Sepulchre by Kate Mosse Page A

moment she couldn't recall why she was wrapped in a woollen blanket in the drawing room, curled up in a chair. Then she looked down at her torn evening dress and remembered. The riot at the Palais Garnier. The late supper with Anatole. Achille playing lullabies through the night. She glanced at the Sevres clock on the mantelshelf.
A quarter past five.
    Chilled to the bone, and a little nauseous, she slipped into the hall and made her way along the passageway, noticing that Anatole's door was also now closed. The observation was comforting.
    Her bedroom was at the end. Pleasant and airy, it was the smallest of the private rooms, although nicely furnished in pink and blue. A bed, a closet, a chest of drawers, a washstand with blue porcelain jug and basin, a dressing table and a small claw-footed stool with a tapestry cushion.
    Léonie stepped out of her bedraggled evening dress, letting it fall to the ground, and untied her petticoats. The lace hem of the dress was grey, grimy, hanging torn in several places. The maid would have a task to repair it. With clumsy fingers, she unlaced her corset and undid the hooks until she could wriggle out, then threw it over the chair. She splashed a little of last evening's water, now ice cold, on her face, then slipped on her nightdress and crawled into bed.
She was woken some hours later by the sounds of the servants.
    Realising she was hungry, she rose quickly and drew her own curtains and pinned back the shutters. Daylight had brought the unremarkable world back to life. She marvelled, after the excitements of last evening, at how Paris outside her window looked entirely unchanged. As she brushed her hair, she examined her reflection in the looking glass for signs of the night upon her face. Disappointingly, there were none.
    Ready for breakfast, Léonie put on her heavy blue brocade dressing gown over her white cotton nightdress, fastening the ties at the waist with a lavish double bow, then stepped out into the passageway.
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee rushed to meet her as she entered the drawing room then came to a standstill. Unusually, both M'man and Anatole were already seated at the table. Most often, Léonie ate breakfast alone.
    Even at this early hour, their mother's toilette was immaculate. Marguerite's dark hair was twisted artfully into her habitual chignon, and she had a dusting of powder on her cheeks and neck. She sat with her back to the window, but in the unforgiving light of morning, the faintest of lines of age around her eyes and her mouth were discernible. Léonie noticed she was wearing a new negligee - pink silk with a yellow bow - and sighed. Presumably another gift from the pompous Du Pont.
    The more generous he is, the longer we shall have to put up with him. Feeling a stab of guilt at her uncharitable thoughts, Léonie walked to the table and kissed her mother on the cheek with more enthusiasm than usual.
    'Bon matin, M'man,' she said, then turned to greet her brother. Her eyes flashed wide at the sight of him. His left eye swollen shut, one hand wrapped in a white bandage, and a ring of green and purple bruising around his jaw.
'Anatole, what on earth-'
    He leapt in. 'I have been telling M'man how we were caught up in the protests at the Palais Gamier last evening,' he said sharply, fixing her with a look. And how I was unlucky enough to take a few blows.' Léonie looked at him in astonishment.
    'It has even made the front page of Le Figaro,' Marguerite said, tapping the newspaper with her immaculate nails. 'When I think of what might have happened! You could have been killed, Anatole. Thank goodness he was there to look after you, Leonie. Several dead, it claims here.'
'Don't fuss, M'man, I've already been checked by the doctor,' he said. 'It looks worse than it is.'
     
Léonie opened her mouth to speak, and then closed it again, catching a warning glance from Anatole.
    'More than a hundred arrests,' Marguerite continued. 'Several dead! And explosions!