CHAPTER 79
Léonie and Anatole spent much of the rest of that day in one another’s company. Isolde rested in the afternoon, giving them time together to talk. Anatole was so bowed down by the burden of anticipation and how circumstances had conspired against him that Léonie felt herself the older sibling.
She alternated between rage at having been so deceived, and for so many months, and affection for the evident love he had for Isolde and the lengths he had gone to protect it.
‘Did M’man know of the deception?’ she challenged several times, haunted by the memory of herself standing beside an untenanted casket in the Cimetière de Montmartre. ‘Was I the only one not party to the hoax?’
‘I did not confide in her,’ he replied. ‘Although I believe she understood that there was more to the matter than met the eye.’
‘No death,’ she said quietly. ‘And the clinic? Was there a child?’
‘No. Another lie to shore up our deception.’
It was only in the quiet moments, when Anatole had momentarily taken his leave of her, that Léonie allowed back the trepidation of what the following day might bring. He would say little of his enemy, suffice that he had damaged Isolde greatly in the short time they had been acquainted. Anatole did admit that the man was a Parisian and that he had clearly been successful in unpicking the false trail laid for him and tracked them to the Midi. However, he professed to be at a loss as to how he had made the leap from Carcassonne to Rennes-les-Bains. Nor would he utter his name.
Léonie listened to the story of the obsession, the desire for revenge that drove their enemy – the attacks upon her brother in the columns of the newspapers, the assault upon his person in the Passage des Panoramas, the efforts to which he was prepared to go to ruin both Isolde and Anatole – and heard the real fear behind her brother’s words.
They did not discuss the outcome should Anatole miss his target. Pressed by her brother, Léonie gave her word that, should he fail in his task and be unable to protect them, she would find some immediate way of leaving the Domaine de la Cade under cover of night with Isolde.
‘He is not a man of honour, then?’ she said. ‘You fear he will not abide by the rules of engagement?’
‘I fear he will not,’ he replied gravely. ‘Should things go ill tomorrow, I would not wish Isolde to be here when he comes to find her.’
‘He sounds a devil.’
‘And I, a fool,’ said Anatole quietly, ‘for thinking it could end in any other way than this.’
Later that evening, after Isolde had retired for the night, Anatole and Léonie met in the drawing room to agree on a plan of campaign for the following day.
She disliked being party to a deception – especially having been the victim of such concealment herself – but she accepted that, in her condition, Isolde could not know of what was to happen. Anatole tasked her with occupying his wife so that, at the appointed hour, he and Pascal could slip away. He had sent word to Charles Denarnaud inviting him to be his second, a request that had been accepted without hesitation. Dr Gabignaud, an unwilling participant, was to provide medical assistance should it be required.
Though she nodded with apparent acquiescence, Léonie had not the slightest intention of abiding by Anatole’s wishes. She could not contemplate sitting idly in the drawing room, watching the hands of the clock make their slow march, knowing that her brother was engaged in such a combat. She knew she would have to find some way of passing off responsibility for Isolde between the hours of dusk and nightfall, although she could not yet conceive of how this might be achieved.
But she gave no indication of her intended disobedience, in either word or deed. And Anatole was so absorbed in his fevered plannings that he did not think to doubt her compliance.
When he, too, retired for the night, quitting the drawing room with a single candle to light his way to bed, Léonie remained behind for some time, thinking, deciding how to arrange things for the best.
She would be strong. She would not permit her fears to master her. All would be well. Anatole would wound or kill his enemy. She refused to entertain an alternative.
But even as the hours of night slipped by, she was aware that wishing would not make it so.
CHAPTER 80
SATURDAY 31ST OCTOBER
The Eve of All Saints came in with a chill and pink dawn. Léonie had barely slept, so felt the weight of the passing minutes pressing down upon her. After breakfast, where neither she nor Anatole could manage to eat much, he spent the morning time closeted with Isolde.
As she sat in the library, she could hear them laughing, whispering, planning. Isolde’s joy at her brother’s company made Léonie’s awareness of how easily such happiness might be snatched away the more painful.
When she joined them for coffee in the morning room, Anatole raised his head, his gaze for an instant unguarded. His anguish, the dread, the misery laid bare in his eyes made her turn away, for fear her countenance would give him away.
After lunch, they passed the afternoon in playing cards and reading stories aloud, thereby contriving to delay Isolde’s afternoon rest, as Léonie and Anatole had previously planned. It was not until four o’clock that Isolde declared her intention to withdraw to her chamber until supper. Anatole returned some quarter of an hour later with sorrow etched in lines upon his face.
‘She is sleeping,’ he said.
They both looked out at the apricot sky, the last vestiges of sun flecked bright behind the clouds. Léonie’s strength finally deserted her. ‘It is not too late,’ she cried. ‘There is still time to call it off.’ She grabbed hold of his hand. ‘I beg you, Anatole, do not go through with this.’
He put his arms around her and drew her to him, enveloping her in the familiar scent of sandalwood and hair oil.
‘You know I cannot refuse to meet him now, petite,’ he said softly. ‘It will never end else. Besides, I would not have my son grow up believing his father a coward.’ He squeezed her tighter. ‘Nor, indeed, my courageous and steadfast little sister.’
‘Or daughter,’ she said.
Anatole smiled. ‘Or daughter.’
The sound of footsteps on the tiled floor made them both turn.
Pascal stopped at the bottom of the stairs, holding Anatole’s greatcoat over his arm. The expression on his face betraying how little he wished to be part of the matter.
‘It is time, Sénher,’ he said.
Léonie held on tightly. ‘Please, Anatole. Please, do not go. Pascal, do not let him go.’
Pascal looked on with sympathy as Anatole, gently, prised her fingers from his sleeve.
‘Look after Isolde,’ he whispered. ‘My Isolde. I have left a letter in my dressing room, should things . . .’ He broke off. ‘She must not want for anything. Neither she, nor the child. Keep them safe.’
Léonie watched, dumb with despair, as Pascal helped him into his coat, then the two men walked briskly to the front door. On the threshold, Anatole turned. He raised his hands to his lips.
‘I love you, petite.’
There was a rush of damp evening air, then the door shuddered to a close behind them and they were gone. Léonie listened to the muffled crunch of their boots upon the gravel until she could hear them no more.
Then the truth of it hit her. She sank on to the bottom step, rested her head on her arms, and sobbed. From the shadows beneath the stairs, Marieta crept out. The girl hesitated, then, deciding to forget herself, sat down on the step beside Léonie and put her arm around her shoulder.
‘It will be all right, Madomaisèla,’ she murmured. ‘Pascal will not let any harm come to the master.’
A wail of grief, of terror, of hopelessness burst out from between Léonie’s lips, like the howl of a wild animal caught in a trap. Then, remembering how she had promised not to wake Isolde, she muted her tears.
Her fit of weeping quickly subsided. She felt light-headed, curiously empty of emotion. She felt as if there was something caught in her throat. She rubbed her eyes hard with the cuff of her sleeve.
‘Is my . . .’ She paused, suddenly realising that she no longer knew quite how she should refer to Isolde. ‘Is my aunt still sleeping?’ she asked.
Marieta got to her feet and smoothed down her apron. The look on her face suggested that Pascal had confided the whole business to her.
‘Do you wish me to go and see if Madama has woken?’
Léonie shook her head. ‘No, let her be.’
‘Can I fetch you something? A tisane, perhaps.’
Léonie also stood up. ‘No, I will be perfectly fine now.’ She gave a smile. ‘I am sure you have more than enough to occupy you. Besides, my brother will need refreshment when he returns. I would not have him wait.’
For a moment, the eyes of the two girls met.
‘Very good, Madomaisèla,’ Marieta said in the end. ‘I shall make certain the kitchen is prepared.’
Léonie remained a while in the hall, listening to the sounds of the house, satisfying herself that there were no witnesses to what she was about to do. When she was certain all was quiet, she ran quickly up the stairs, running her hand along the mahogany banister rail, and lightly along the passageway towards her room.
To her confusion, she could hear noises coming from Anatole’s chamber. She froze, mistrusting the evidence of her own ears, having seen him depart the house half an hour previously and in the company of Pascal.
She was on the point of continuing when the door flew open and Isolde all but fell into her arms. Her blond hair was loose and her shift open at the neck. She looked quite deranged, as if shocked out of sleep by some demon or ghost. Léonie could not help but notice the raw, red scarring at her throat, and averted her gaze. Her shock at seeing her elegant, controlled and self-possessed aunt in the throes of such hysteria made her voice sharper than intended.
‘Isolde! Whatever is it? What has happened?’
Isolde was twisting her head from side to side, as if in violent disagreement, and waving a piece of paper in her hand.
‘He has gone! To fight!’ she cried. ‘We must prevent it.’
Léonie turned cold, realising Isolde had laid her hands prematurely on the letter that Anatole had left for her in his dressing room.
‘I could not sleep, so I went to find him. Instead, I found this.’ Isolde stopped abruptly and looked Léonie in the eye. ‘You knew,’ she said softly, her voice suddenly calm.
For a fleeting instant, Léonie forgot that even as she spoke, Anatole was striding through the woods to fight a duel. She tried to smile as she reached out and took Isolde’s hand.
‘I know of the steps you have taken. The marriage,’ she said quietly. ‘I wish I could have been there.’
‘Léonie, I wish . . .’ Isolde paused. ‘We wished to tell you.’
Léonie put her arms around her. In an instant, their roles reversed.
‘And that Anatole is to be a father?’ Isolde said, almost whispering.
‘That too,’ Léonie said. ‘It is the most wonderful news.’
Isolde suddenly pulled away. ‘But you knew of this duel also?’
Léonie hesitated. She was on the point of evading the question, but then stopped. There had been enough dishonesty between them. Too many destructive lies.
‘I did,’ she admitted. ‘The letter was delivered by hand yesterday. Denarnaud and Gabignaud have accompanied him.’
Isolde went white. ‘By hand, you say,’ she whispered. ‘So he is here then. Even here.’
‘Anatole will not miss his mark,’ Léonie said with a conviction she did not feel.
Isolde put her head up and pushed her shoulders back. ‘I must go to him.’
Taken by surprise at her abrupt change of mood, Léonie fumbled for a response.
‘You cannot,’ she objected.
Isolde took not the slightest bit of notice. ‘Where is the contest to take place?’
‘Isolde, you are unwell. It would be foolish to attempt to follow him.’
‘Where?’ she said.
Léonie sighed. ‘A clearing in the beech woods. I do not know precisely where.’
‘Where the wild juniper grows. There is a clearing there where my late husband would sometimes go to practise.’
‘It may be. He said nothing more.’
‘I must dress,’ Isolde said, slipping from Léonie’s clasp.
Léonie had no choice but to follow. ‘But even if we leave now, and we find the precise location, Anatole left with Pascal more than half an hour ago.’
‘If we go now, we may yet stop it.’
Not wasting time with her corset, Isolde pulled on her grey walking dress and outdoor jacket, pushed her elegant feet into boots, her fingers falling over one another as she laced each hook and eye haphazardly, then ran towards the stairs, Léonie on her heels.
‘Will his opponent abide by the result?’ Léonie suddenly asked, hoping for a different answer to the one with which Anatole had earlier furnished her.
Isolde stopped and looked up at her, despair in her grey eyes.
‘He is . . . he is not a man of honour.’
Léonie grasped her hand, seeking reassurance as much as to give comfort, as another question came into her mind. ‘When is the child due?’
For a moment, Isolde’s eyes softened. ‘All being well, June. A summer baby.’
As they stole through the hall, it seemed to Léonie that the world had taken on a harsher hue. Things once familiar and precious – the polished table and doors, the pianoforte and tapestried stool, within which Léonie had placed the music taken from the sepulchre – seemed to have turned their back on them. Cold, dead objects.
Léonie reached down the heavy garden cloaks from the hooks inside the entrance, handed one to Isolde, wrapped the other around herself, then pulled open the door. Chill dusk air slipped around her legs like a cat, wrapping itself round her stockings, her ankles. She took the lighted lamp from the stand.
‘At what time is the engagement due to take place?’ Isolde asked in a quiet voice.
‘Dusk,’ Léonie replied. ‘Six o’clock.’
They looked up at the sky, a deep and darkening blue above them.
‘If we are to be there in time,’ Léonie said, ‘we must hurry. Quick, now.’