PART V
Domaine de la Cade September 1891
CHAPTER 34
MONDAY 21ST SEPTEMBER 1891
Léonie yawned, and opened her eyes. She stretched her pale, slim arms above her head, then propped herself up on her generous white pillows. Despite the surfeit of blanquette de Limoux drunk last evening – or perhaps as a consequence of it – she had slept well.
The Yellow Room was pretty in the morning light. For a while, she lay in bed listening to the rare sounds that broke the deep silence of the countryside. The dawn songs of the birds, the wind in the trees. It was more pleasant by far than waking at home to a grey Parisian daybreak, the sounds of screeching metal from the Gare Saint-Lazare.
At eight o’clock, Marieta brought the breakfast tray. She placed it upon the table by the window, then drew the curtains, flooding the room with the first refracted rays of sunlight. Through the imperfect glass of the old casements, Léonie could see that the sky was bright and blue, flecked with trailing wisps of purple and white cloud.
‘Thank you, Marieta,’ she said. ‘I can manage.’
‘Very good, Madomaisèla.’
Léonie threw off the covers and swung her feet down to the carpet, finding her slippers. She took her blue cashmere dressing gown from the back of the door, splashed a little of last night’s water on her face, then sat down at the table in front of the window feeling sophisticated to be breakfasting alone, in her bedchamber. The only time she did so at home was when Du Pont was visiting M’man.
She lifted the lid on the pot of steaming coffee, releasing the delicious aroma of freshly roasted beans, like a genie from a lamp. Beside the silver pot stood a jug of frothy warm milk, a bowl of white sugar cubes and a pair of silver tongs. She lifted the pressed linen napkin to discover a plate of white bread, the golden crust warm to the touch, and a dish of creamy whipped butter. There were three different jams in individual china dishes and a bowl of quince and apple compote.
As she ate, she gazed out across the gardens. A white mist hung suspended over the valley between the hills, skimming the tops of the trees. The lawns lay peaceful and calm under the September sun, no evidence of the wind that had threatened the previous evening.
Léonie dressed in a plain woollen skirt and high-necked blouse, then picked up the book Anatole had brought for her last evening. She had a fancy to see the library for herself, investigate the dusty stacks and polished spines. If she were challenged – although she saw no reason why she should be, given that Isolde had asked them to treat the house as their own – she would have the excuse that she was returning Monsieur Baillard’s pamphlet.
She opened the door and stepped out into the passage. The rest of the household appeared to be sleeping. Everything was still. No rattle of coffee cups, no whistling from Anatole’s bedroom as he made his morning toilette, no sign of life at all. Downstairs, the hall also was deserted, although behind the pass door that led to the servants’ quarters she could hear the sound of voices and the distant clattering of pots in the kitchen.
The library occupied the southwest corner of the house and was accessed by means of a small passageway, tucked in between the drawing room and the door to the study. Indeed, Léonie was surprised that Anatole had stumbled upon it at all. There had been little time to explore yesterday afternoon.
The corridor was bright and airy for all that and wide enough to accommodate several glass cases mounted upon the walls. The first displayed Marseille and Rouen china; the second a small, ancient cuirasse, two sabres, a foil that resembled Anatole’s favourite fencing weapon and a musket; the third case, smaller than the others, contained a selection of military medals and ribbons, laid out on blue velvet. There was nothing to indicate to whom they had been awarded or for what. Léonie presumed they belonged to their Oncle Jules.
She lifted the handle of the library door and slipped inside. Instantly, she felt the room’s peace and tranquillity – the smell of beeswax and honey and ink, dusty velvet and blotters. It was more generous in size than she had expected, and had a dual aspect with windows looking out to the south and the west. The curtains, fashioned from heavy gold and blue brocade, fell in folds from ceiling to floor.
The sound of her clipped heels was swallowed up by the thick oval rug that filled the centre of the room and upon which stood a pedestal table, large enough to accommodate even the most substantial volume. There was an inkwell and pen, beside a leather writing pad with a fresh blotter.
Léonie decided to start her exploration at the corner furthest from the door. She ran her eyes along each shelf in turn, reading the names on the spines, letting her fingers trail over the leather bindings, pausing from time to time when a particular volume caught her interest.
She came upon a beautiful missal with an ornate double clasp, printed in Tours, with rich green and gold endpapers and delicate, tissue-thin paper protecting the engravings. She read, upon the flyleaf, her late uncle’s name – Jules Lascombe – inscribed with the date of his confirmation.
In the next stack she discovered a first edition of Maistre’s Voyage autour de ma chambre. It was battered and dog-eared, unlike Anatole’s pristine copy at home. In another alcove she found a collection of both religious and fervently anti-religious texts, grouped together as if to cancel one another out.
In the section devoted to contemporary French literature, there was a complete set of Zola’s Rougon-Macquart novels, as well as Flaubert, Maupassant and Huysmans – indeed, many of the intellectually improving texts Anatole tried in vain to press upon her, even a first edition of Stendhal’s Le Rouge et le Noir. There were a few works in translation, but nothing entirely to her taste except for Baudelaire’s translations of Monsieur Poe. Nothing by Madame Radcliffe or Monsieur Le Fanu.
A dull collection.
In the furthest corner of the library, Léonie found herself in an alcove dedicated to books on local history, where, she presumed, Anatole had come upon Monsieur Baillard’s monograph. She found her spirits quickening as she stepped from the warmth and space of the main area into the confined, sombre stacks. The alcove harboured a damp mugginess that caught at the back of her throat.
She cast her eyes along the serried rows of spines and covers until she reached the letter ‘B’. There was no obviously vacant space. Puzzled, she squeezed the slim volume in where she believed it should go. Her task completed, she turned back towards the door.
Only then did she notice the three or four glass display cases high up on the wall to the right of the door, presumably to house the more valuable volumes. A set of wooden sliding steps was attached to a brass rail. Léonie took hold of the contraption with both hands and pulled as hard as she could. The steps creaked and complained, but quickly surrendered. She slid them along the rail to the middle point, then, positioning the feet securely, folded them out and began to climb. Her taffeta petticoats rustled and caught between her legs.
She stopped on the second to top step. Bracing herself with her knees, she peered into the case. It was dark within, but by cupping her hands over the glass to shield her eyes from the light from the two tall windows, she could see just enough to enable her to read the titles upon the spines.
The first was Dogme et rituel de la haute magie by Eliphas Lévi. Next to it was a volume entitled Traité Méthodique de Science Occulte. On the shelf above, several writings by Papus, Court de Gébelin, Etteilla and MacGregor Mathers. She had never read such authors, but knew they were occultist writers and considered subversive. Their names appeared regularly in the columns of newspapers and periodicals.
Léonie was on the point of descending when her attention was caught by a large, plain volume bound in black leather, less gaudy and ostentatious than the rest, displayed facing outwards. Her uncle’s name was written upon the cover in gold embossed letters beneath the title: Les Tarots.
