of phrase and clever ideas, but where nothing ever happens!'

A smile flickered in his eyes. 'It is stories that capture your imagination?'

Léonie smiled. 'My brother, Anatole, always tells me I have rather low tastes, and I suppose he is right. The most thrilling novel I have read is The Castle of Otranto, but I am also a fan of Amelia B. Edwards' ghost stories and anything by Monsieur Poe.'

Baillard nodded. 'He was gifted. A troubled man, but so adept at capturing the dark side of our human nature, don't you think?'

Léonie felt a spike of pleasure. She had endured too many tedious soirées in Paris being all but ignored by the majority of guests, who seemed to believe that she would have no opinions worth the hearing. Monsieur Baillard appeared to be different.

'I do,' she agreed. 'My favourite of Monsieur Poe's stories, although I confess it gives me nightmares each time I read it, is "The Tell-Tale Heart". A murderer driven mad by the sounds of the beating heart of the man he has slaughtered and concealed beneath the floorboards. Quite brilliant!'

'Guilt is a powerful emotion,' he said quietly.

 

Léonie looked at him closely for a moment, waiting for him to expound, but he said nothing more.

 

'May I be impertinent and ask you a question, Monsieur Baillard?'

 

'Of course.'

 

'You are dressed, well. . .' She broke off, not wishing to cause offence.

 

Baillard smiled. 'Unconventionally? Not in the usual uniform?'

 

'Uniform?'

 

'Of a gentlemen these days at dinner,' he said, his eyes twinkling.

 

Léonie gave a sigh. 'Well, yes. Although it was not that so much, as that my brother said that you were known to always wear yellow. In memory of fallen comrades, he said.'

 

Audric Baillard's face seemed to cloud over.

 

'That is so,' he said quietly.

 

'Did you fight at Sedan?' she asked, then hesitated. 'Or. . . my papa fought for the Commune. I never knew him. He was deported and . . .'

For a moment Audric Baillard's hand covered hers. She felt his skin, paper thin, through the material of her gloves, and the lightness of his touch. Léonie did not know what overcame her at that moment, only that an anguish she had never realised she felt, was suddenly put into words.

'Is it always right to fight for what you believe in, Monsieur Baillard?' she said quietly. 'I have often wondered. Even if the cost to those around you is so great?'

 

He squeezed her fingers. 'Always,' he said quietly. 'And to remember those who fall.'

For an instant, the noise of the room receded. All the voices, the laughter, the chink of glasses and silver cutlery. Léonie looked directly at him and felt her gaze, her thoughts, absorbed by the wisdom and experience flickering in his pale, dignified eyes.

Then he smiled. His eyes crinkled and the intimacy was broken.

'The Good Christians, the Cathar believers, were forced to wear a yellow cross pinned to their clothing to mark them out.' His fingers patted the sunflower-yellow handkerchief in his pocket. 'I wear this in remembrance.'

Léonie tilted her head. 'You feel deeply for them, Monsieur Baillard,' she said, smiling.

'Those who have gone before us are not necessarily gone, Madomaisèla Vernier.' He tapped his chest. 'They live here.' He smiled. 'You did not know your father, you say, and yet he lives in you? Yes?'

To her astonishment, Léonie felt tears spring to her eyes. She nodded, unable to trust herself to speak. It was, in some respects, a relief when Dr Gabignaud asked her a question and she was obliged to answer.

CHAPTER 43 Course after course was brought to the table. Fresh trout, pink and melting from the bone like butter, followed by dainty lamb cutlets served on a bed of late asparagus. The men were poured a strong Corbières, a hearty local red wine from Jules Lascombe's excellent cellar. For the ladies, a semi-sweet white wine from Tarascon, rich and dark, the colour of singed onion skins.

The air grew hot with conversation and opinion, arguments of faith and politics, of north and south, of country living versus the town. Léonie glanced across at her brother. Anatole was in his element. His brown eyes sparkling, his black hair glistening, she could see how he was charming both Madame Bousquet and Isolde herself. At the same time, she could not fail to notice there were shadows beneath his eyes. And that, in the dancing light of the candles, the scar on his eyebrow looked particularly vivid.

Léonie took some little time to recover from the strong emotions her conversation with Audric Baillard had aroused in her. Little by little, self-consciousness and embarrassment at having revealed herself so openly -and so unexpectedly - began to give way to curiosity that she should have done so. Having recovered her composure, she became impatient for an opportunity to rekindle their conversation. But Monsieur Baillard was deeply engaged in debate with the Curé, Bérenger Saunière. To her other side, Dr Gabignaud seemed determined to fill every moment with talking. Only with the arrival of dessert did the opportunity present itself.

'Tante Isolde says you are an expert in many matters, Monsieur Baillard. Not only the Albigensians, but Visigoth history, also Egyptian hieroglyphs. On my first evening here, I read your monograph Diables et Esprits Maléfiques et Phantomes de la Montagne. There is a copy here in the library'

He smiled, and Léonie felt that he, too, was pleased to return to the conversation.

 

'I made a gift of it to Jules Lascombe myself.'

 

'It must have taken a long time to gather so many stories together in one volume,' she continued.

'Not so long,' he said lightly. 'It is but a matter of listening to the landscape, to the people who inhabit this land. The stories often recorded as myth or legend, spirits and demons and creatures, are as much woven into the character of the region as the rocks and mountains and lakes.'

'Of course,' she said. 'But do you not also think there are mysteries that cannot be explained?' 'Oc, Madomaisèla, ieu tanben. I believe that too.' Leonie's eyes widened. 'You speak Occitan?' 'It is my mother tongue.' 'You are not French?' He gave a sharp smile. 'No, indeed not.'

'Tante Isolde wishes the servants to speak French within the house, but they lapse into Occitan so frequently that she has given up reprimanding them.'

 

'Occitan is the language of these lands. Aude, Ariège, Corbières, Razès - and beyond, into Spain and Piedmont. The language of poetry, of stories and folklore.'

'So you come from this region then, Monsieur Baillard?' 'Pas luènh,' he replied, passing lightly over her enquiry. The realisation that he might translate for her the words she had seen inscribed above the door to the sepulchre was followed swiftly by the memory of the scratching of claws on the flagstones, like the grating of a trapped animal.

She shivered. 'But are such stories true, Monsieur Baillard?' she asked. 'Of evil spirits and phantoms and demons. Are they true?'

' Vertat?' he repeated, holding her gaze with his pale eyes for a moment longer. 'True? Who is to say, Madomaisèla? There are those who believe that the veil that separates one dimension from the other is so transparent, so lucent, as to be almost invisible. Others would say that only the laws of science dictate what we may and we may not believe.' He paused. 'For my part, I can only tell you that attitudes change over time. What one century holds as fact, another will see as heresy.'

'Monsieur Baillard,' Léonie said quickly, 'when I was reading your book, I found myself wondering if the legends followed the natural landscape. Were the Fauteuil du Diable or the étang du Diable named for stories that were told in these parts, or did the stories grow up as a way of giving character to the place?'

He nodded, and smiled. 'That is a perceptive question, Madomaisèla.' Baillard spoke quietly and yet Léonie felt all other sound retreat in the face of his clear, timeless voice. 'What we call civilisation is merely man's way of trying to impose his values upon the natural world. Books, music, painting, all these constructed things that have so occupied our fellow guests this evening are but attempts to capture the soul of what we see around us. A way of making sense, of ordering our human experiences into something manageable, containable.'

Léonie stared at him for a moment. 'But ghosts, Monsieur Baillard, and devils,' she said slowly. 'Do you believe in ghosts?'