Chapter 8

‘The coach has arrived, mademoiselle. Finish breaking your fast and I shall see to the arrangements.’

Unsure of how much time she had, but hastened by Bastien’s words, Sidonie quickly swallowed the last few mouthfuls of porridge. A raisin stuck in her throat, dislodged only after several mouthfuls of ale. It would be a long day and she was already exhausted. The sleep she’d had on the side of the road had been better than last night. Having slept in the same bed in the same house for ten and five years, she had not been able to get used to the unfamiliar sounds as the inn settled for the night. She was also unused to sharing a room, let alone a bed with another body, and Flora’s snores, although soft and gentle, were as loud as thunder to her. When she did sleep, she dreamed of those men pushing their way into the room. Both wore the face of Hubert Dampmartin.

Pushing her bowl away, Sidonie went out to the inn’s yard. The more leagues she put between herself and Hubert, the easier she would feel.

She squinted at the bright morning sun, raising her hand to shield her eyes. The innkeeper spoke to a man dressed in long white breeches and a jerkin of deep blue with gold trim around the collar and cuffs. Atop his head, he wore a narrow-brimmed hat in a matching shade of blue.

‘My postillion came down with the grippe the morning we left Paris,’ Sidonie heard the coachman explain. ‘I could not have him sneezing and coughing foulness all over my passengers, even though I only have the two. Soon to be three. I shall have to make do without. Ah, good morning, mademoiselle. I believe you are requiring transport east?’

Sidonie returned the greeting. ‘You travel to Dole?’

He lifted a heavily calloused hand and scratched the back of his neck. ‘As far as Besancon, through Dijon and Dole.’

‘That would suit me well.’

They discussed the fare and once the coin had changed hands, the coachman said they would depart once her bag was secured to the vehicle.

‘Bastien!’ the innkeeper cried. ‘Where is that boy? I shall send him to fetch mademoiselle’s bag.’

When the boy did not materialise, Sidonie said she would collect her own bag. Hurrying back through the inn to Flora’s room, she caught a glimpse of Olivier from the corner of her eye. He hailed her from a table, but she did not stop, forging on to the bedchamber. Having retrieved her bag, she closed the door.

‘Let me assist you, mademoiselle.’ Olivier appeared beside her with an outstretched hand.

‘I would not wish to trouble you,’ she remarked, slightly irritated by his presence.

‘It is no trouble,’ he said with a smile. ‘I depart on the same coach, for I am bound for that venerable institution of learning – or so my father believes – the University of Dole.’ His hand closed over hers, gently taking the weight of her bag. ‘Shall we?’

When Olivier approached the coachman, the man shook his head. ‘I cannot take a fourth passenger, not without a postillion.’ He looked to the innkeeper. ‘Monsieur Plourde, do you have a boy you could spare?’

The innkeeper shook his head. ‘I only have Bastien.’

‘Coachman, I will be your postillion.’

All eyes turned to Olivier, taking in his bonnet, striped doublet and the shiny silver buckles on his boots.

‘Do you have any experience as a postboy, monsieur?’ the coachman asked. ‘The work is hard. For a gentleman of your ... position, it wouldn’t be wise.’

Olivier had all the markers of good breeding. His clothing, while beginning to show signs of wear, was unmistakably of good quality. He was certainly not a labourer, farmer or a servant. Sidonie silently agreed with the coachman’s assessment that it would be inappropriate.

Olivier, meanwhile, had been reassuring the coachman that he was only as he presented himself, nothing more. Nor was he afraid of hard work.

‘If you are certain, monsieur?’

Olivier confirmed that he was, and that seemed to settle the matter. Once the luggage had been secured and Olivier had mounted one of the horses harnessed to the carriage, they were ready to depart.

When Sidonie entered the carriage, there were two passengers already inside, occupying the forward-facing seats – a dour-faced woman of ample proportions and a man wearing an overly large bonnet. The latter smiled as Sidonie took her seat.

‘Good day,’ said the man. ‘What a perfectly splendid day to commence a journey, wouldn’t you agree?’ As the coach pulled out of the inn yard, the man introduced himself and his wife as Monsieur and Madame Honoré Tachard.

‘Do you travel to Besancon, mademoiselle?’ Monsieur Tachard asked.

‘No, I travel to Dole.’

‘Ah, splendid place. Quiet compared to a city as large as Paris, but not without its charm. Madame Tachard and I have visited often; we have family who settled in the area.’

‘Must you reveal every aspect of our lives to strangers within moments of meeting them?’ Madame Tachard chastised.

The man looked flustered. ‘My apologies. Of course, you are right.’

‘I don’t like too much noise when I travel,’ Madame Tachard said. ‘I feel a megrim coming on.’

Monsieur Tachard immediately sprang into action, reaching under his seat and producing a bag. He rummaged through its contents until he found a small bottle, which he handed to his wife. ‘Your tonic.’

She accepted the bottle without thanks and took two small sips. The scent of alcohol filled the air. Madame Tachard promptly closed her eyes and started to snore.

Sidonie watched as Madame Tachard’s head lolled onto her husband’s shoulder. Too many years of living in relative isolation with only her uncle for company had meant that she was unaccustomed to sharing her space with others. She must adapt; there was no other choice she was willing to consider. The coach was preferable to walking the entire distance on foot, she reasoned with herself. She sighed. It would be a long eight days.

‘Where do you go?’ Sidonie asked Olivier.

On the first night of their journey, they had stopped at a coaching inn considerably smaller than Les Trois Chats. All but one of the rooms was occupied, and the innkeeper had asked if Sidonie would be willing to share his daughter’s bedchamber. She had obliged, only too happy to spare the coin, while offering a silent prayer that the girl did not snore. The man, afeared of causing offence, had expressed his gratitude by providing her with a meal for no charge. While sitting down to dinner with Monsieur and Madame Tachard, Sidonie had waited for Olivier to join them, but he could not be found. He reappeared the next morning, waiting for them by the coach. Each night since had been the same. When they arrived at a coaching inn for the night, Olivier would vanish as soon as the luggage had been seen to. Where he slept and took his meals, Sidonie could not say; the only words they had exchanged during the daylight hours had been the usual pleasantries while the coach stopped at the side of the road for a comfort break or to change horses.

Her curiosity piqued, Sidonie had wanted to question him as to his whereabouts, but not in the company of others, which had proved difficult as Madame Tachard had taken it upon herself to act as Sidonie’s unofficial guardian. ‘Young women,’ Madame Tachard had said, ‘must be led lest they stray.’

Even now, Madame Tachard and her husband were waiting for Sidonie to accompany them inside the inn, but she told them to go on ahead without her, that she would join them shortly. Madame Tachard narrowed her eyes slightly at the sight of Sidonie with Olivier, but she took her husband’s arm and went indoors.

Olivier stood with his arms crossed, leaning against the side of the coach, clearly in no hurry to go anywhere. ‘You were saying, Mademoiselle Montot?’

He thought himself charming and Sidonie neither wanted to entertain nor encourage any attention from the man. But she had to know. ‘When we sup, you are not there. If you sleep in the inn, I have not seen you. Where do you go?’

Olivier’s eyes widened and a smile slowly spread across his face. His teeth looked especially white, almost wolfish, against the darkness of the evening. ‘You worry for me?’

A blush crept up her neck. ‘No more than I would for Monsieur or Madame Tachard. It is simple curiosity.’

‘You wonder where I sleep?’ Olivier asked softly.

They were not alone in the yard. Two ostlers moved back and forth, putting away the coaches and horses for the night. The door to the inn did not remain closed for long, with people coming and going, spilling light and sound into the yard.

Olivier’s eyes never left hers as he waited for an answer.

‘Will you tell me or not?’ she huffed in irritation. ‘I shall not tarry here all night.’

‘I would not hear of it. I shall join you tonight, and then all will be revealed.’

‘You make it sound ominous.’

‘I make no promises either way.’

A wall of heat greeted Sidonie when she opened the door to the inn, a marked change from the coolness of the night. With Olivier at her back, she navigated through the packed room to find Monsieur and Madame Tachard. They had secured a table adjacent to the central hearth, which pleased Sidonie for it hid the flush in her cheeks.

‘Did you hear?’ A ruddy-faced woman with straw-coloured hair dropped hot plates of meat and vegetables and cups of wine sweetened with sugar on their table. ‘A girl was killed. Eaten! By a werewolf.’

At the mention of a werewolf, Sidonie felt her breath catch in her throat. She had not heard anyone speak of werewolves in an age. Not since her father had been executed. There had been witch trials in Paris and the surrounding villages in recent years but never werewolf trials. They were an anomaly, as rare as snow before the Feast of All Saints.

‘What did that woman say, Honoré?’ Madame Tachard leaned closer to her husband.

‘Werewolf, my dear.’

‘Here?’ Madame Tachard looked about as if expecting the creature to materialise.

‘About fifty leagues east of here,’ the serving woman said. ‘In Dole.’

‘Dole?’ Madame Tachard repeated, turning to Sidonie. ‘That is your destination, is it not?’

‘It is,’ Sidonie said, putting down her spoon.

‘Bollocks!’ shouted a man close to Sidonie’s ear, making her flinch. ‘It was no werewolf; it was a regular wolf that done it.’

‘Rot is what you’re talking, and I trust you to keep a civil tongue around decent folks!’ the serving woman retorted. ‘You think with as many werewolves as we’ve had that we don’t know what one looks like?’

‘I think as many as half of those “werewolves” were just wolves too.’ The man folded his arms across his chest.

‘What else could have stripped chunks of flesh from her bones, leaving a trail of blood leading into the forest?’

‘A wolf! That’s what I’m saying!’

‘Oh, you’re impossible! They say it was as big as a donkey,’ the woman said, her eyes wide.

‘If you believe that, then you’ve got the mind of a donkey,’ the man said.

The serving woman scoffed and slapped his shoulder before tutting her way back to the kitchen.

Sidonie had kept her eyes on her plate throughout the exchange, but when she raised them, she found Olivier staring at her.

‘Is something troubling you?’ he asked.

‘Not at all. Just a little tired.’ She continued eating, but she had lost her taste for the meal.

‘Shall I tell you a tale to cheer you up?’

Her ears pricked up at that. ‘I know a great many tales, Monsieur Chéreau. What is the subject of yours?’

‘I draw from my own experiences, my adventures through the world.’

‘Does that mean you draw them from life? They are true tales?’

‘In a manner. The truth is not always in the words but in the meaning behind them.’

‘I could not agree more.’

Olivier leaned back in his chair with his hands laced behind his head. ‘Am I in the presence of a connoisseur?’

Her smile faltered. ‘You mock me, monsieur.’

‘I do no such thing,’ Olivier said. ‘It would honour me if you would hear my tale and give an honest account of my telling.’

She hesitated before answering. ‘It would please me to do so.’

‘And it pleases me to hear it. Be sure to pay close attention to my words, my meaning and, most importantly, my body. For when I perform, I give to my audience all parts of myself.’

It was an audacious statement, and before she could raise any objection, he departed from the table.

‘Where is Monsieur Chéreau going?’ Monsieur Tachard asked.

Sidonie could not say, for the inn was full and she’d had no opportunity to see which direction he had gone. Until she heard his voice.

‘Mesdames and messieurs!’

Even from her seated position, she now saw Olivier clearly, standing atop the next table, his arms spread wide. Her eyes were only one pair of a score watching the young man.

‘Gather around to hear the tale of the Beast of Auvergne. It is a tale most chilling. I would recommend all mesdames of a delicate disposition – and messieurs too, for that matter – to cover your ears and your mouths lest you gasp in terror!’

‘What is he doing?’ Madame Tachard said, aghast.

‘I believe he is telling a tale,’ Sidonie replied.

‘Let me take you back ten and four years to the village of Apchon in the highlands of Auvergne, in the heart of France. Monsieur?’ Olivier broke to address a member of the crowd. ‘You already look confused. This does not bode well, for the story will only increase in complexity. Try to keep up.’

The crowd laughed, as did the target of the jest.

‘It is in Apchon that our story begins, on a dark and cruel night. A man, a seigneur of some wealth and means – madame, do not get excited, for the man has a wife. As I said, the seigneur was out walking. On his walk, he met a huntsman, a man he knew well. The huntsman had a brace of fine fowl by which the seigneur was most taken. He negotiated a price, and the huntsman agreed to deliver the fowl to his chateau. Leaving the seigneur to continue with his walk, the huntsmen went to the chateau. On the way, he was viciously and violently attacked by a beast most foul – a wolf!’

Sidonie shifted in her chair at the mention of a wolf. Although unsettled, she had to admit that Olivier had a talent for storytelling. The patrons of the inn hung on his every word.

‘No, monsieur, it was not a dog. How do I know? Because a man who finds a dog is not a tale worthy of coin! A wolf is more costly. As I said, the huntsman reached for his arquebus and aimed. But oh, cruel fate, he missed! Madame, are you laughing? I can assure you there is nothing humorous about a man prematurely firing his weapon. Where was I? Oh, yes – tossing aside the useless weapon, he lunged for the wolf. Man and wolf fought for what seemed like an age. A snap of teeth here, a well-aimed kick there.’ Olivier mimicked the actions as he spoke, his body gilded by the firelight. ‘Finally, as both were nearing exhaustion, the wolf pounced and sank its teeth into the man’s leg.’

‘Oh my!’ exclaimed a woman with a rather large hat and an especially red face. She began to fan herself.

‘Madame, please. I work alone,’ Olivier said. ‘It was the opportunity the huntsman needed. He grabbed the wolf by the ears and with a feat of dexterity he managed to draw forth his keen knife and sever one of the wolf’s paws. Now, monsieur, do not squirm so, for I did warn you!’ Olivier had directed this last comment to a man seated in front of Sidonie. Although it was not the man to whom he looked – it was to Sidonie.

Olivier stepped down from the table and prowled through the crowd, his eyes never leaving hers. He still had the attention of everyone in the room, and they parted easily to give him space.

‘The beast fled, howling into the night. The huntsman, wounded, bleeding from his injury, put the paw into his pocket and limped to the seigneur’s chateau,’ he said, reaching Sidonie. ‘He pounded on the door.’ Olivier knocked on her table. ‘And was relieved to see his friend on the other side. Seated together before a roaring fire, the huntsman took the paw from his pocket to show the gentleman.’

He paused and gestured for Sidonie’s hand. She crossed her arms and shook her head, the gesture resulting in a chorus of boos from the crowd. Olivier kept his palm outstretched, mouth closed. With a sigh, she placed her gloved hand in his and he continued the story.

‘Lo and behold, it was no longer the paw of a wolf, but the hand of a woman! With a gold ring upon one of her fingers.’

He raised Sidonie’s hand and before she could snatch it away, he pressed his lips to the material that covered it. The crowd laughed as she pulled it back, cheeks blazing. Olivier winked at her.

‘Yes, mesdames and messieurs, it was not the appendage of an animal but that of a human, such as you or I, that the huntsman now held. The seigneur peered curiously at it. Those fingers, that ring – they were familiar to him. And why? Because the hand belonged to the seigneur’s own wife! And who should arrive at the chateau that very moment, mesdames and messieurs? Why, none other than the woman herself, nursing a bandaged arm. The seigneur compelled his wife to show her wound, and when he unwrapped the cloth, it was revealed ... Are you ready for this? Shall I pause for a moment of quiet reflection?’

A clamour of voices shouted no, Monsieur Tachard’s included. His wife slapped his arm.

‘Her hand was missing! Mesdames and messieurs, this was the woman he shared a home with, a life, a bed. And it was she who was the wolf. It was she who had attacked the huntsman!’

‘Oh, that was well done,’ Monsieur Tachard remarked.

‘The seigneur sent for the gendarmes to take his wife away, where, following a quick trial, she was consigned to the flames. But our story does not end there! Do you remember our brave huntsman and the bite he sustained to his leg? Not one week after the she-wolf’s execution, the huntsman again walked into the highlands. The clouds cleared and the moon was full and the huntsman felt power flood through his body. A power not of this earth. His last thought as a man was one of terror. His body twisted. His limbs stretched. Fur sprouted from his body, and claws from his hands and feet. His first thought as a beast, his only thought, was for the taste of hot, sweet blood. After that night, the huntsman was never heard from again. Some say that on a dark night, if you listen carefully, you can hear the call of the werewolf. And if you are not careful, mesdames and messieurs, he will call to you.’

The inn had gone silent, save for the crackle from the hearth. Olivier threw back his head and howled, and the crowd burst into raucous applause. Men stomped their feet and beat their tankards on the table in appreciation.

Sidonie had gone pale.

‘Thank you, thank you, you are too kind,’ Olivier said, removing his bonnet with a flourish. ‘If you enjoyed that story, my name is Olivier Chéreau and I would humbly accept any token of your appreciation, no matter how small. For as a woman once said to me, it is not the size but the intent that matters.’

While Olivier collected coins and accolades, the mood at Sidonie’s table was less favourable.

‘Well,’ said Madame Tachard. ‘That was an altogether unpleasant interlude. The young man seems rather in love with the sound of his voice. And the way he touched you, mademoiselle! I should call for the gendarmes.’

‘There is no need for that, my dear. It was all in good fun,’ Monsieur Tachard said. ‘I rather enjoyed it myself. Our postillion has hidden talents, it seems. What did you think of the performance, mademoiselle?’

‘Don’t pester her with questions, Honoré! No doubt she found the whole thing rather vulgar and distasteful.’ Madame Tachard nodded in agreement with herself.

Olivier returned to his seat and began transferring the coins from his bonnet to his purse. ‘Vulgar and distasteful? A high compliment indeed! Mademoiselle, what is your learned assessment?’

All three were looking at Sidonie expectantly. In truth, she’d found the story chilling, and it brought to mind memories that haunted her, memories of a burned house and a life torn apart by a baseless accusation. Or at least, she’d always hoped it was baseless. If she did not wish to invite speculation, she would have to distance her past from her present. Werewolves were only the stuff of tales for one who has never lived the experience.

‘I enjoyed your performance, monsieur. All but the part involving myself. Your choice of subject intrigues me. In light of the speculation around the death of the child, did you not think it unwise to tell a werewolf tale?’

‘The thought had occurred to me,’ Olivier admitted. ‘But it is in the darkness where fear turns into hate. To bring imaginary things into the light is to take away their power.’

‘Werewolves and witches are beings of the Devil. If we mock them, we will not fear them as we should,’ Madame Tachard chimed in.

‘Well said, my dear,’ Monsieur Tachard said. ‘A good tale, young man, but you mock God Himself when you make light of evil.’

Olivier returned his now empty bonnet to his head. ‘We live in a cold and cruel world. Tales serve not simply to entertain but to give us a new way of seeing the world – a new perspective, an opportunity to look beyond what we can see, hear, smell, taste and touch. To think as others do.’

‘You believe your tale accomplished all of these things?’ Sidonie asked.

Olivier leaned in closer. ‘I do. Can you tell me with honesty that you did not feel the pain and fear of the huntsman? Or the betrayal of the seigneur? Did your heart not race and your breathing not still as the tale wound to its dramatic end?’

The memory of fire tugged at the scars on her palm. ‘I did not need the benefit of your story to feel those things.’

His brows came together in confusion, and she knew he would ask her the meaning of her words and she did not want to explain.

‘Why here? Why tonight? Why did you not tell your story on any other night of our journey?’ she asked.

‘Why, because of you, of course.’

‘Me?’

‘You insisted that I come inside, to eat and sleep. Not content to have me bedded down in the stable as I have done for the previous five nights. Well, I needed a way to pay for this excellent repast and for the bed on which I will rest my head tonight.’

‘You have no coin.’ Suddenly it all made sense. She had been so concerned over her own monetary limitations that she had not seen similar behaviour in Olivier.

‘A man does not like to be reminded that he is short of coin. But do not be embarrassed on my behalf, for I make do. A purse awaits me in Dole, to be delivered upon commencement of my studies at the university, as per my father’s instructions.’

‘He did not pay your passage?’

‘He would not pay it a second time.’ Olivier sighed. ‘My father has very strong views on how I should live my life. If I obey him, I am rewarded. If not, well, I am as you see.’

‘You had no choice but to attend university?’

‘It was either that or marriage,’ he laughed. ‘And that seemed the lesser of the two evils.’

Although Olivier claimed he felt no embarrassment at the topic of his finances, Sidonie did feel uncomfortable and wished to volunteer her own experience to show she meant no judgement. ‘I confess,’ she said softly, ‘I find myself in similar circumstances.’

‘You too have a purse awaiting you in Dole?’ Olivier asked.

‘No, I have family. An aunt, the Baroness de Montargent. My uncle and guardian recently passed, and my aunt was kind enough to invite me to visit her.’

‘A baroness?’ A flicker of interest danced in his eyes. ‘Mademoiselle Montot, you are full of surprises. When you are settled, I would very much like to pay a call on you.’

‘I am sure your visit would be welcome. I bid you goodnight, monsieur.’

‘One moment. I have another question, mademoiselle.’

‘Yes?’

He looked into her eyes, waiting long seconds before asking his question. ‘How did you find my body during my performance?’

Unable to stop herself, Sidonie laughed, then pushed herself back from the table. ‘Goodnight, Monsieur Chéreau.’

‘Goodnight, Mademoiselle Montot.’