Perhaps he didn’t know, then. It was Labrousse who worried him.
‘A countess soon to be the wife of a deputy, you mean.’
‘That too.’ He was immune to her irony. For a moment, it even came to her that he might be jealous.
‘Have you been told about the woman?’
She watched his face carefully.
‘What woman?’
‘The dead woman. The one whose body I found not far from the point where I believe you discovered Gabriel.’
‘Really?’ Some emotion she didn’t recognise distorted his features. He brought them quickly under control and folded his limbs into the chair opposite her chaise longue. He adjusted the crease of his houndstooth trousers, the rich print of his perfectly casual tie.
‘Yes, really.’
‘How annoying for you. For her, too, I have no doubt. Who is she? Who was she?’
Now he was watching her, his eyes nervous despite the ease of his posture.
‘I don’t know. Doubtless someone will.’
‘And you, of course, think she is Gabriel’s mother.’
‘Have I said that?’
‘No, but the implication was there. She delivered herself of her illegitimate child, had just enough strength to carry him to the waters as she dreamed of Pharaoh’s daughters, and promptly went off to die, leaving a trail of blood behind her, I imagine.’
‘Your imagination has grown colourful, Olivier.’
‘Not yours?’
‘Not really. Though I think there might just be a link between the two events.’
‘Why? Infants are often left. Most often to die. Bodies rarely.’
‘You’re rather callous today.’
He didn’t answer.
She lightened her tone. ‘Have you met Madame Germaine before? She’s a nurse. And a midwife.’
He didn’t rise to the bait.
‘Did I tell you I knew her when I was little?’
He gave her his cold stare. ‘You seem to have known everyone here when you were little. It will no doubt be a boon to my candidacy. Which reminds me, Père Benoit has offered to come up to you. To give you solace.’
‘He’s not where I would most prefer to seek solace.’
‘Isn’t he? Should I find that offensive?’
She shrugged. ‘You’ve changed, Olivier.’
‘For the better, I hope.’ He leapt up unexpectedly. He came close and laid a hand on her shoulder.
She flinched.
‘Confession would do you no harm, Marguerite.’
The notion startled her. What were Olivier and the priest up to?
‘But it’s been years, Olivier. More than I like to count.’
‘In the eyes of God, it’s a mere trifle.’
She wanted to say childishly that Olivier was being sententious, that he had no way of knowing. But she kept silent. It came to her with the chill of an ill wind that Olivier wanted access through the cleric to what Marguerite might be hiding. Had he in fact recognised her after all in Antoine and conveyed this to Père Benoit? Worse, could he have pushed her himself and wanted now to know whether she had recognised him?
Why couldn’t she rid herself of the sense that the men were in some kind of cabal that did not have her best interests at heart?
‘I will consider it,’ she murmured. ‘I’m too weary now. But tell me truthfully, Olivier: if the babe and the dead woman are found to be linked by some unusual chain of events, would you still feel the same way about Gabriel?’
‘I am certain they won’t be. So why don’t you just set your mind at ease and rest, my dear.’
She wasn’t immune to the threat in his voice.
‘I want nothing more than to rest.’
‘Good. Because I want you in fine fettle for the day after tomorrow. Up and about. At least around the house. I have a surprise for you. My candidacy is being announced in a rather wonderful way. There will be people here. It would be appropriate if you were at your best.’ He rested his eyes on her, his smile tight.
‘You can be beautiful, Marguerite, but a little less thinking and a little more rest will help the process.’
‘I have a friend coming from Paris that day, Olivier. I trust he’ll be welcome to whatever you’re planning.’
‘All your friends are welcome, Marguerite. As long as they’re also my friends.’ With a stiff bow, he was away.
She looked at the door he closed behind him with a mixture of relief and trepidation.
She had a sense that she needed a sturdy ally.
A dream gripped her with terror in the darkest hours of the night. She couldn’t fall asleep again and she turned it round and round in her mind.
It started calmly enough. She was dressed as Antoine. He was riding through the woods, passing by some of the very spots where she had walked not all that long ago. He was somehow managing to ride without getting his cap caught in lowlying branches and without his horse protesting at scrub. She could see him clearly from the outside.
It was when he walked into the water that everything grew frightening. Mud clung at his boots. The current swirled. It enveloped him and then he was swimming against it, thrashing, catching at branches. A log came into view – a log like the one she had seen at the spot where she suspected Gabriel’s basket had been left. He caught at that too and it stopped his progress. He heaved himself up towards the bank, clutched and pulled, and then something he tugged at gave a little and he clutched again. It was a woman’s leg. Her body clad in a red dress followed. He flung himself back into the waters and away. Further upstream, he managed somehow to clamber up the bank. He returned to the woman. He could see her now. He turned her over.
The woman in the red dress wore Marguerite’s features.
It was the sight of her own dead, inert face being pulled up by the Antoine she also was that had woken her in terror. She was wet through, her nightgown a rag of perspiration. She was unable to move, transfixed by the sight of her double with her Medusa’s head of blonde, snaking curls caked in river mud.
From somewhere she heard Olivier’s cold laugh.
TWELVE
There were more people on the hill than she could ever remember seeing. There were children in a motley assortment of uniforms, teachers from state as well as religious schools, and bearded headmasters. There were farmers in scarves and caps and clogs, and servants in a variety of livery. There were notables, walking-sticks in hand, bellies and top hats in place, kicking the ground as if it might produce some warmth despite winter. There were officers in full regalia from the local garrison in Blois. There was even the mayor of Montoire, his tricolor sash tight over his frockcoat. It was like a fête except that all eyes were pointed in a single direction.
At the top of the little hill, just where the trees began, floated a vast air balloon with bright blue and red trimmings. A large cane basket hung from it, dripping sandbags and ropes. An attached banner advertised its allegiance to the Catholic Party.
To the side of the balloon stood Monsieur Mirtout, the ancient portly head of the Catholic Party in the area, who had been ancient even when Marguerite was a child. She could only partly hear the words of his speech. Despite his funnel of a loud speaker, despite the evident weight of pomp and circumstance his oratory held, the brisk morning wind dispersed it as lightly as crisp leaves. She either heard or imagined something about the greatness of la patrie, the dangers the radicals represented to church schools and the family, and the pride of naming Monsieur le Comte de Landois as their candidate.
Père Benoit and the local bishop nodded their affirmation with a monotonous rhythm of the head. They were mimicked in swift succession by Olivier’s retinue of loyal aristocrats, only two of them with their wives, hefty women in funereal black, with hats as broad as parasols. There were a few lawyers as well, and an unctuously charming banker who had just opened a branch for the people of Blois – since, as he had told her almost with his first words over a preliminary breakfast, what with salarie
s rising so quickly, there was a great deal of spare money around, even for the workers.
Olivier himself, cloaked in a vast fur that made him look like a Russian bear preparing for a circus dance, kept his comments minimal. A few words of thanks and of rousing cheer, certainly no mention of the two deaths in the near region and an abandoned child, and he was off into the balloon’s basket next to his captain.
A small, uniformed brass band burst into a chorus of the Marseillaise. Everyone sang, and as the balloon began to rise Olivier waved, waved to all of them. The crowd waved back and cheered. The children jumped up and down with the thrill of it all. The basket bobbed and shuddered and then the wind whipped the balloon sideways and up over the trees.
Even from her distance, Marguerite could see that Olivier had his great box of a camera in front of him. He was taking photographs. Photographing everyone. Perhaps that was why he had chosen this escapade as a way of announcing his candidacy. No need to stay behind now and actually talk to the people. He could fly up into the sky and enjoy his latest passion, leaving the rest to her. She was to smile and shake hands and urge everyone to partake of the lavish heaps of brioche and pastries, the drinks and fruit and chocolate that were piled high on linen-covered trestle tables in front of the château.
The balloon a mere speck in the atmosphere, the curé approached her. ‘The count’s bravery is exemplary, Madame, don’t you think? He’s like one of our old French heroes. And his charity is exemplary, too. I’m thinking of little Gabriel. You must admire him for it.’
‘Indeed. And you, Monsieur, must be grateful to him for taking the banner of the Catholic Party up into the heavens. Where I’m certain it belongs.’
He bowed slightly, a little uncertain of the intent of her words.
Marguerite merely smiled. Leaving him behind, she wove her way through the crowd, urging all and sundry towards the tables and playing the role of châtelaine as near to perfection as the stiffness of her limbs permitted.
Coming up the hill in her direction, she noticed the lumbering youth from the Telliers’. A vision of an animal force rushing out at her from the forest tangle of brush leapt into her mind. She watched P’tit Ours carefully, his clumsy yet sure-footed gait. He was being followed by a gaggle of youngsters from the village school. She wondered if some of them might be the ones who had thrown stones at the supposed witch immured in that walled house. They were baiting him, tugging at him.
‘What d’you think of that, P’tit Ours? Pretty spectacular, eh, eh?’
‘Ever seen one of them before? A balloon big enough to carry two men? Might even be big enough to carry you.’
The ungainly youth pushed them aside, but they kept at him, like wasps at a piece of meat.
‘Wanna go up? We could ask Monsieur le Comte. P’tit Ours flies.’
‘They say pigs can fly.’
P’tit Ours shook his heavy head. ‘No, no.’ He took off his old cap and passed a hand across his forehead.
‘They say it’s colder than underwater after a frost up there.’
‘Colder than a witch’s teat. How’s your witch, P’tit Ours?’
‘That’s why the count was dressed like a big bear. Cause it’s so cold. A Grand Ours.’
The children tittered and giggled. P’tit Ours lashed out at one of them with a kick. They ran, then regrouped around him.
‘Did you see what the balloon was called?’
‘It had its name written on the side. In big letters. Above Catholic Party.’
‘Go way. Go. You know P’tit Ours don’t read.’
‘Pegasus. That’s what it was called. The flying horse. The teacher told us. See. Maître Pascal is over there.’
‘Pegasus,’ P’tit Ours repeated. ‘Horses don’t fly.’
‘Yup. Pegasus. He was the horse that carried Zeus’s thunderbolt.’
P’tit Ours cuffed the boy hard over the head.
Marguerite intervened before things escalated. ‘Go and get yourselves something to drink, boys. Hurry up, or it’ll all be gone.’ She pointed towards the tables in front of the château. ‘And you, P’tit Ours. I’d like a word with you.’ She approached him a little warily, yet she felt sorry for the hulk of a lad, the teasing he had to put up with.
P’tit Ours’s great wide eyes bulged at her. She was reminded of what Martine had surmised. Perhaps the youth didn’t see all that well. But his next words confounded her.
‘You find Dr Labrousse?’ he asked, his mouth a cavern around his uneven teeth.
‘Yes, thank you, P’tit Ours. Thank you. I wanted to ask you something else. The woman who lives next door to you, who is she?’
A stream of language poured from him, so fast she couldn’t make out the individual words. What she thought she heard was, ‘Amandine witch. Good witch. Good to P’tit Ours. But everyone bad. To her. Master bad to her. Poor Amandine. You help Amandine. Yvette help Amandine.’
‘Yvette?’ Marguerite leapt back from the spray that came with his words. ‘You know where Yvette is, P’tit Ours? Tell me, please.’
The youth pointed and started to race up towards the house with his odd, lolloping gait.
The sun had taken on a new lustre, and in its hard clear light the château shone so white that all the figures in front of it appeared as dark silhouettes. It seemed the group P’tit Ours was running towards was comprised of Martine, plump, little Armand who was never far from Celeste, the wet nurse, and her charge. There were some others, too, cooing into the baby carriage, but she couldn’t quite distinguish who they were. Villemardi hovered at their sides, and Marguerite wondered if the sculptor was unsure where he belonged – whether amidst the servants or with the guests. Or was it that he fancied Martine as a subject? She wondered if she should warn the girl. But first, she needed to talk to Villemardi.
P’tit Ours had now reached Martine. He tapped her on the shoulder. So the strange youth really did still mistake her for Yvette. The girl leapt back and away from him, her fright visible. Villemardi interposed himself, hardly a bulwark against the young giant.
Before Marguerite could catch up to them or see how the scene would play itself out, she was hailed again by Père Benoit, who positioned himself squarely in front of her, this time with two other clerics who wanted to meet Madame la Comtesse. She couldn’t brush them away and so carried on a desultory conversation until the curé suddenly captured her entire attention.
‘I’m glad to see you’re feeling so very much better after your nasty fall, Madame. It was in the woods, wasn’t it? The woods where the body was found.’
‘I fear so.’ Marguerite nodded. She had been certain that Olivier had already told the man everything, so there was no need for his question.
‘Not a good lot, those people.’
‘What do you mean, mon père?’
‘Have you not heard? They’ve identified the body.’
‘I heard that,’ one of the other older clerics intervened. ‘Terrible influence, these people. I’ve warned my flock. Some of them are from Spain, you know. We’ve had too many of their lot over here of late. Even if they are Catholics.’
The three sets of cassocks traced shadows like scythes on the ground.
‘Who is she?’ Marguerite kept her voice cool. She felt she needed to hide her vivid interest.
Black robes swayed in unison. What was it that struck her as ominous? Something black … she couldn’t remember.
‘It seems she came from the travellers’ encampment just outside of Montoire. You know, the fairground people.’
Père Benoit said it almost as if fairground and people were a contradiction in terms.
‘How do you know?’
‘The police. One of the vagabonds, the one from the East, the one with a turban, he went to see Monsieur Mirtout in Montoire.’
‘Monsieur Mirtout? Of your party?’
‘Yes.’
They had reached the tables on the terrace in front of the house, and before she could hear any more she had to w
ait for the priests to fill their plates with fruit and pastries.
‘You were saying, about Monsieur Mirtout?’ Marguerite asked the curé.
‘Yes, it seems the vagabond thought Monsieur Mirtout was a wise man of some kind, because of his advanced age, and these people believe they must register their complaints with sages or nobles. Of course, Monsieur Mirtout promptly took him to the police. All this was some days ago. Anyhow, this man, Rama … I don’t remember. He’s from India. This man wanted to report that a woman had disappeared from the encampment. Danuta the Dancer. His snake had disappeared as well. The snake was called Harinasa or some such. He insisted both had been kidnapped, stolen. Odd little man. The police didn’t believe him. Not wholly reliable, I fear.’
‘The police or the man who made the complaint?’
‘The man, of course. The woman even less so.’
‘You know them personally?’
‘My duties take me far afield, Madame. I have been to the site where these people are currently stationed.’
‘Père Benoit has built up a wide following in the region, Madame,’ the other young priest murmured.
‘So I see.’
She wished she could see further, wished Labrousse or Madame Germaine were here to tell her what the body revealed about the poor woman’s death and a child she might have given birth to before it. The woman in red. Danuta the Dancer.
There would be no more dancing for Danuta.
Marguerite had a sudden, overwhelming desire to cry.
Marguerite sat in the long, mirrored orangerie, which was her music room, and played, her body at one with the chords and trills her hands brought forth from the gleaming old piano. Chopin. A nocturne for poor Danuta the Dancer.
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