Sepulchre (53 page)

He returned the book to the shelf, then walked over to the window and placed his hands upon the sill, with his back to her.

 

'Monsieur Baillard?' she prompted.

He turned round. For a moment, the copper sun coming in through the wide window seemed to cast a halo of light around him. Léonie had the impression that she was looking at an Old Testament prophet such as one might see in an oil painting.

Then he stepped back into the centre of the room, and the illusion was lost.

'It means, Madomaisèla, that when village superstitions talk of a demon walking these valleys and wooded hillsides, when the times are out of joint, we should not dismiss them as stories only. There are certain places - the Domaine de la Cade is one - where older forces are at work.' He paused. 'Alternatively, there are others who choose to raise such a creature, to commune with such spirits, failing to understand that evil cannot be mastered.'

She didn't believe it, yet at the same time her heart skipped a beat.

'And my uncle did this, Monsieur Baillard? Are you asking me to accept , that my uncle, through the agency of the cards and the spirit of the place, called forth the devil Asmodeus? And then found himself unable to master him? That all those stories of a beast are, in point of fact, true? That my uncle was responsible, morally at least, for the killings in the valley? And knew this?'

Audric Baillard held her gaze. 'He knew it.'

And so that was why he was obliged to seek the services of Abbé Saunière,' she continued, 'to banish the monster he had released?' She stopped. 'Did Tante Isolde know of this?' 'It was before her time here. She did not.'
Léonie stood up and walked to the window. 'I do not believe it,' she said abruptly. 'Such stories. Devils, demons. Such tales cannot be credited in the modern world.' Then her voice dropped, thinking of the pity of it.

'Those children,' she whispered. She resumed her pacing, causing the floorboards to creak and groan in protest. 'I do not believe it,' she repeated, but her voice was less certain.

'Blood will attract blood,' Baillard said quietly. 'There are some things that draw evil to them. A place, an object, a person may, by force of their ill will, draw to them ill circumstances, wrongdoings, sins.'

Léonie came to a halt, her thoughts running along other pathways. She looked at her gentle host, then threw herself back into her chair.

'Even supposing I could accept such things, what of the deck of cards, Monsieur Baillard? Unless I mistake your meaning, you are suggesting that they might be a force for good or for ill, depending on the circumstances of their use.'

'That is so. Consider how a sword is either an instrument for good or for bad. It is the hand that wields it that makes it so, not the steel.'

Léonie nodded. 'What is the provenance of the cards? Who painted them in the first instance and for what purpose? When I first read my uncle's words, I understood him to be saying that the paintings upon the wall of the sepulchre might somehow step down and imprint themselves upon the cards.'

Audric Baillard smiled. 'If that were the case, Madomaisèla Leonie, there would be only eight cards, whereas there is a full deck.' Her heart sank. 'Yes, I suppose so. I had not considered that.' 'Although,' he continued, 'it does not mean that there is not some kernel of truth in what you say.'

'In which case, Monsieur Baillard, tell me, why those eight tableaux in particular?' Her green eyes were sparkling as a new idea came to her. 'Could it be that the images that remain imprinted upon the wall are those very same that my uncle drew to him. That in another situation, another such communication between the worlds, it might be other tableaux, images from other cards, visible upon the walls?' She paused. 'From paintings, perhaps?'

Audric Baillard allowed a faint smile to play across his lips. 'The lesser of the cards, simple playing cards, if you will, date from that unhappy time when, once more, men driven by faith to murder and to oppress and to extirpate heresy plunged the world into blood.' 'The Albigensians?' Léonie said, remembering conversations between Anatole and Isolde about the tragic thirteenth-century history of the Languedoc.

He gave a resigned shake of his head. Ah, if only lessons were learnt so quickly, Madomaisèla. But I fear they are not.'

In the gravitas of his voice, it seemed to Léonie that behind his words lay a wisdom that spanned centuries. And she, who had never taken the slightest interest in the events of the past, found herself wishing to understand how one consequence led to another.

'I speak not of the Albigensians, Madomaisèla Leonie, but instead of the later wars of religion, the conflicts of the sixteenth century between the Catholic house of Guise and what we might call, for sake of clarity, the Huguenot house of Bourbon.' He raised his hands, and then let them drop. 'As always, perhaps it will be ever thus, the demands of faith quickly become inextricably bound to those of territory and control.' 'And the cards date from this period?' she urged.

'The original fifty-six of the cards, intended simply to help pass a long winter's evening, followed much in the tradition of the Italian game of tarrochi. A hundred years prior to the time of which I speak, the Italian court and nobility had given birth to a fashion for such entertainments. When the Republic was born, the court cards were replaced by Maître and Maîtresse, Fils and Fille, as you have seen.'

'La Fille d'Épées,' she said, remembering the painting upon the wall of the sepulchre. 'By when?'

'That is not so clear. It was at much the same time, on the eve, indeed, of the Revolution, that in France the harmless game of Tarot was transformed into something other. A system of divination, a way of linking the seen and known to the unseen and unknown.'

'So the deck of cards was already at the Domaine de la Cade?' 'The fifty-six cards were the possession of the house, if you like, rather than the individuals within it. The ancient spirit of the place worked upon the deck; the legends and rumours invested the cards with some further meaning and purpose. The cards were waiting, you see, for one who would complete the sequence.'

'My uncle,' she said, a statement, not a question.

Baillard nodded. 'Lascombe read the books being published by the cartomancers in Paris - the antique words of Antoine Court de Gébelin, the contemporary writings of Eliphas Levi and Romain Merlin - and was seduced by them. To the deck of cards he had inherited he added the twenty-two greater arcana - those speaking of the fundamental turns of life and what lies beyond - and fixed those he wished to summon to him upon the wall of the sepulchre.'

'My late uncle painted the twenty-two additional cards?' 'He did.' He paused. 'You believe absolutely, then, Madomaisèla Leonie, that through the agency of the Tarot cards - in the specific place and with the conditions that make such things possible - demons, ghosts might be summoned?'

'It does not credit belief, Monsieur Baillard, yet I find I do believe it' She paused and thought for a moment. 'What I do not understand, however, is how the cards control the spirits.'

'Ah, no,' Baillard said swiftly. 'That was the mistake your uncle made. The cards may summon the spirits, yes, but never control them. All possibilities are contained within the images - all character, all human desire, good and ill, all of our long and overlapping stories - but should they be released, they take on a life of their own.' Léonie frowned. 'I don't understand.'

'The tableaux upon the wall are the imprints of the last cards summoned in that place. But if one were to alter, through the touch of a brush, the features on one or other of the cards, they would take on other characteristics instead. The cards can tell different stories,' he said.

'Would this be true of these cards anywhere?' she asked. 'Or only in the Domaine de la Cade, in the sepulchre?'

'It is the unique combination, Madomaisèla, of image and sound and the spirit of the place. That one place,' he replied. 'At the same time, the place works upon the cards. So, for example, it might be that La Force, now, attaches itself specifically to you. Through your artistry'

Léonie looked at him. 'But I have not seen the cards themselves. Indeed, I have not painted cards, only imitations on common paper of what I saw on the walls.'

 

He gave a slow smile. 'Things do not always hold fast, Madomaisèla.

 

And besides, you have painted more than yourself into the cards, have you not? You have painted your brother and your aunt into these pictures also.'

 

She blushed. 'They are just paintings intended as a memento of our time spent here.'

'Perhaps.' He inclined his head to one side. 'Through such pictures your stories will endure longer than you have tongue to tell them.' 'You are frightening me, Monsieur,' she said sharply. 'That is not my intention.'

Léonie paused before asking the question that had been on her lips since the very first moment she heard of the Tarot cards. 'Does the deck exist still?'

 

He fixed her with his wise eyes. 'The deck survives,' he said finally. 'Within the house?' she asked quickly.

'The Abbé Saunière begged your uncle to destroy the cards, to burn them, so that no other man would be tempted to make use of them. The sepulchre too.' Baillard shook his head. 'But Jules Lascombe was a scholar. He could no more destroy something of such ancient origin than the Abbé himself could denounce his God.'

'Are the cards hidden within the grounds, then? I am certain they are not in the sepulchre.'

 

'They are safe,' he said. 'Concealed where the river runs dry, in a place where once the ancient kings were buried.' 'But if that is the case, then-'

Audric Baillard raised his finger to his lips. 'I have told you all this as a way to curb your inquisitive nature, Madomaisèla Leonie, not to fan your curiosity. I understand how you have been drawn into this story, how you wish to have some more explicit understanding of your family and the events that have shaped their lives. But I repeat my warning: no good will come of trying to find the cards, especially at such a time, when matters hang so delicately balanced.'

'At such a time? What do you mean, Monsieur Baillard? Because November approaches?'

But it was clear from the expression that had fallen over his face that he was prepared to say nothing further. Léonie tapped her foot. She had so many questions she wished to ask. She drew breath, but he spoke before she could say more. 'It is enough,' he said.

Through the open window came the sound of the bell of the tiny church of Saint-Celse and Saint-Nazaire tolling out the midday. An emaciated single note marking the passing of the morning.

The sound jerked Leonie's attention back into the present. She had quite forgotten her task. She leapt to her feet.

'Forgive me, Monsieur Baillard, I have taken up more than enough of your time.' She dragged her gloves on over her fingers. And in so doing have quite forgotten my own responsibilities this morning. The bureau de poste ... If I hurry, I might still. . .'

Clutching her hat, Léonie ran across the room to the door. Audric Baillard drew himself to his feet, an elegant and timeless figure. 'If I may, Monsieur, I will call again? Au revoir.' 'Of course, Madomaisèla. The pleasure will be mine.' Léonie waved, then quitted the room, rushing down the passageway and out of the front door into the street, leaving Audric Baillard alone in the quiet room deep in reflection. The boy slipped out of the shadows and closed the door behind her.

Baillard sat down once more in his chair.

 

'Si es atal es atal,' he muttered, in the old language. Things will be as they will be. 'But with this child, I wish it were not so.'

 

CHAPTER 73

 

Léonie ran along the rue de l'Hermite, dragging her gloves up over her wrists and struggling with the buttons. She turned sharply right and along to the post office.

 

The double wooden door was closed and barred. Léonie hammered on it with her fist and called out.

 

'S'il vous plaît?' It was only three minutes past midday. Surely, there must still be someone inside? 'Hy a quelqu'un? C'est vraiment important'1!

There was no sign of life. She knocked and called out again, but nobody came. An ill-tempered woman with two thin grey plaits leant out of the window opposite and shouted at her to stop her banging.

Léonie apologised, realising how stupid she was being by drawing attention to herself in such a manner. If there was a letter waiting for her from Monsieur Constant, it was now destined to remain there for the time being. She could hardly remain in Rennes-les-Bains until such time as the poste restante reopened later that afternoon. She would simply have to return on another occasion.

Her emotions were muddled. She was vexed at herself for having failed to achieve the one thing she had set out to do. At the same time, she felt she had been granted a reprieve.

 

At least I do not know that Monsieur Constant has not written.

 

Her muddled reasoning, in some strange way, cheered her.

Léonie descended to the river. Away to the left, she saw the patients of the thermal spa sitting in the steaming, iron-rich water of the bains forts. Behind them, a row of nurses in white uniforms, their wide sweeping hats perched upon their heads like giant seabirds, stood waiting patiently for their charges to emerge.
She crossed to the far bank and found the path along which Marieta had taken them easily enough. The character of the wood had changed a great deal. Some of the trees had lost their leaves, through either the natural approach of autumn or the ferocity of the storms that had battered the hillside. The ground beneath Leonie's feet was carpeted in wine-coloured foliage, golden and claret and copper. She stopped for a moment, thinking of the watercolour sketches she was working on. The image of Le Mat came into her mind and she thought perhaps she would amend the background colours to suit the autumn hues of the forest.

She walked on, wrapped in the green mantle of the evergreen wood higher up. Twigs, fallen branches, stones shaken loose from the banks on either side, rattled and snapped under her feet. The ground was covered by fallen pine cones and shiny brown fruit from the horse chestnut trees. For a moment, she had a pang of homesickness. She thought of her mother and how, each October, she had taken Anatole and Léonie to the Pare Monceau to gather horse chestnuts. She rubbed her fingers together, remembering the feel and texture of childhood autumns.