CHAPTER 81
‘I love you, petite,’ Anatole repeated to himself, as the front door juddered shut behind him.
He and Pascal, holding a lantern aloft, walked in silence to the end of the drive, where Denarnaud’s carriage was waiting for them.
Anatole nodded at Gabignaud, whose expression revealed how little he wished to be a part of the proceedings. Charles Denarnaud clasped Anatole’s hand.
‘The principal and the doctor in the back,’ Denarnaud announced, his voice clear in the chill dusk air. ‘Your man and I will ride at the front.’
The hood was up. Gabignaud and Anatole climbed in. Denarnaud and Pascal, looking uncomfortable in such company, faced them, balancing the long wooden pistol case on their lap between them.
‘You know the appointed place, Denarnaud?’ Anatole asked. ‘The glade in the beech wood to the east of the property? ’
Denarnaud leant out and gave the instructions. Anatole heard the driver flick his reins and the gig moved off, the harness and bridle rattling in the still evening air.
Denarnaud was the only one with an appetite for talk. Most of his stories involved duels with which he had been involved, close shaves all, but always ending well for his principal. Anatole understood he was trying to put him at ease, but wished he would hold his tongue.
He sat, bolt upright, looking out at the winter countryside, thinking that perhaps it was the last time he would see the world. The avenue of trees lining the drive was covered in hoar frost. The heavy fall of the horses’ hooves on the hard ground echoed around the park. The darkening blue sky above seemed to glint like a mirror, as a pale moon rose in white splendour.
‘These are my own pistols,’ Denarnaud explained. ‘I loaded them myself. The case is sealed. You will draw lots to decide whether we use these or your opponent’s.’
‘I know that,’ Anatole snapped, then, regretting that he sounded abrupt, added, ‘My apologies, Denarnaud. My nerves are on edge. I am most grateful for your careful attention. ’
‘Always worth running through the etiquette,’ Denarnaud said in a voice louder than the confined space of the carriage and the situation required. Anatole realised that Denarnaud too, for all his bluster, was nervous. ‘We don’t want any misunderstandings. For all I know, matters are conducted differently in Paris.’
‘I do not think so.’
‘You have been practising, Vernier?’
Anatole nodded. ‘With the pistols from the house.’
‘Are you confident with them? Is the sighting good?’
‘I would have had more time,’ he said.
The carriage turned and started to move across the rougher ground.
Anatole tried to picture his cherished Isolde, sleeping upon the bed with her hair fanned out on the pillow, her willowy white arms. He thought of Léonie’s bright, green, questioning eyes. And the face of a child not yet born. Tried to fix their beloved features in his mind.
I am doing this for them.
But the world had shrunk to the rattling carriage, the wooden box upon Denarnaud’s lap, the fast, nervous breathing of Gabignaud beside him.
Anatole felt the fiacre swing again to the left. Beneath the wheels, the ground became more rutted and uneven. Suddenly Denarnaud banged on the side of the carriage and shouted to the driver to take a small lane on the right.
The gig turned into the unmade track running between the trees, then emerged into a clearing. On the far side stood another carriage. With a jolt, although it was what he knew he would see, Anatole recognised the crest of Victor Constant, Comte de Tourmaline, gold upon black. Two bay horses, plumed and blinkered, were stamping their hooves upon the hard, cold ground. Beside them stood a knot of men.
Denarnaud alighted first, Gabignaud followed, then Pascal with the pistol case. Finally Anatole stepped down. Even from this distance, with their opposite numbers all dressed alike in black, he could identify Constant. With a shudder of revulsion, he also recognised the red-raw, pock-marked features of one of the two men who had set about him on the night of the riot at the Opéra in the Passage des Panoramas. Beside him, shorter and of poor appearance, a dissolute-looking old soldier in an archaic Napoleonic cloak. He, too, seemed familiar.
Anatole drew his breath. Even though Victor Constant had been in residence in his thoughts from the moment he had met and fallen in love with Isolde, the two men had not been in one another’s company since their one and only quarrel in January.
He was taken by surprise at the rage that rushed through him. He balled his hands into fists. A cool head was what was required, not an impetuous desire for revenge. But suddenly the wood seemed too small. The bare trunks of the beech trees appeared to be closing in upon him.
He stumbled on an exposed root, and nearly fell.
‘Steady, Vernier,’ murmured Gabignaud.
Anatole gathered his thoughts to him and watched as Denarnaud walked towards Constant’s party, Pascal trailing behind him carrying the pistol box across his arms as if it was a child’s coffin.
The seconds greeted one another formally, each bowing briefly, sharply, then they walked further up into the clearing. Anatole was aware of Constant’s cold eyes upon him, piercing, straight as an arrow, across the frozen earth. He noted, too, that he looked unwell.
They moved to the centre of the clearing, not far from where Pascal had set up the makeshift shooting gallery the day before, then measured the paces from where each man would take aim. Pascal and Constant’s man hammered two walking sticks into the damp ground to mark precisely the spot.
‘How are you holding up?’ Gabignaud murmured. ‘Can I fetch any—’
‘Nothing,’ Anatole said quickly. ‘I need nothing.’
Denarnaud returned. ‘I regret we lost the toss for the pistols. ’ He slapped Anatole on the shoulder. ‘It will make no difference, I am certain. It’s the aim that counts, not the barrel. ’
Anatole felt he was a man walking in his sleep. Everything around him seemed to be muffled, happening to someone else. He knew he should be concerned about the fact that he was to use his opponent’s pistols, but he was numb.
The two groups moved closer to one another.
Denarnaud removed Anatole’s greatcoat. Constant’s second did the same for him. Anatole watched as Denarnaud ostentatiously patted down Constant’s jacket pockets, his waistcoat pockets, to make sure he had no other weapons, no pocket book, no papers that might act as a shield.
Denarnaud nodded. ‘Nothing amiss.’
Anatole lifted his arms while Constant’s man ran his hands over his body to check that he too had no concealed advantage. He felt his watch fob being taken from his pocket and unchained.
‘A new watch, Monsieur? Monogrammed. Nice piece of workmanship.’
He recognised the rasping voice. It was the same man who had stolen his father’s timepiece from him during the attack in Paris. He balled his fists to prevent him striking the man down.
‘Leave it,’ he muttered viciously.
The man glanced at his master, then shrugged and walked away.
Anatole felt Denarnaud take his elbow and lead him to one of the walking sticks. ‘Vernier, this is your mark.’
I cannot miss.
He was handed a pistol. It was cold and heavy in his hand, a far finer weapon than those belonging to his late uncle. The barrel was long and polished, with Constant’s gold monogrammed initials stamped into the handle.
Anatole felt as if he was looking down upon himself from a great height. He could see a man who much resembled him, the same jet-black hair, the same moustache, the pale face and nose tipped red from the cold.
Facing him, at some paces hence, he could see a man who looked much like a man who had persecuted him from Paris to the Midi.
Now, as from a distance, came a voice. Abruptly, absurdly quickly, the business was to be concluded.
‘Are you ready, gentlemen?’
Anatole nodded. Constant nodded.
‘One shot apiece.’
Anatole raised his arm. Constant did the same.
Then the same voice again. ‘Fire.’
Anatole was aware of nothing, no sights, no sounds, no smells; he experienced a total absence of emotion. He believed himself to have done nothing, and yet the muscles in his arm contracted and his fingers squeezed, pressing the trigger, and there was a snap as the catch released. He saw the powder flare in the pan and the puff of smoke bloom on the air. Two reports echoed around the glade. The birds flew up out of the tops of the surrounding trees, their wings beating the air in their panic to be away.
Anatole lost the air in his lungs. His legs went from under him. He was falling, falling to his knees on the hard earth, thinking of Isolde and Léonie, then a warmth spread over his chest, like the soothing ministrations of a hot bath, seeping across his chilled body.
‘Is he struck?’ Gabignaud’s voice, perhaps? Perhaps not.
Dark figures gathered around him, no longer identifiable as Gabignaud or Denarnaud, just a forest of black and grey-striped trouser legs, hands encased in thick fur gloves, heavy boots. Then he heard something. A wild shrieking, his name carried in agony and despair through the chill air.
Anatole slumped sideways on to the ground. He was imagining he could hear Isolde’s voice calling to him. But, almost simultaneously, he realised that others could hear the shouting too. The crowd surrounding him parted and stood back, far enough for him to see her running towards him from the cover of the trees, with Léonie hard on her heels.
‘No. Anatole, no!’ Isolde was shouting. ‘No!’
On the instant, something else caught his attention, just outside his line of vision. His eyes were darkening. He tried to sit, but a sharp pain in his side, like the stab of a knife, caused him to gasp. He reached out his hand, but had no strength and felt himself slumping back down to the ground.
Everything started to move in slow motion. Anatole realised what was going to happen. At first, his eyes could not accept it. Denarnaud had checked the rules of engagement were met. One shot and one shot only. And yet as he watched, Constant dropped the duelling pistol to the ground, reached into his jacket and pulled out a second weapon, so small that the barrel fitted between his second and third fingers. His arm continued its upward arc, then swung to the right and fired.
A second gun when there should have been only one.
Anatole shouted, at last finding his voice. But he was too late.
Her body came to a standstill, as if hanging momentarily in the air, then was thrown backwards by the force of the bullet. Her eyes flared wide, open first with surprise, then shock, then pain. He watched her fall. Like him, down to the ground.
Anatole felt a cry rip from his chest. All around him was chaos, yelling and shouting and pandemonium. And in the centre of it all, although it could not be, he thought he heard the sound of someone laughing. His vision faded, black replacing white, stripping the colour from the world
It was the last sound he heard before the darkness closed over him.
