would contact him some time after his arrival at Rennes.
He had been sitting outside his rented cottage three days after taking up residence and enjoying the evening sun when he first saw a tall woman striding up the road towards him. He guessed she was in her early forties. She was slim and looked fit for her age. She was dressed in a grey linen shirt and dark blue, tight-fitting jeans. Her dark hair was drawn back in a tight ponytail and she wore very little make-up. However she was a striking woman.
She stopped in front of him and appraised him carefully.
“ Alain Hebert?” she asked.
“ Yes.”
“ I am Cesar Renoir.” She held out her hand.
He rose in surprise and took it. The handshake she gave him was firm.
“ I was expecting a man,” he confessed.
“ I know. The Christian name fools most people. When my father gave me the name I think it was because he was disappointed I wasn’t a boy. But I’ve been able to live up to it since - in my way.”
“ Your father?”
“ I believe you have already met him. He was that pathetic wreck you saw in Marseilles with half his face cut away. Camille Renoir used to be a force to be reckoned with but now he hides behind a self-important heap of crap called Montlucon.”
Alain decided not to commit himself to a comment at this stage. Instead he rose, offered his chair to her and went into the cottage to get another one for himself.
“ Would you like a glass of wine?”
She accepted and he opened a bottle and brought two glasses which he set on a small table between them. They sat in almost companionable silence for a short while, looking at the view and sipping their drinks.
She looked at him. “You’ve only just arrived from Paris?”
“ Three days ago.”
“ I’ve been here nearly a week. I’m doing a series of articles for ‘ l’Observateur’ on Cathar castles. I understand they intend to bring out a guide book later. It has given me a chance to look around.”
“ That seems a good idea.”
“ I’ve already visited four of the chateaux. I’ve been to see a nearby one today - one that nobody seems to know anything about - I suppose because it’s in a remote location. It’s called le Bezu.”
“ Really?” He was aware of a quickening of his pulse and hoped it didn’t show on his face.
“ Yes. It’s already swarming with archaeologists.” She had an infectious grin. “Well - six actually.”
“ Oh, my god!” He couldn’t prevent the exclamation slipping out. “What are they doing there?”
“ I don’t know - looking for some ancient remains of the Cathars, I believe. What do archaeologists ever look for? Old bones and pottery, it seems to me. But they’ve got a famous woman with them. Ever heard of Jacqueline Blontard?”
“ The one in the television series?”
“ That’s the one. Well, she’s leading this dig so I should think it’s reckoned to be quite important. I expect it’ll be her next series.” She suddenly caught the expression on his face. “Are you worried about having real archaeologists here?”
“ Not the archaeologists. But I don’t particularly welcome the prospect of television crews swarming all over the area.”
She laughed. “Don’t worry. There are no television cameras around - at least, not yet. And they’re not interested in the Templars. They told me the tales linking le Bezu to the Templars are purest myth.”
“ Who told you I was interested in the Templars?”
“ My father, of course.” It seemed to him that there was a slight withdrawal of the good humour he had previously enjoyed. “You must understand, monsieur, that I am his closest confidante since my mother died. You don’t have any need to worry. I know how to keep a secret.” She tossed her hair back. ” Mon dieu, I’ve been told enough in my time.”
He ignored her attempts to reassure him. For now he was more interested in what was going on at le Bezu . “How long are they going to be there?” he asked,
He had been sitting outside his rented cottage three days after taking up residence and enjoying the evening sun when he first saw a tall woman striding up the road towards him. He guessed she was in her early forties. She was slim and looked fit for her age. She was dressed in a grey linen shirt and dark blue, tight-fitting jeans. Her dark hair was drawn back in a tight ponytail and she wore very little make-up. However she was a striking woman.
She stopped in front of him and appraised him carefully.
“ Alain Hebert?” she asked.
“ Yes.”
“ I am Cesar Renoir.” She held out her hand.
He rose in surprise and took it. The handshake she gave him was firm.
“ I was expecting a man,” he confessed.
“ I know. The Christian name fools most people. When my father gave me the name I think it was because he was disappointed I wasn’t a boy. But I’ve been able to live up to it since - in my way.”
“ Your father?”
“ I believe you have already met him. He was that pathetic wreck you saw in Marseilles with half his face cut away. Camille Renoir used to be a force to be reckoned with but now he hides behind a self-important heap of crap called Montlucon.”
Alain decided not to commit himself to a comment at this stage. Instead he rose, offered his chair to her and went into the cottage to get another one for himself.
“ Would you like a glass of wine?”
She accepted and he opened a bottle and brought two glasses which he set on a small table between them. They sat in almost companionable silence for a short while, looking at the view and sipping their drinks.
She looked at him. “You’ve only just arrived from Paris?”
“ Three days ago.”
“ I’ve been here nearly a week. I’m doing a series of articles for ‘ l’Observateur’ on Cathar castles. I understand they intend to bring out a guide book later. It has given me a chance to look around.”
“ That seems a good idea.”
“ I’ve already visited four of the chateaux. I’ve been to see a nearby one today - one that nobody seems to know anything about - I suppose because it’s in a remote location. It’s called le Bezu.”
“ Really?” He was aware of a quickening of his pulse and hoped it didn’t show on his face.
“ Yes. It’s already swarming with archaeologists.” She had an infectious grin. “Well - six actually.”
“ Oh, my god!” He couldn’t prevent the exclamation slipping out. “What are they doing there?”
“ I don’t know - looking for some ancient remains of the Cathars, I believe. What do archaeologists ever look for? Old bones and pottery, it seems to me. But they’ve got a famous woman with them. Ever heard of Jacqueline Blontard?”
“ The one in the television series?”
“ That’s the one. Well, she’s leading this dig so I should think it’s reckoned to be quite important. I expect it’ll be her next series.” She suddenly caught the expression on his face. “Are you worried about having real archaeologists here?”
“ Not the archaeologists. But I don’t particularly welcome the prospect of television crews swarming all over the area.”
She laughed. “Don’t worry. There are no television cameras around - at least, not yet. And they’re not interested in the Templars. They told me the tales linking le Bezu to the Templars are purest myth.”
“ Who told you I was interested in the Templars?”
“ My father, of course.” It seemed to him that there was a slight withdrawal of the good humour he had previously enjoyed. “You must understand, monsieur, that I am his closest confidante since my mother died. You don’t have any need to worry. I know how to keep a secret.” She tossed her hair back. ” Mon dieu, I’ve been told enough in my time.”
He ignored her attempts to reassure him. For now he was more interested in what was going on at le Bezu . “How long are they going to be there?” he asked,
Similar Books
