PART VII
Carcassonne September-October 1891
CHAPTER 51
SUNDAY 27TH SEPTEMBER 1891
The morning after the dinner party, Léonie, Anatole and Isolde rose late. The evening had been a great success. Everyone agreed. The generous rooms and passageways of the Domaine de la Cade, so long silent, had been brought back to life. The servants whistled in the pass corridor. Pascal grinned as he went about his business. Marieta skipped lightly across the hall with a smile on her face.
Only Léonie was out of sorts. She had a vicious headache and chills, brought on by the unaccustomed quantity of wine she had consumed and the after-effects of Monsieur Baillard’s confidences.
She spent much of the morning lying upon the chaise longue with a cold compress on her head. When she did feel recovered enough to eat a little toasted bread and beef consommé for luncheon, she found herself subject to the sort of malaise that inevitably follows the passing of a big event. The dinner party having loomed in her mind for so long, she felt there was no longer anything to look forward to.
Meanwhile, she saw Isolde move from room to room, in her customary calm and unhurried manner, but as if a burden had been lifted from her shoulders. The look upon her face suggested that now, perhaps for the first time, she felt as if she were the chatelaine of the Domaine. That she owned the house rather than that the house owned her. Anatole, too, whistled as he walked from hall to library, from drawing room to the terrace, looking like a man who had the world at his feet.
Later that afternoon, Léonie accepted Isolde’s invitation to walk in the gardens. She needed to clear her head and, feeling slightly better, was glad of the opportunity to stretch her legs. The air was still and warm, the afternoon sun gentle upon her cheeks. Quickly, she felt her spirits restored.
They chatted pleasantly of the usual topics as Isolde led Léonie down in the direction of the lake. Music, books, the latest fashions.
‘So, now,’ said Isolde. ‘How shall we occupy your time while you are here? Anatole tells me you are interested in local history and archaeology? There are several excellent trips. To the ruined castle at Coustaussa, for example?’
‘I would like that.’
‘And of course, reading. Anatole always says you have a hunger for books as other women have for jewellery and clothes.’
Léonie blushed. ‘He thinks I read too much, but only because he does not read sufficiently! He knows all about books as objects, but is not interested in the stories that lie between the pages.’
Isolde laughed. ‘Which, of course, may be why he was obliged to resit his examinations for his baccalaureate!’
Léonie shot a look at Isolde. ‘He told you this?’ she asked.
‘Of course not, no,’ she said quickly. ‘What man brags of his failures?’
‘Then—’
‘Despite the lack of intimacy between my late husband and your mother, Jules liked to be kept informed of the events in his nephew’s education and upbringing.’
Léonie glanced at her aunt, with interest. Her mother had been quite clear that the communication between her and her half-brother had been minimal. She was on the point of pressing Isolde further, but her aunt was speaking again and the moment was lost.
‘Have I mentioned I have recently taken out a subscription with the Société Musicale et la Lyre in Carcassonne, although so far I have been unable to attend any concerts? I am aware that it might become rather dull for you, cooped up here in the country, so far from any entertainments.’
‘I am perfectly content,’ Léonie said.
Isolde smiled her appreciation. ‘I am obliged to make a trip to Carcassonne some time in the next few weeks, so I thought we might make an outing of it. Spend a few days in the city. How would that be?’
Léonie’s eyes widened with delight. ‘That would be wonderful, Aunt. When?’
‘I am waiting for a letter from my late husband’s lawyers. A point of query. As soon as I receive word, we will make the arrangements to travel.’
‘Anatole too?’
‘Of course,’ Isolde replied, smiling. ‘He tells me you would like to see something of the restored medieval Cité. It looks quite unchanged, they say, from the thirteenth century. It is really quite remarkable what they have achieved. Until some fifty years ago, it was a ruin. Thanks to the work of Monsieur Viollet-le-Duc, and those who carry on his work, the slums have almost all been cleared. Nowadays, it is safe for tourists to visit.’
They had reached the end of the path. They struck out towards the lake, then on in the direction of the small, shaded promontory that afforded a wonderful view of the water.
‘So now that we are better acquainted, would you mind if I asked you a question of a rather personal nature?’ Isolde asked.
‘Well, no,’ Léonie said cautiously, ‘although I suppose it would depend on the nature of the question.’
Isolde laughed. ‘I wondered, only, if you had an admirer?’
Léonie blushed. ‘I …’
‘Forgive me, have I presumed too much on our friendship? ’
‘No,’ Léonie said quickly, not wishing to appear gauche or naïve, although in truth all her notions of romantic love had been acquired from the pages of books. ‘Not in the slightest. It is just that you . . . you took me by surprise.’
Isolde turned to her. ‘Well, then? Is there someone?’
Léonie experienced, to her surprise, a momentary flash of regret that there was not. She had dreamed, but of characters she had met between the pages of books or of heroes glimpsed upon the stage singing of love and honour. Never, yet, had her unspoken fantasies attached themselves to a living, breathing person.
‘I have no interest in such things,’ she said firmly. ‘Indeed, in my opinion, marriage is a form of servitude.’
Isolde hid a smile. ‘Once, maybe, but in these modern times? You are young. All girls dream of love.’
‘Not I. I have seen M’man—’
She broke off, remembering the scenes, the tears, the days when there was no money to put food on the table, the procession of men coming and going.
Isolde’s serene expression was suddenly sombre. ‘Marguerite’s situation has been a difficult one. She has done what she can to make things comfortable for you and Anatole. You should try not to judge her harshly.’
Léonie felt her temper flare. ‘I do not judge her,’ she said sharply, stung by the rebuke. ‘I . . . I just do not wish such a life for myself.’
‘Love – true love – is a precious thing, Léonie,’ Isolde continued. ‘It is painful, uncomfortable, makes fools of us all, but it is what breathes meaning and colour and purpose into our lives.’ She paused. ‘Love is the one thing that lifts our common experience to the extraordinary.’
Léonie glanced at her, then back to her feet.
‘It is not only M’man who has made me turn my face away from love,’ she said. ‘I have witnessed how sorely Anatole has suffered. I daresay this affects the way I see things.’
Isolde turned. Léonie felt the full force of her grey eyes upon her and could not meet her gaze. ‘There was a girl he loved very much,’ she continued in a quiet voice. ‘She died. This past March. I do not know precisely the manner of her death, only that the circumstances were distressing.’ She swallowed hard, glanced at her aunt, then away. ‘For months afterwards we feared for him. His spirit was broken and his nerves shot to pieces, so much so that he took refuge in all manner of ill . . . ill practices. He would spend whole nights away and—’
Isolde squeezed Léonie’s arm against her. ‘A gentleman’s constitution can cope with forms of relaxation that to us seem insidious. You should not take such things as an indication of a deeper malaise.’
‘You did not see him,’ she cried fiercely. ‘He was a man lost to himself.’
To me.
‘Your affection for your brother is a credit to you, Léonie,’ Isolde said, ‘but perhaps the time has come to worry less about him. Whatever was the situation, he appears to be in good spirits now. Would you not agree?’
Reluctantly, she nodded. ‘I admit he is much improved on the spring.’
‘There. So this is the time to think more of your own needs and less of his. You accepted my invitation because you, yourself, stood in need of a rest. Is that not so?’
Léonie nodded.
‘So now you are here, you should think of yourself. Anatole is in safe hands.’
Léonie thought of their headlong exit from Paris, her promise that she would help him, the sense of threat that came and went, the scar upon his eyebrow as a reminder of the danger he faced, and then, in a moment, felt a burden was being lifted from her shoulders.
‘He is in safe hands,’ Isolde repeated firmly. ‘As are you.’
They were now on the far side of the lake. It was peaceful and green, quite isolated and yet in full view of the house. The only sounds were the crack of twigs underfoot, the occasional flurry of a rabbit in the undergrowth behind. High above the treeline, the caw of distant crows.
Isolde led Léonie to a curved stone bench set on the rise of ground. It was the shape of a crescent moon, its edges softened by time. She sat down and patted the seat to invite Léonie to join her.
‘In the days immediately after my husband’s death,’ she said, ‘I came often to this spot. I find it a most restful place.’
Isolde unpinned her white, wide-brimmed hat and placed it on the seat beside her. Léonie did the same, removing her gloves too. She glanced at her aunt. Her golden hair seemed to shine bright, as she sat, as ever, perfectly straight, her hands resting gently in her lap and her boots peeking out neatly from the bottom of her pale blue cotton skirt.
‘Was it not rather . . . rather solitary? Being here alone?’ Léonie said.
Isolde nodded. ‘We were married only a matter of years. Jules was a man of fixed habits and customs and, well, for much of that time we were not in residence here. At least, I was not.’
‘But you are happy here now?’
‘I have grown accustomed to it,’ she said quietly.
All of Léonie’s previous curiosity about her aunt, which had faded somewhat into the background during the excitements of the preparation for the dinner party, flooded back. A thousand questions leapt into her mind. Not least of them why, if Isolde did not feel entirely comfortable at the Domaine de la Cade, she chose to remain here.
‘Do you miss Oncle Jules so very much?’
Above them, the leaves swayed in the wind, whispering, murmuring, eavesdropping. Isolde sighed.
‘He was a considerate man,’ she replied carefully. ‘And a kind and generous husband.’
Léonie’s eyes narrowed. ‘But your words about love—’
‘One cannot always marry the person one loves,’ Isolde cut in. ‘Circumstance, opportunity, need, all these things play a part.’
Léonie pressed further.
‘I wondered how it was that you came to make one another’s acquaintance? I was under the impression that my uncle rarely left the Domaine de la Cade, so—’
‘It is true that Jules disliked travelling far from home. He had everything he wished for here. He kept himself well occupied with his books and took his responsibilities for the estate seriously. However, it was his custom to pay a visit once a year to Paris, as he had done when his father was still alive.’
‘And it was during one of those visits that you were introduced? ’
‘It was,’ she said.
Léonie’s attention was caught, not by Isolde’s words, but by her actions. Her aunt’s hand had stolen to her neck, which, today, was covered by a delicate high lace collar despite the mildness of the weather. Léonie realised how habitual a gesture it was. And Isolde had turned quite pale, as if remembering some unpleasantness she would rather forget.
‘So you do not miss him so much?’ Léonie pressed.
Isolde gave one of her slow, enigmatic smiles.
This time, there was no doubt in Léonie’s mind. The man about whom Isolde had talked with such longing, such tenderness, was not her husband.
Léonie stole a glance, trying to summon the courage to pursue the conversation further. She was hungry to know more, but at the same time she did not wish to be impertinent. For all the confidences Isolde appeared to have shared, in point of fact she had explained little of the history of her courtship and marriage. More, Léonie had the suspicion several times during the course of the conversation, that Isolde was on the point of raising some other issue, unsaid between them, although what this could be, she did not know.
‘Shall we return to the house?’ said Isolde, breaking into her reflections. ‘Anatole will be wondering where we are.’
She stood up. Léonie gathered her hat and gloves and did likewise. ‘So do you think you will continue to live here, Tante Isolde?’ she asked, as they made their way down from the promontory and headed back towards the path.
Isolde waited a moment before answering. ‘We will see,’ she said. ‘For all its undoubted beauty, this is a disquieting place.’
