by D J Mcintosh
Reluctantly I got out and dried off. Dressed in the robe, my sopping clothes in hand, I walked down the hall and found a little room with a cheery fire burning in the grate. I hung the garments over the fire screen and lay on the couch, intending to take a quick nap until they dried.
The sun’s glare dazzled my eyes and I woke to the sound of a bell tinkling somewhere in the hall outside the room. The sweet, clear light of Provence shone in full splendor on the garden outside the window. I felt dazed at first; I couldn’t remember where I was. Then I recalled our perilous journey up the cliff side and the attack dogs in the forest. My peace of mind returned, knowing we were safe. Beside the couch, someone had placed a little table covered with a fine cloth. On it was a plate of sweet cakes and a bowl of grapes and oranges. I sighed with relief. This confirmed my impression of last night that our host intended to make us feel welcome and for some reason, perhaps to give us privacy, didn’t wish to disturb us by introducing himself. I fell upon the food like a starving man, which, in fact, I qualified as at that point. I hurriedly dressed.
Downstairs, our backpacks sat in the drawing room. Dina was nowhere to be seen. Had she found the horses? I searched for her outside, taking the opposite route from the way we’d come last night, and soon happened upon the stables. Five Camargue horses grazed within a fenced enclosure. I was glad to see our mare among them but wondered about the fate of the stallion. He turned up in one of the stable stalls, a warm blanket over his back, chewing happily on hay. His hock had been carefully bound with white cloth.
When I returned to the house to find our host, I called out in the foyer but no one answered. I grew tired of waiting and decided to look for the library. Surely, I reasoned, my host’s hospitality would extend to his book collection. I hadn’t seen a library on my perambulations last night, but Renard was a noted rare book collector, and I hoped to find the volume of Basile’s book there. It turned out to be opposite the drawing room. Bookshelves lined the library’s interior walls, a moving ladder on runners providing access to the highest ones. Beside each window, niches held classical sculptures—Hermes with his staff, Poseidon with a trident, Zeus holding a thunderbolt. On the ceiling, a painting of medieval scholars reading scrolls surrounded a prancing white horse. Several comfortable chairs and a reading table had been set close to a blazing fire.
I suspected Renard would keep his most precious volumes under lock and key but it was worth a search. If I could find the book and photograph it, Dina and I could be on our way. I’d promised her that I’d prevent Mancini from reassembling the volumes, but clearing my name and proving the missing volumes’ current whereabouts and ownership were more important to me at the moment. I spotted a familiar set of twelve books, each a different color: fine early editions of Andrew Lang’s Fairy Books.
I began a methodical search starting with the literary titles grouped on the east wall alphabetically, by author name. Most were in handsome covers of leather or pasteboard in burgundy, black, or green, with gold-leaf lettering. They’d been kept in perfect condition, not a hint of foxing. The majority were in French, although I found a number in English and Italian.
I came across a beautifully illustrated edition of Hans Christian Andersen and Balzac’s La Comédie humaine series. When I reached Baudelaire I ran my fingers back over the titles and found several versions of Basile’s The Tale of Tales. First was Richard Burton’s famous English edition of 1893. An article I came across on the Web claimed Burton’s translation was poor. He’d embellished the stories and even added many new words that never appeared in Basile’s original. Another edition, published in 1846 and translated by Felix Liebrecht, had an introduction by none other than Jacob Grimm. It sat beside the Burton. And next to that were the two volumes of the English translation like the ones Tye Norris lent me. That was all; not the volume I hoped to find. I cast another look around the room. Renard had thousands of books. It would take days to search through all of them.
Leafing through the English translation, I found “The Young Slave” among the ten stories of the second day. My eyes had just landed on the sentence “There she saw the young girl, clearly visible through the crystal caskets, so she opened them one by one and found that she seemed to be asleep” when a voice boomed behind me.
“I see you admire my library.”
I almost dropped the book as I whipped around to see a rough-looking man dressed in a leather shirt and pants. He was tall; he had a few inches on my six feet. A wild mane of chestnut hair fell to his shoulders. His skin was heavily scarred as if it had once been scalded. His brow ridge was greatly pronounced, a cliff of flesh that overhung his eyes; his nose was unpleasantly twisted above full lips.
After tucking the book back in its place I walked over to him. He gave me a curt nod.
“I’m John Madison,” I said, holding out my hand. “Not many people would extend their home to complete strangers the way you have. Thanks very much for your hospitality. We were in sore need of it.”
He took my hand and shook it firmly. “It’s my pleasure. Alphonse Renard.” Plainly this was simply a polite, not heartfelt, response.
“Your home is remarkable, M. Renard. I’ve been admiring your library. The sculptures and ceiling fresco are especially fine.”
I caught a glimpse of pride in his expression. “You see Poseidon over there”—he indicated the statue—”who fashioned white horses from surf. A splendid notion, don’t you think? Recalls the legends of the mythical ones, Pegasus and the unicorn. White horses were sacred to the Persians, too. Magical symbols, beings who crossed over from other dimensions to our own, from worlds beyond our immediate senses. I make a study of that realm. ‘Behold a pale horse’—isn’t that the saying?” He looked me steadily in the eye. “But you didn’t come here to learn about the ethereal. The book you seek is not in the library here.”
“How do you know what I’m looking for?”
“I told him.” Dina eased herself into the room and stood beside him. She’d done up her hair. And where had she found those clothes? She had on a calf-length brown skirt with a matching jacket. Renard said something to her in French that I couldn’t catch and she responded in kind, gracing him with a brilliant smile. “Yes, Alphonse,” she said in English for my benefit, “John wants to see your book. He’s come a very long way for it.”
“Dina’s right,” I said. “I’d like to see it. It’s the second volume, I believe, day two in the anthology.”
“Well, I’ll certainly consider that,” Renard said.
“I would appreciate it. I’d like to verify its authenticity and photograph it, if you don’t mind. For insurance purposes. Did Dina tell you your volume has also been declared stolen?”
She shot me a hostile glance. “Certainly I did. And also that the claim was false.”
Renard hastened to back her up. “I’ve purchased many rare books. I’m accustomed to these tricky issues with provenance.”
“Well, you might want to rethink that. Dina’s agent for the sale, Ewan Fraser, was murdered in Naples a few days ago. You could be in some danger—and I point that out only because we were able to enter your house quite easily last night.”
“I can assure you,” Renard said laughing, “no one gets close to my property without my approval. You need have no fears on my behalf. I was in the process of showing Dina the house. Join us if you wish.”
Although Dina was still walking stiffly she seemed well recovered, and Renard, quite unnecessarily I thought, took her arm with exaggerated politeness. I wondered whether underneath her cheery exterior she recoiled from his touch, but far from taking her hand away as she had with me, she gave him another dazzling smile.
Renard chose a key from a large metal ring and unlocked a door beside the fireplace. We entered a corridor and passed by a small room outfitted with phones, computers, and a fax machine. The merchant had not entirely eschewed the modern world after all. The two dogs from the night before lay placidly on the floor farther down the h
all. One raised its head; otherwise, they remained docile.
We descended a stairway to another locked door, this one built of metal with a keypad. The room we entered astonished me. It had no windows and it would be hard to know what exactly to call it. An armory? A strong room? Glass-fronted cupboards held an assortment of revolvers and pistols. Rapiers, sabers, pikes, and heavy swords hanging from brackets looked as if they’d last been held by a knight in the Middle Ages. A variety of long rifles, some of them old muskets, had been set into wooden wall racks. Not all the weapons were old. A couple of cases held new pistols and rifles with scopes.
“As you can tell, I’m well defended,” Renard said. “And this doesn’t include the security measures you can’t see.”
I gathered that the point of this tour was to impress Dina. He could wage a small war with these armaments. Dina’s eyes lit up when she saw the weapons. I sensed for the first time since we’d fled Naples that she felt safe and protected from Alessio and Mancini.
Several large glass display cases held a set of solid gold dinnerware, a vast collection of coins, and jewelry. Ropes of matched pearls, amethyst-encrusted earrings, and a necklace of fire opals were arranged on black velvet trays.
There, alongside the jewelry, sat the second volume of Basile’s anthology. “Can I take a look at this?” I asked, indicating the book.
“Possibly,” Renard said slowly. “Later perhaps.”
I pressed him on it. “I’d also appreciate it if you’d consider signing the photographed copy indicating where and when you purchased the book.”
“Let’s deal with that later, too,” he said again. His less than enthusiastic response bothered me, but I could hardly snatch his keys and open the display case. They dangled from a ring on his belt so I had no chance to get them.
Renard drew our attention to a bracelet of fat pinkish pearls with a little pendant enclosing an enameled portrait. The bracelet was oddly suspended from a light fixture. He scooped it off and presented it to Dina. “Un cadeau pour mademoiselle. Un petit token.” He fastened it around her slender wrist. She beamed with pleasure and he pointed to the pendant.
“C’est que j’ai utilise pour ressembler à,” he said. What he used to look like.
He took us to other rooms, many of which I hadn’t seen in my wanderings the night before. The first, a glass conservatory filled with exotic plants, doubled as an aviary. I recognized a white cockatoo and parrots with jewel-green plumage; others I had no name for. In another room, he showed off an enormous wardrobe containing ball gowns and men’s dress from bygone ages. Silk sashes, leather boots, women’s dress slippers, elaborate masks. Costumes, perhaps, from plays and parties his ancestors once staged.
Eventually he excused himself. “I have matters to attend to this afternoon and ask you to join me for dinner at eight.”
“A fascinating gentleman,” Dina observed after he’d left. “He was handsome once.” She held up the bracelet. The pendant showed the face of a young man, in his twenties I guessed, with long chestnut hair, expressive brown eyes, and a strong jaw.
“Strange man, in my opinion. Although you two seem to have become fast friends.”
“I certainly hope so! I adore this place. He has marvelous taste, don’t you think?”
“Yes, he has. Where did your clothes come from?”
“He keeps them for guests, apparently. There are more stunning dresses too.”
“You’ll have a much better chance to persuade him to let me photograph the book, Dina. Will you do that?”
“Let’s be patient. We can’t just storm in here making demands.” “On the contrary, we need to keep moving. Alessio followed us last night. That means Mancini knows we’re here.”
“Renard can protect us. There’s no way I’m rushing away.”
This was building toward an argument between us so I relented. “Okay. We can stay a little longer; it won’t hurt to rest up. But we don’t know whether we can trust him. What happened to his face, anyway? Is he a burn victim I wonder?”
“An accident. He traveled frequently to oversee his family’s business. An oil tanker collided with his car and he almost died. He’s quite sensitive about it. Since then he’s kept to himself on the estate.”
Twenty-Eight
November 24, 2003
Les Alpilles, France
A shiftless and unrewarding afternoon ensued. I asked one of the stable grooms to accompany me into the wood surrounding the garden to satisfy myself about Alessio’s fate. We retraced the route back to the forest path. I found the trampled bushes where he fled from the dogs easily enough; that was all. I searched the area; there was no sign of his body. No blood on the leaves, no torn clothing. Either he’d survived or Renard’s men had disposed of the evidence. Was he alive? And if so, where had he gone? It had been easy enough for Dina and me to walk right into the house. What prevented Alessio from doing so?
The body of the doe had also disappeared. There was no sign of it in the clearing. I wasn’t sure what to make of its absence.
I decided to return to the library to find something to read. Renard hinted he was a follower of the occult. He might have some interesting material about necromancy. As I passed by the library window I chanced to look in and saw Dina and Renard sitting side by side. So much for his pressing matters of the afternoon. Dina’s head was bent, her long locks curling over her shoulder. She held a book in her hands and appeared to be reading to him. Over his face flitted the most conflicting expressions. Not the quietly attentive look one would expect from a listener. No, his gaze bore down on Dina with a savage lust. She’d look up at him after finishing a passage, perhaps to add her thoughts about the piece, and suddenly the wildness would disappear as if he’d learned to push it away at will.
When I got inside, the rest of the household staff had finally materialized. One of them was kind enough to bring me coffee in my room. I spent the rest of the afternoon reading the English translation and making notes.
When we entered the dining room that evening, Renard was nowhere to be found. Dina looked around nervously while a manservant poured wine. The merchant didn’t put in an appearance until the first course was served twenty minutes later. He looked even larger as he appeared in the doorway, his tall figure thrown into relief by light from the huge, five-pronged silver candelabra. Dinner was an uncomfortable affair. Renard seemed tense and spoke little, although I couldn’t help noticing the way he doted on Dina’s every word. He had little to say to me. Nor did he linger once the meal was over. He rose and bade us a curt good night. I looked at Dina meaningfully but she wouldn’t meet my gaze.
Once again, as night descended, the house grew silent as if the two of us were its sole occupants. Dina didn’t seem inclined to talk and took up a book to read in front of the fire. I prowled through the chambers once more to satisfy my curiosity about where Renard had gone. I checked the strong room. It was firmly locked and the book within it. Not finding him upstairs, I went down to the kitchen. His two dogs were curled up in front of the hearth. One of them leapt up, growling, hackles raised. I quickly shut the door. Interesting. For some reason he’d kept them inside tonight.
I happened to glance out the hall window on my way back to the drawing room and saw Renard striding across the gravel drive. I slipped out the front doors and followed him quietly, trying to remain unobserved. If he caught me I’d just say I was restless and couldn’t sleep.
The moon was as strong as last night. He walked through the avenue of statues with their vividly flaming torches, and as he did, his figure appeared to recede. The depth of shadow and the torch-light must have been playing a visual trick on me. I rubbed my eyes. When I looked again, he’d vanished.
I wandered down the row of statues, looking left and right, thinking he must have veered off somewhere. Soon I came to the ranks of flower beds, but couldn’t find any sign of him. The forest lay ahead. I stopped then, having no intention of venturing into it.
Young trees and
bushes grew thickly at the wood’s edge, their branches interlaced, the moonlight tracing each twig and leaf to compose a silvery web. I sensed a presence in the trees ahead, but could make out nothing more than their limbs glistening with frost. I peered intently at the pattern of branches. They shifted, but not from the wind as there was little breeze. Something was watching me.
A white stag, its antlers hidden among the tracery of branches and twigs, stood among the trees. It was a giant, the tip of its head a good seven feet off the ground. Then it moved, and I saw the head belonged to a tall human form swathed in a long shadowy cloak. A kind of phosphorescent glow seemed to surround the figure, although that may have been the effect of the moonlight.
Its dark eyes glittered with malice. What on earth was Renard playing at? The stag head, magical though it seemed, must be some kind of elaborate ruse. In the still, wintry night I could almost believe the vision was real.
Just as quickly as it had appeared, with a white flash it turned and fled deeper into the forest. Was this a threat Renard concocted knowing I’d follow him tonight? Or had I caught him unawares in some bizarre nightly ritual? His fascination with the occult led him down some strange paths.
We saw nothing of the merchant the next day. One of his staff informed us we’d be expected for dinner again that night. Dina immersed herself in the library, which she exclaimed was so impressive she could spend the rest of her life there.
“During my years at the palazzo,” she said, “the few pleasant moments I had were mostly spent in the library. And I went often to the biblioteca nazionale, with my guard trailing along, of course—that’s how I became friends with ewan. Except for him and Luisa I had no companions. So books became my friends. I always feel happiest around them.”
