by Betsy Draine
So I began, with Toby standing guard. Most of the plaques, as I remembered, bore messages of thanks or else pleas to cure illnesses. Some could be flipped open using thumb and forefinger. That revealed a space cut into the wall, into which notes or coins or small devotional objects could be placed. Gingerly, I began testing them. Behind one plaque was a sealed envelope addressed to the Holy Virgin; behind another, a small religious medal on a silver chain. Several of these little coffers sheltered withered flowers. But after opening a few, I grew uneasy with prying into the devotions of living people, as well as those long gone. These offerings were not meant for strangers’ eyes.
I paused before the simple plaque that had caught my eye during my first visit to the chapel. It was different from the others in that it bore a general prayer rather than a request for a specific cure. “Deliver us from evil,” it read, beside the inscribed date of 1944. I grasped the edges of the plaque and lifted up, but it budged only a fraction; it seemed stuck. I repeated the motion using both hands and the firmest grip I could muster, but still no success.
“Toby, could you help me, please?”
He walked over and quickly sized up the job. “Hold on,” he said, reaching into his pants pocket for his Swiss Army knife, which he’s never without. (He claims it was his best friend as a child and is now his best tool as an antiques man.) He tried using a dull-looking blade to pry at the sides of the plaque, loosening grit, and then he switched to a shorter one and applied the leverage of his body’s weight. It worked. Toby reached in.
“There’s something in here, all right,” he grunted, groping around. “Feels like a book. Okay, I’ve got it.”
With that, Toby withdrew a sooty hand holding a familiar-looking blue notebook covered in dust.
“It’s Jenny Marie’s!” I exclaimed. “The notebook I’ve been looking for—I knew it had to exist.”
“Here, take it,” said Toby, quickly restoring the plaque to its original position. “And let’s get out of here before someone finds us.”
Back in our room, I began scanning the notebook’s pages and was immediately arrested by one passage with a drawing opposite it.
17 November 1938
Dinner last night for the professor, who talked again about his racial ideas. I know my brother will keep his head. But as for Pierre? Can’t he see another war with Germany is coming? Does he think Hitler will stop with Austria? Or does he think making friends with these Nazis will protect us when they arrive on our doorstep? Next time it won’t be archaeologists with polite manners but soldiers with guns and tanks.
Jenny Marie was sixty-eight when she wrote this. Her brother, Antoine, was sixty-three. Her nephew, Pierre, was in his late thirties.
Our professor seems to believe the Cro-Magnons were the fathers of the Nordic race and therefore the Germans, who are their descendants, invented painting and civilization. That’s ridiculous! Nothing but Nazi propaganda. Maybe he knows about bones, this one, but about art he is as ignorant as a badger. Then like a badger, let him go dig in Germany. Our painted caves are the glory of France, and if the Cro-Magnons are the progenitors, they are the ancestors of all Europe, not just some imaginary race of Nordic geniuses. The professor flatters us and pretends to be gracious, but really he is arrogant and could be cruel, I think, like the others.
On the facing page was a sketch of a supercilious young man with wavy hair and steely eyes. It was a disturbingly familiar face. I had found a study for the repugnant portrait hanging in the dim corridor outside our room.
A summons to dinner prevented me from reading further. We changed clothes quickly, and I stuffed the notebook into a dresser drawer. Toby locked our room, and we headed downstairs, past the chilling portrait in the hall. What was a Nazi archaeologist (if that’s what he was) doing at the château the year before the war broke out? I was impatient to get back to Jenny Marie’s notebook to find out what had happened between her brother, Antoine, and his son, whether they had quarreled about the Nazis, and if so, what had been the outcome. I was also thinking of the old baron’s reluctance to talk about the family’s experiences during the war years. But people were waiting for us.
Everyone looked refreshed and happy. While I had been out in the heat walking and stalking, they had been napping, dipping in the pool, or enjoying a cool drink on the veranda. They stood around in the front hall, exchanging reports of their post-Félibrée relaxation and making plans for after supper. Marianne said the van would be at the front door at eight-fifteen. I didn’t want to make a big show of not joining the group, so I remarked casually that Toby and I had decided to stay at the château for the evening.
Guillaume didn’t like the sound of that. “You know,” he said reprovingly, “the evening ball is the culmination of the Félibrée. You and your husband should go.” He raised his chin in Toby’s direction. His glance was frosty, and for a moment I wondered if we had been observed entering the chapel. I didn’t think so but couldn’t be sure.
“And I hear,” added Dotty cheerily, “that many a romance has started on Félibrée night!”
Marianne was opening the dining-room doors when that comment was made. She looked up at Guillaume, who announced rather stiffly, “Yes, our parents met at a Félibrée dance. It is one of the most honorable ways for a couple to meet.”
Marianne reinforced her brother’s remark. “My father, as one of the barons of Périgord, claimed a dance with the queen of the Félibrée, and within a year, they were married, in Montignac.” She took in a breath, and then welcomed us to the table.
The seating was informal this time (no place cards), but the Limoges china was there, just not so much of it. Marianne’s father was accompanied in from the hallway by Madame Martin, who kept a hand near his elbow, watching to see that he made his way safely to his end of the table. He kept his upright posture and never swayed. In spite of the absence of place cards, we mostly found the same seats we’d had on the first night, except Roz put herself in Dotty’s old place between Patrick and Toby, which left Dotty to take Roz’s former chair. Dotty must have been pleased. From her new position, she was in chatting distance of Guillaume on her left, Toby opposite, and David on her right. She had given up on Patrick, and the baron was too old to draw her interest.
Of all the meals we had eaten at Cazelle, this was the simplest, as well it should have been, after our lunch at l’Esplanade. We started with small Perigordian salads at each place: tender greens, crisp chunks of duck bacon, and toasted walnuts. As we were finishing our salads, Madame Martin and Fernando entered, each bearing a round metal casserole. Madame Martin at the baron’s end of the table and Fernando at Marianne’s held their casseroles out at waist level and raised the lids simultaneously, to reveal two perfect, puffy omelets.
“Omelettes aux truffes et aux champignons,” Marianne announced. “The truffles are from our own woods. The Paris mushrooms are the ordinary grocery-store type, but they make a nice bland backdrop for the truffles.”
As Marianne rose to assist Madame Martin and Fernando in serving each guest a portion of omelet, I stole a glance at Guillaume. But Dotty had already engaged him. He looked a different man under the influence of Dotty’s blandishments. His face was crinkled by an amused smile, as he leaned in to listen to her softer-than-usual voice. I couldn’t distinguish her words, but I could hear the melodies of southern-fried flattery. Across from me, Patrick, Roz, and Toby had their heads down, giving the omelets a discreet sniff, while discussing whether truffles lived up to their hype. Patrick defended the truffle’s reputation for unparalleled delicacy of taste and texture, while Roz and Toby looked skeptical. I waited for Marianne to be seated and to take the first bite. Then we all pitched in, hoping not to be disappointed. And we weren’t.
When the talk of truffles had worn down, Patrick gave Marianne a high toast with his glass and congratulated her on another beautiful meal. The talk at the table turned to the Félibrée.
“I was wondering,” began Roz. “At the covered mark
et this morning, I saw the flags of the four baronies of Périgord, but Cazelle wasn’t one of them. How is it that Cazelle has a baron if it is not one of the baronies?”
“There’s a reason for that,” Marianne replied, giving the last truffle on her plate a quick stab. With her eyes still cast down on her plate, she began what seemed a carefully worded statement.
“Things change over time, don’t they?” She looked up and continued, with a bit of steel in her jaw. “At one time there were only four baronies in Périgord, and Beynac was ours. However, there was a falling-out among brothers, and our ancestor set up a rival barony to his older brother’s. They quarreled about politics and religious matters,” she added.
“Of course, ours was the rightful claim,” asserted Guilluame.
“So we believe,” said Marianne in a conciliatory tone. “Our ancestor set his château, more modest but more elegant, on this hill opposite the cliff of Beynac. The two châteaus face each other, but being on the same side of the river, the English could never tell whether we were rivals or fellows in arms, opposites or comrades, each with opposing claims.”
“Claims to what, Marianne?” asked David.
“To the land, to our heritage,” Guillaume responded.
“I don’t follow you,” said David, with unfeigned puzzlement.
“Are you talking about the religious divisions between the Church and the Cathars?” I asked. Guillaume ignored the question.
“Who are the Cathars?” asked Dotty.
“They were a sect in the Middle Ages who quarreled with the Catholic Church,” I explained.
For the first time that evening, the old baron looked my way. “Our quarrel was nothing of the kind,” he said, responding to my question. “It had to do with the title.”
Now everyone looked puzzled. Marianne intervened. “The barony,” she said, by way of clarification.
Guillaume harrumphed assent. “These are things perhaps too complicated to explain to those who weren’t born here.” He chewed for a moment, nodding in agreement with his own opinion. That put an end to further discussion, and a lull followed, punctuated by sounds of silverware scraping plates.
“Nora,” said Marianne, in a gambit to change the subject, “why don’t you tell us how your research is going.”
“Very well,” I replied, welcoming this opening. “You had the papers in such wonderful order. That’s been very helpful. But I’ve been wondering about Jenny Marie’s paintings. For example, just now coming from our room, I looked again at that interesting portrait hanging in the corridor. Can you tell me who the subject was?”
“I’ve been told he was a friend of my grandfather,” she replied coolly.
Guillaume sat up straighter in his chair.
“I don’t know his name,” she added. “A family friend.”
“I see. Do you know about when it was painted?”
“Before the war, I think. You can tell by the style of clothes.”
“Yes, that’s what I thought, too. Somehow, though, he doesn’t look French. Was he from Périgord?”
“I don’t think so.”
“With that blond hair, he looks like he might even be German,” I ventured, growing brazen. Toby raised an eyebrow, telegraphing me to ease off. Marianne shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. Not Guillaume, though. He riveted me with hostile eyes.
“In the period between the wars we had many visitors, not only from France but from all over Europe,” explained Marianne. “It’s possible he’s German, but, as I said, I don’t know who he was.”
“That’s too bad, because it’s an interesting portrait. Not typical of her style, but very powerful in its own way.”
“Do you think so? To be frank, I never liked it. He looks disagreeable to me.”
“Do you happen to know anything about him?” This time, I directed my question to Guillaume.
“No,” he replied firmly. Then he turned to his father. “When we had to identify it for the insurance records, we called it Portrait of a Young Man, didn’t we, Papa?”
“I don’t recall,” replied the baron softly, turning back to his conversation with David.
My inner radar warned me I had gone far enough for the moment. Since dessert was about to be served, I simply smiled, in anticipation of the fruit platter that was making the rounds. I let the others pick up the conversation while I enjoyed my pear, laboring to eat it with knife and fork, French style. After coffee was served, I turned again to Marianne. Dotty was now bantering with Toby, and Guillaume was following their interchange with a bemused expression.
“Marianne,” I said, lowering my voice so as not to override the others, “there’s another matter I’m curious about, and that is the cause of Jenny Marie’s death. According to the family Bible, it was in 1944, so I know the war was still on, but no one seems comfortable talking about it. Did she die as a result of the war, or was she ill, or what exactly happened to her?”
“She was ill. Cancer is what I’ve been told. But it’s true nobody likes to talk about the war. Those years were painful. My father has stories…. But I don’t like to ask him too many questions. It upsets him. As for Jenny Marie, yes, she was ill, and amid all the other unfortunate events of that time, the family lost her too.”
“I see,” I said. “I didn’t mean to pry. Really, I’m extremely grateful for all your help. I’m sure I can write an informative article about Jenny Marie and her work, based on all I’ve learned here.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Nora. It will be good to see her work appreciated.”
Guillaume was looking my way again, with an expression of displeasure. He was no longer paying the slightest attention to Dotty, who was telling Toby an animated story.
You were pushing them with those remarks about the war,” said Toby.
“Wasn’t I, though? It’s a subject that makes them uncomfortable. Maybe Jenny Marie can tell us why.”
We were back in our room, leafing through the discovered notebook. It was different from the others in that it contained both diary entries and sketches, whereas earlier Jenny Marie had relegated her thoughts to the notebooks and had kept her drawings in separate sketchbooks. Here pages were given over to faces and figure drawings, as if she were trying to capture the people around her in rapid pen strokes while there was still time. In addition to the sketch of “the professor,” there were portraits of family members, though none was identified by name. That is, I assumed they were family members, for they were drawn affectionately and with a sense of intimacy. I was pretty certain that one was of her brother, Antoine, since it occupied a full page opposite a diarylike entry devoted to him.
12 December 1938
In the coming troubles, Antoine can be counted on. I know he will remain faithful to his principles, even if so many others are weak and hypocritical, concerned only with their self-interest. Antoine was never like that. I can depend on him. As for the others, we shall see.
If indeed he was the subject of this drawing, Antoine was a handsome man with a lined face, a large rueful mouth, and a shock of white hair. I thought I could trace a resemblance to the current baron, Antoine’s grandson, who was now more than a decade older than Antoine had been when Jenny Marie sketched him.
Antoine’s son, Pierre, looked very little like his father, judging from another sketch accompanying an entry about their growing estrangement. Pierre would have been about forty at the time. The man in this drawing looked that age but had a rounder face than Antoine’s, a less aquiline nose, suspicious eyes, and a pursed mouth with bow lips. His features may have resembled his mother’s. I rechecked the family chronology and was correct in my recollection that Antoine’s wife had died in childbirth in 1900.
Pierre, wrote Jenny Marie, was becoming a constant worry to his father—and to her.
15 December 1938
How intolerant Pierre has become. He talks only of order, order, order, and says scandalous things about the Jews. Bitter arguments divide us. Antoine accuses Pierre o
f abandoning “Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity” for Fascism, Racism, and the Fatherland. Pierre retorts that the Revolution has taken France down the path of anarchy and degeneration. To his father he says, you are blind to the true enemies of France, namely the Jews, the Communists, and the Freemasons. My God, what has become of my nephew?
“Freemasons?” asked Toby, with a quizzical expression. “What were they doing on the list?”
“Beats me,” I replied, “I thought they were some quaint eighteenth-century club with secret handshakes, but obviously they were an issue in the thirties.”
“And not the Germans?”
Not for Pierre.
8 February 1939
And now my nephew has struck up a friendship with this German professor who comes to the Dordogne and into our home to spread his fantasies about the cave art of the Cro-Magnons. Why is he here almost every day? What does he expect from us? He takes an interest in our patrimony, so he says. I know he makes drawings and sends them back to Germany, but he has no talent for depiction. Neither does his friend Gounot. I won’t help them, though. I want nothing to do with them.
Gounot. Would that have been Marc’s father, the one who was denounced after the war as a collaborator?
“Has to be,” said Toby. “Remember that according to Daglan, he got involved with an archaeologist Himmler sent to visit the caves around here to prove Hitler’s theory about racial superiority. It couldn’t be anyone else.”
Then it was true Marc’s father had been working with a German on some archaeological project in the Dordogne that was of interest to the Nazis. But why were they working here at the château? Unless there was prehistoric art on the grounds or, rather, under the ground, there was no reason for them to be focused on Cazelle.
“This provides a link between Marc and the Cazelle family,” observed Toby.
“But that doesn’t give him a motive for murdering the man from the Bureau of Antiquities.”
