CHAPTER 75
Anatole sat at the breakfast table, staring blindly at the letter.
His hand shook as he lit a third cigarette from the stub of his second. The air in the closed room was thick with smoke. There were three envelopes on the table. One – unopened – had a Paris postmark. The other two bore an embossed crest of the type that adorned the display cases of Stern’s plate-glass windows. A sheet of writing paper with the same aristocratic family emblem lay on the empty plate in front of him.
The truth was that Anatole had known that such a letter, one day, would find him. However much he had tried to reassure Isolde, ever since the attack in the Passage des Panoramas back in September he had expected. The taunting communication they had received in the hotel in Carcassonne a week past had merely confirmed that Constant knew of the hoax and – worse – had hunted them down.
Although Anatole had attempted to make light of Isolde’s fears, everything she had told him about Constant had led him to fear what he might do. The pattern of Constant’s illness and the nature of it, his neuroses and paranoias, his ungoverned temper, all spoke of a man who would do anything to be revenged upon the woman he believed had wronged him.
Anatole looked down again at the formal letter in his hand, exquisitely insulting whilst being perfectly polite and proper. It was a formal challenge by Victor Constant to a duel to be fought tomorrow, Saturday 31st October, at dusk. Constant elected they should fight with pistols. He would leave it to Vernier to propose some appropriate plot of land within the Domaine de la Cade – private land, so that their illegal combat would pass unobserved.
He concluded by informing Vernier that he was at the Hôtel de la Reine in Rennes-les-Bains and awaiting his confirmation that he was a man of honour and would accept the challenge.
Not for the first time, Anatole regretted the impulse that had stayed his hand at the Cimetière de Montmartre. He had felt Constant’s presence in the graveyard. It had taken all of his strength not to turn round and shoot him there, in cold blood, and hang the consequences. When, this morning, he had opened the letter, his first thought had been to go to town and confront Constant in his lair.
But such an ungoverned response would not end the matter.
For some time, Anatole sat silently in the dining room. His cigarette burnt down and he lit another, but he felt too consumed with lethargy to smoke it.
He would need a second for the duel, someone local, obviously. Perhaps he could ask Charles Denarnaud? He at least had the virtue of being a man of the world. Anatole thought he might be able to prevail on Gabignaud to attend in his capacity as a medical man. Although he was certain the young doctor would baulk at the request, he did not think he would refuse him. Anatole had been obliged to take Gabignaud into his confidence about the situation between him and Isolde, for the sake of Isolde’s condition. He thought the doctor would agree, therefore, for her sake if not for his own.
He tried to persuade himself of a satisfactory outcome. Constant wounded, forced to shake his hand, calling the feud to an end. But, somehow, he could not. Even if he was the victor, he was by no means convinced that Constant would abide by the rules of engagement.
Of course he had no alternative but to accept the challenge. He was a man of honour even if his actions this past year had been far from honourable. If he did not fight Constant, nothing would ever change. Isolde would live under an intolerable strain, always waiting for Constant to strike. So would they all. The man’s appetite for persecution, if this letter was anything to judge by, showed no signs of abating. If he refused to meet him, Anatole knew Constant’s campaign against them – against everyone close to them – would intensify.
In the past days, Anatole had heard gossip from the servants’ hall that there were stories about the Domaine de la Cade circulating in the town. Disturbing suggestions that the beast that had so terrorised the neighbourhood in Jules Lascombe’s day had once more returned. It had made no sense to Anatole that such scandal should be resurrected and he had been inclined to dismiss it. Now he suspected Constant’s hand behind the malicious rumours.
He screwed the paper tight in his fist. He would not have his child grow up in the knowledge that his father was a coward. He had to accept the challenge. He had to shoot to win.
To kill.
Anatole drummed his fingers on the table. He was not short of courage. The problem lay in the fact that he was far from being an assured shot. His skill lay with rapier and foil, not pistol.
Anatole pushed that thought to one side. He would address that, with Pascal and perhaps with the assistance of Charles Denarnaud, in due course. At this instant, there were more immediate decisions to be taken, not least the question of whether or not he should confide in his wife.
Anatole extinguished another cigarette. Might Isolde somehow find out about the duel for herself? Such news might bring on a relapse and threaten the health of the baby. No, he could not tell her. He would ask Marieta not to mention this morning’s post.
He slipped the letter addressed to Isolde in Constant’s hand, the mirror of his own, into the breast pocket of his jacket. He could not hope to conceal the situation for long, but he could protect her peace of mind for a few hours more.
He wished he could send Isolde away. He gave a resigned smile, aware that there would be no possibility of persuading her to quit the Domaine de la Cade without adequate explanation. And since that was the one thing he could not furnish her with, there was no future in that train of thought.
Less simple to resolve was whether or not he should confide in Léonie.
Anatole had come to realise Isolde was right. His attitude to his little sister was based more on the child she had once been than the young woman she had become. He still thought her impetuous and often childish, unable or unwilling to hold her temper in check or guard her tongue. Against that was her undoubted affection for Isolde and the solicitous way in which, over the past few days since their return from Carcassonne, she had cared for her aunt.
Anatole had resolved to speak to Léonie over the course of last weekend. He had intended to tell her the truth, from the beginning of his love affair with Isolde to the situation in which they now found themselves.
Isolde’s fragile health had delayed matters, but now the receipt of the challenge had brought the pressing need for the conversation to the fore. Anatole tapped his fingers on the table. He decided he would confide the story of his marriage this morning. Depending upon Léonie’s reactions, he would either tell her of the challenge or not, as seemed appropriate.
He got to his feet. Taking all the letters with him, he strode across the dining room into the hall and rang the bell.
Marieta appeared.
‘Will you invite Mademoiselle Léonie to join me in the library at midday? I would like to talk to her in private, so if she could keep the matter to herself? Please impress upon her, Marieta, the importance of that. Also, there is no need to mention the letters received this morning to Madame Isolde. I will appraise her of them myself.’
Marieta looked puzzled, but did not question his orders.
‘Where is Pascal at present?’
To his surprise, the maid blushed. ‘In the kitchen, I believe, Sénher.’
‘Tell him to meet me at the rear of the house in ten minutes, ’ he instructed.
Anatole returned to his room to change into outdoor clothes. He wrote a curt and formal reply to Constant, blotting the ink, then sealed the envelope to make it safe from prying eyes. Pascal could deliver the response this afternoon. Now the only thought in his mind was how, for Isolde’s sake and for that of their child, he could not afford to miss.
The letter from Paris remained unopened in his waistcoat pocket.
Léonie paced up and down her bedroom, turning over in her mind why Anatole had requested to see her at noon, and privately. Could he have discovered her subterfuge? Or that she had dismissed Pascal and returned alone from the town?
The sound of voices below her open window drew her attention. She leaned out, both hands on the stone sill, to observe Anatole striding across the lawns with Pascal, who was carrying a long wooden box in both hands. It looked much like a pistol case. Léonie had never observed such equipment in the house, but she supposed her late uncle had possessed such weapons.
Perhaps they are going to hunt?
She frowned, realising that could not be the case. Anatole was not dressed for hunting. Besides, neither he nor Pascal were carrying shotguns. Only pistols.
Dread suddenly swooped down upon her, all the more potent for being unnamed. She snatched her hat and jacket, and pushed her hurrying feet into outdoor shoes, intending to follow him.
Then she checked her step.
Too often Anatole accused her of acting without thinking. It went against her nature to sit idle and wait, but what good would it do to go after him? If his purpose was quite innocent, then her trailing him like some tame dog would at the very least vex him. He could not intend to be long, having fixed an appointment with her at noon. She glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf. Two hours away.
She threw her hat upon the bed and kicked off her shoes, then looked around the chamber. She would do better to stay put and find some entertainment to pass the time before the rendezvous with her brother at midday.
Léonie looked at her painting equipment. She hesitated, then went to the bureau and began to unpack her brushes and papers. This would be the ideal opportunity to continue her sequence of illustrations. She had but three left to complete.
She fetched water, dipped her brush, then began to sketch with black ink the outlines of the sixth of the eight tableaux from the wall of the sepulchre.
Card XVI: La Tour.
CHAPTER 76
In the private drawing room on the first floor of the Hôtel de la Reine in Rennes-les-Bains, two men were seated in front of a fire lit to take the edge off the damp morning. Two servants, the one Parisian, the other Carcassonnais, stood behind at a respectful distance. From time to time, when they thought their master was not watching, they darted mistrustful glances at one another.
‘You think he will seek your service in this matter?’
Charles Denarnaud, his face still flushed from the quantity of excellent brandy consumed last evening at dinner, drew deeply on his cigar, puffing until the sour, expensive leaves caught. There was an expression of complacency on his mottled face. He tilted his head back and blew a white ring of smoke up to the ceiling.
‘Sure you won’t join me, Constant?’
Victor Constant held up his hand, his angry skin hidden beneath gloves. He felt unwell this morning. The anticipation of the hunt being almost at an end was playing on his nerves.
‘You are confident Vernier will petition you?’ he repeated.
Denarnaud heard the iron in Constant’s voice and sat up straight. ‘I do not think I have mistaken the man,’ he said quickly, aware he had caused offence. ‘Vernier has few associates in Rennes-les-Bains, certainly no others with whom he is on such terms as to request such a service and in such a matter. I am certain he will make representation to me. The timings involved do not allow him the opportunity to send further afield.’
‘Quite,’ Constant said drily.
‘My guess would be that he will approach Gabignaud, one of the resident doctors in the town, to be the medical man present.’
Constant nodded. He turned to the servant standing closest to the door.
‘The letters were delivered this morning?’
‘Yes, Monsieur.’
‘You did not make yourself known to the household?’
He shook his head. ‘I passed them into the hands of a footman to be taken in with this morning’s post.’
Constant thought a moment. ‘And no one is aware you are the source of the stories circulating?’
He shook his head. ‘I have simply dropped a word or two in the ears of those most likely to repeat them, that the beast raised by Jules Lascombe has again been sighted. Spite and superstition have done the rest. The storms are seen as evidence enough that all is not well.’
‘Excellent.’ Constant gestured with his hand. ‘Return to the grounds of the Domaine and observe what Vernier does. Report at dusk.’
‘Very good, Monsieur.’
He backed towards the door, pulling his blue Napoleonic cloak from the back of the chair as he did so, then slid out into the overcast street.
As soon as Constant heard the sound of the door closing, he stood up.
‘I wish the matter resolved quickly, Denarnaud, and with the minimum of attention. Is that clear?’
Surprised at the abrupt end to the interview, Denarnaud struggled to his feet.
‘Of course, Monsieur. Everything is in hand.’
Constant clicked his fingers. His manservant stepped forward, holding out a drawstring bag. Denarnaud could not help but take a step back in disgust at the man’s troubled skin and complexion.
‘This is half of what you are promised,’ said Constant, handing across the money. ‘The remainder will follow once the business is concluded and to my satisfaction. You understand me?’
Denarnaud’s voracious hands closed round the purse.
‘You will confirm I am not in possession of any other weapon,’ Constant said in a cold, hard voice. ‘You are quite clear on this.’
‘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.
