“All will be well again, you will see. I promise.”
After a moment, I found my voice. “I’m sorry. I’ve failed in finding your treasure. And I’m sorry my brother and I brought this tragedy to your house.”
Madame shrugged. “Where there is tragedy, joy will follow. And where there is joy, tragedy will follow. There’s always passion and pain and death and birth. That’s what opera has taught me more than anything. One can’t control the fates or change destiny, nor can one escape tragedy or court comedy. All you can do, Delphine, is sing.”
She took my hand. Between us, Mathieu slept on.
“And your painting is my singing. Do you understand? The book . . .” She shrugged her shoulders. “It’s an old woman’s folly. My diversion. I think I should take up love again instead. Jules has suggested we take a voyage to Egypt. He knows of a sage there who might have a copy of the same book.”
“And there you are, back to the book,” I said.
She laughed. It was infectious. I joined her. The sound was so strange after the long, sad hours we’d just endured.
“Delphine,” she said, and nodded toward Mathieu.
I looked at him. His eyes were open, and he was staring right at me.
“Mathieu?” I whispered.
He gave me one of his half smiles, mouthed something I couldn’t understand, and then closed his eyes again. In seconds, he was asleep once more. Madame touched his forehead with her hand.
“No fever. All will be well again, you see? As I promised.”
My relief was almost overwhelming. I felt tears fill my eyes.
Madame got up, stretched, and went to the window. “And the rain has stopped,” she said, and twisted open the handle, letting in the fresh, damp air. “At last.”
Even though the wound appeared stanched, there was no fever, and Mathieu had regained consciousness, Madame and I took turns sleeping for a couple of hours and then sitting by Mathieu’s side. The rest of the night was uneventful. Dawn broke, and we kept up our vigil until Mathieu awoke at seven in the morning. Madame called down for strong coffee and helped Mathieu sit up so she could check his wound.
“A very clean cut. And not showing any signs of infection. I put a salve on it,” she told him. “But when you get back to Paris, you might want a physician to make sure it’s all right.”
Mathieu nodded, thanked her, and then looked at me. “Last night is a bit foggy. I remember Eugène attacking Sebastian. Then the rest of it is a blur. Except for you. You got in his way, didn’t you? You took a chance and tried to stop him.”
“She certainly did,” Madame said. “And thank God she did. That knife was aimed right at your spine. I can’t even imagine what—” She shook her head and closed her eyes for a moment.
Mathieu was staring at me. “And there’s a particular thing that keeps going around in my head. It doesn’t make any sense. ‘I didn’t hurt you. I didn’t hurt you. It wasn’t me.’ Did you say that?”
“I did.”
“Why?”
There was so much to explain. And he was still groggy from the draft Madame had given him to help with his pain.
“Years ago, I saw us in a drawing I did before I left Paris. I thought from what I saw that I was going to kill you. It was this very scene . . . but I misunderstood what I’d drawn.”
He reached out and took my hand, wincing as he did. “You saved me, mon chat. You’ve been trying to save me all along, haven’t you?”
Tears filled my eyes.
I’d fallen victim to my own ability. Maman had warned me so often over the years to treat my ability with respect but never to worship at its altar. I was only human, with a soup?on of extra ability, she’d said. A human capable of making serious mistakes.
“And you’ll go on doing it, won’t you?” he asked, as his fingers worried the ring on my right hand, feeling its crescent.
My tears spilled over. I couldn’t say anything, but I could nod. And I did. Vigorously.
*
By later that afternoon, the roads were passable. The police had been called to deal with Eugène. Jules was staying on. Picasso, Cocteau, and Anna were leaving.
After we all said our good-byes, Madame told us she was going to see to dinner and insisted that I go for a walk. She said I needed to stretch after the night spent sitting vigil. She was right. It would also give me a chance to try to find my way back to Gaspard’s cottage and say good-bye to him.
I left the chateau and had just set off when I heard my brother call out.
“Delphine, wait!”
I turned around to see him running toward me.
“We need to talk,” Sebastian said, reaching out, taking my hand, trying to hold me there.
I pulled free. Looking into his eyes, I realized how fully my unconditional love for him had kept me from seeing his true colors. Had my brother done what Eugène accused him of? Was Sebastian really that cold? That manipulative?
Sebastian was my beloved twin. He had been my savior. But if what Eugène had said was true, Sebastian had betrayed me in the most egregious way. And I had let him.
“Why did you lie to me, Sebastian? To me? I showed you the letter from Thérèse Bruis, and I told you I was so devastated that I was leaving Paris, and you promised to take care of it. I believed you would do the right thing—”
The air around him was colored the pale, icy blue of panic. Sebastian began to protest, but I didn’t want to hear any of his sly excuses. I had to finish, or I’d never say it all, and it had to be said. My twin had to be confronted with his transgressions. And acknowledge them. To me and then our parents. It was the only possible path to his real salvation.
“I never dreamed you were scheming behind my back. The irony is that the letter wasn’t even the real reason I left. I used that as my excuse because I couldn’t tell you the truth. It was Mathieu. I was in love with him. Wonderfully, desperately in love. But then I drew his portrait. What I saw made me think I would be responsible for his death if I stayed with him. That’s why I left Paris. To protect Mathieu.”
“But Delphine, I can explain why—”
I walked away from him, not willing to hear his rationalization in that moment. There were things to say and straighten out. He’d abused my talent. Bled at least one poor woman dry trying to extort money from her and in effect been responsible for her death. What else had he done?
I kept going. The ground was soggy beneath my boots. I was glad I’d put them on. It would take days for the earth to dry out.
I made it through the gate and into the forest. The rain had swollen the stream and turned it into a rushing river. The sound of the waterfall, which had been lovely and lilting the first time I’d passed by almost a week ago, was now a rampage.