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 Léoty 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 Léonie’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.
There was a final shrill, sharp blast from the whistle, then a bellow from the engine as it spat out its first jet of steam. Sparks flew. Then the grind of metal against metal, another belch from the black funnel and, slowly, the wheels started to turn.
Enfin.
The train began to pick up speed as it pulled away from the platform. Léonie sat back in her seat watching Paris disappear in folds of white smoke.
