Although she liked to think herself not bounded by convention, Léonie nonetheless waited for him to speak first. It would be perfectly improper for her to suggest a further meeting. But she smiled at him, hoping to make it clear she would not rebuke him should he issue some kind of invitation.
‘Mademoiselle Vernier,’ he said. Léonie heard a tremor in his voice and liked him the more for it.
‘Yes, Monsieur Constant?’
‘I hope you will forgive me if this seems too bold a comment, but I was wondering if you yet had had the pleasure of visiting Square Gambetta,’ he said, gesturing to the right. ‘No more than two or three minutes from here.’
‘I walked there this morning,’ she said.
‘Should you happen to enjoy music, there is an excellent concert every Friday morning at eleven o’clock.’ He turned the full force of his blue eyes upon her. ‘Certainly, I shall attend tomorrow.’
Léonie hid a smile, admiring the finesse with which he had invited her to meet him without transgressing the bounds of social proprieties.
‘My aunt had intended for me to enjoy a range of musical activities while we are in Carcassonne,’ she said, tilting her head to one side.
‘In which case, perhaps I may be fortunate and find that our paths cross again tomorrow, Mademoiselle,’ he said, raising his hat. ‘And to have the pleasure of meeting your aunt and brother.’ He fixed her with a look and, for a fleeting instant, Léonie felt they were bound together, as if she was being inexorably drawn towards him, reeled in like a fish on a line. She caught her breath, wishing for nothing more at that moment than that Monsieur Constant would circle her waist with his hands and kiss her.
‘A la prochaine,’ he said.
His words broke the spell. Léonie blushed, as if he could read her innermost thoughts.
‘Yes, indeed,’ she stammered. ‘Until the next time.’
Then she turned and walked briskly away up the rue du Pont Vieux before she shamed herself by revealing the extent of the hopes playing within her.
Constant watched her go, seeing from her posture, her pretty step, the way she held her head high, that she was more than aware of his eyes upon her retreating back.
Like mother, like daughter.
In truth, it was almost too easy. The schoolgirl blushes, her widening eyes, the way she parted her lips revealing the tip of a pink tongue. He could have enticed her away there and then, had he so wished. That did not suit his purposes. It was infinitely more satisfying to play with her emotions. Ruin her, certainly, but by making her fall in love with him. That knowledge would torment Vernier more than the idea of her being taken by force.
And she would fall in love him. She was impressionable and young, ripe for the taking.
Pitiable.
He clicked his fingers. The man in the blue cloak, following at some distance behind, appeared instantly at his side.
‘Monsieur.’
Constant penned a curt note and gave instructions for it to be delivered to the Hôtel Saint-Vincent. The thought of Vernier’s face when he read the letter was too much to resist. He wanted to make him suffer. Both of them, Vernier and his whore. He wanted them to spend the next few days looking over their shoulders, waiting, haunted, always wondering when the blow would fall.
He thrust a purse of money into the man’s greasy hands.
‘Follow them,’ he said. ‘Stay with them. Send word in the usual manner to let me know precisely where they go. Is that clear? You think you can deliver the note before the girl arrives back at the hotel?’
The man looked offended. ‘It is my town,’ he muttered, then turned on his heel and vanished into a narrow allée running along the back of the Hôpital des Malades.
Constant put the girl out of his mind and considered his next move. During the course of the tedious flirtation in the church, she had not only given him the name of the hotel in which they were staying in Carcassonne but, more importantly, had told him where Vernier and his whore had gone to ground.
He was acquainted with Rennes-les-Bains and its therapeutic treatments. The location suited his purposes well. He could not move against them in Carcassonne. The city was too crowded and a confrontation here would attract too much attention. But an isolated estate in the country? He had some connections in the town, one man in particular, a person of few scruples and a cruel temperament to whom he had once been of service. Constant did not foresee any difficulties in persuading him that the time had come for the debt to be repaid.
Constant took a fiacre back into the heart of the Bastide, then threaded his way through the network of streets behind the Café des Négociants on the Boulevard Barbès. There the most exclusive of private clubs was to be found. Champagne, perhaps a girl. There was mostly only dark meat this far south, not the pale skin and blond hair he preferred. But today he was prepared to make an exception. He was in the mood to celebrate.
CHAPTER 61
Léonie rushed through the Square Gambetta, its pathways and borders glinting with pools of rainwater reflecting the pale rays of the sun, then past an ugly municipal building and into the heart of the Bastide.
She was all but oblivious to the rush of the world about her. The pavements were crowded, the streets swirled with black water and debris carried from the top of the town by the force of the storm.
The consequences of her afternoon’s excursion were only now hitting her. Thoughts of how Anatole would chastise her filled her head as she half walked, half ran, picking her way through the drenched street, her nerves stretched to breaking point.
Although I do not regret it.
She would be punished for her disobedience, she had no doubt, but she could not say that she wished she had never gone.
She looked up at the street sign and found she was in the rue Courtejaire, not in Carriere Mage as she had supposed. Indeed, she was quite lost. The plan de la ville was soaking wet and disintegrated in her hands. The ink had run and the street names now were all but illegible. Léonie turned to the right first, then to the left, looking for a landmark she might recognise, but all the shops were boarded up against the ill weather and the narrow streets in the Bastide looked the same.
She mistook her way several times so it was the best part of another hour before she managed to locate the church of Saint-Vincent and, from there, the rue du Port and their hotel. As she charged up the steps of the main entrance, she heard the bells of the cathedral strike six.
She burst into the lobby, still at a run, hoping at the very least to be able to regain the privacy of her room and change into dry clothes before facing her brother. But Anatole was standing in the reception hall, pacing up and down, a cigarette wedged deep between his fingers. She stopped dead in her tracks. When he saw her, he stormed across the floor, took her shoulders and shook her hard.
‘Where in the blazes have you been?’ he shouted. ‘I have been going out of my mind.’
Léonie stood fixed to the spot, struck dumb in the face of his anger.
‘Well?’ he demanded.
‘I – I am so sorry. I got caught out in the storm.’
‘Do not play with me, Léonie,’ he yelled. ‘I expressly forbade you to go out alone. You dismissed Marieta under some absurd pretext, and then disappeared. Where in God’s name have you been? Tell me, damn you!’
Léonie’s eyes widened. He had never sworn at her before. Not once. Not ever.
‘Anything could have happened to you! A young girl alone in an unfamiliar place. Anything!’
Léonie glanced at the patron, who was listening with undisguised interest.
‘Anatole, please,’ she whispered. ‘I can explain. If we could go somewhere more private. To our rooms. I—’
‘Did you disobey me and go beyond the Bastide?’ He shook her again. ‘Well? Did you?’
‘No,’ she lied, too frightened to tell the truth. ‘I enjoyed the Square Gambetta and admired the wonderful architecture of the Bastide. I admit I did send Marieta back to fetch an umbrella – and I should not have done that, I know – but when the rain started, I thought you would rather I took shelter than remain in the open. Did she tell you we went to the Carriere Mage to find you?’
Anatole’s expression darkened yet further.
‘She did not inform me of that, no,’ he said curtly. ‘And did you see us?’
‘No, I—’
Anatole renewed his assault. ‘Even so, the rain stopped more than an hour ago. We agreed that we would meet at half past five. Or did you put that out of your mind?’
‘I remember, but—’
‘One cannot fail but to be aware of the time in this city. One cannot take a single step without being assailed by bells. Do not lie to me, Léonie. Do not pretend you did not know how late it was, for I shall not believe it.’
‘I was not intending to offer such an excuse,’ she said in a small voice.
‘Where did you take shelter?’ he demanded.
‘In a church,’ she replied quickly.
‘Which church? Where?’
‘I do not know,’ she said. ‘Near the river.’
Anatole grabbed her arm. ‘Are you telling me the truth, Léonie? Did you cross the river to the Cité?’
‘The church was not in the Cité,’ she cried truthfully, distressed at the tears that had sprung to her eyes. ‘Please, Anatole, you’re hurting me.’
‘And nobody approached you? Nobody tried to harm you?’
‘You can see they did not,’ she said, trying to pull her arm free.
He stared at her, his eyes blazing with a fury she had rarely provoked before. Then, without warning, he let her go, all but pushing her away from him.
Léonie’s cold fingers stole to the pocket in which she had put Monsieur Constant’s calling card.
If he should find this now . . .
He took a step away from her. ‘I am disappointed in you,’ he said. The coldness and lack of affection in his voice chilled Léonie to the core. ‘Always I expect better of you, then you go and behave in this manner.’
Temper flared in her and she was on the point of exclaiming that she had done nothing more than go for a walk unaccompanied, but she bit her tongue. There was no sense in inflaming him further.
Léonie dropped her head. ‘Forgive me,’ she said.
He turned away. ‘Go to your room and pack.’
No, not that.
Her eyes snapped up. Straight away, her fighting spirit rushed back.
‘Pack? Why must I pack?’
‘Don’t question me, Léonie, just do as you are told.’
If they left this evening, she would not be able to meet Victor Constant tomorrow in the Square Gambetta. Léonie had not determined she would go, yet she did not want the decision taken out of her hands.
What will he think if I do not attend the concert?
Léonie rushed to Anatole and seized his arm. ‘Please, I beg you, I have said I am sorry. Punish me if you like, but not in such a manner. I don’t want to leave Carcassonne.’
He shook her off. ‘There are warnings of further storms and flooding. This is nothing to do with you,’ he said savagely. ‘Thanks to your disobedience, I have been obliged to send Isolde ahead to the station with Marieta.’
‘But the concert,’ Léonie cried. ‘I want to stay! Please! You promised.’
‘Go – and – pack!’ he shouted.
Even now, Léonie could not bring herself to accept the situation.
‘What has happened to make you wish to leave so abruptly?’ she demanded, her voice rising to match his. ‘Is it something to do with Isolde’s meeting with the lawyers?’
Anatole stepped back as if she had struck him. ‘Nothing has happened.’
Without warning, he suddenly stopped shouting. His expression softened. ‘There will be other concerts,’ he said, his voice more gentle. He tried to put his arm around her, but she pushed him away.
‘I hate you!’ she cried.
With tears stinging her eyes and not caring in the least who saw her, Léonie ran up the stairs, along the passageway into her room and threw herself face down on the bed in a storm of weeping.
I will not go. I will not.
But she knew there was nothing she could do. She had little money of her own. Whatever the true reason for their sudden departure – she did not believe in the excuse of the worsening weather – she had no choice. He was determined to punish her for her wilfulness and had chosen the surest way to do it.
Her fit of sobbing over, Léonie went to the wardrobe to pick out something dry to wear and was astonished to find it empty of all but her travelling cloak. She burst through the communicating door into the common part of the suite to find it deserted, and realised Marieta had taken almost everything.
Thoroughly miserable, her heavy damp clothes scratchy and uncomfortable, she gathered the few private items the maid had left on the dressing table, then snatched up her cloak and stormed into the corridor, where she encountered Anatole.
‘Marieta has left nothing whatever for me to wear,’ she protested, her eyes flashing with fury. ‘My clothes are wet and I am cold.’
‘Good,’ he said, walking into his room opposite and slamming the door.
Léonie turned on her heel and stamped back into her own room.
I hate him.
She would show him. She had been careful to behave properly and with decorum, but Anatole was forcing her to take more drastic measures. She would send word to Monsieur Constant explaining why she could not honour their arrangement in person. At least then he would not think ill of her. Perhaps he might even write to express his sadness at their friendship being cut short.
Her complexion flushed with defiance, with determination, Léonie rushed to the bureau and took out a sheet of writing paper. Quickly, before she lost her nerve, she scribbled a few lines of regret, suggesting that letters sent care of the poste restante in Rennes-les-Bains would find her in the event he might wish to put her mind at rest by confirming receipt of this note. She did not feel she could so far forget herself as to give the address of Domaine de la Cade itself.
Anatole would be furious.
Léonie did not care. It served him right. If he insisted on treating her like a child, then she would behave like one. If he would not allow her to make her own decisions, then she would henceforth take no account of his wishes.
She sealed the envelope and addressed it. After a moment’s pause, she took her glass bottle of perfume from her bag and sprinkled a few drops over the letter, as the heroines of her favourite novels would have done. Then she held it to her lips, as if she could imprint a little of herself upon the white paper.
There. It is done.
Now all she had to do was find a way to leave it with the patron of the hotel without Anatole’s knowledge, to be delivered at the appointed hour tomorrow morning to Monsieur Constant in the Square Gambetta.
Then, she could only wait and see what came of it.
In his bedroom opposite, Anatole sat with his head in his hands. Screwed in his fist he held a letter that had been delivered by hand to the hotel some half an hour before Léonie had reappeared.
It was barely a letter. Just five words that struck iron into his soul.
‘CE N’EST PAS LA FINI’. It is not the end.
There was no signature, no return address, but Anatole feared he understood the meaning well enough. It was a response to the single word he had written on the final page of the journal he had left in Paris.
‘FIN’.
He raised his head in desperation, his brown eyes burning bright. His cheeks were hollow and white with the shock.
Somehow, Constant knew. He knew both that the burial in the Cimetière de Montmartre had been a hoax and that Isolde was alive, even that she was here, with him, in the Midi.
Anatole ran his fingers through his hair. How? How had Constant learned they were in Carcassonne? Nobody but he, Léonie, Isolde and the household servants knew that they were in the town, let alone at this hotel in particular.
The lawyer knew. And the priest.
But not that they were staying at this very hotel.
Anatole forced himself to concentrate. He could not afford to indulge himself in wondering how they had been discovered. This was not the time to concern himself with how Constant had found them – there would be time enough for such morbid analysis later – but rather to decide what they should do now.
His shoulders slumped as the memory of Isolde’s broken expression came back into his mind. He would have given anything to have kept it from her, but she had come upon him moments after the letter had arrived and he had been unable to hide the truth.
The joy of the afternoon had turned to ashes in their hands. The promise of a new life together, neither hiding nor fearful, slipped out of their grasp.
He had intended to tell Léonie their happy news this evening. He frowned. After her outrageous performance this afternoon, he decided against it. His decision not to involve her in the wedding was vindicated. She had proved she could not be trusted to behave properly.
Anatole strode to the window, parted the wooden slats of the blinds and looked out. There was no one in the street, except for one drunken fellow, wrapped in an old soldier’s cloak, knees drawn up and slumped against the wall opposite.
He let the blind snap shut.
He had no way of knowing if Constant himself was actually present in Carcassonne. Or, if not, how close at hand he might be. His instinct was that their best hope was to return immediately to Rennes-les-Bains.
He had to hold to the slim hope that if Constant had known of the Domaine de la Cade, he would have sent the letter there instead.
