Page 20 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

‘They say Hitler is Catholic.’

‘See! Proves my point exactly. Says one thing yet then goes and does another!’

Michel yawned again.

‘You need food,’ Lucien said. ‘Come. We eat, we drink, and we tell some stories. What else is there to do around here?’

As he spoke, a gust of wind dragged a cloud of dirt around the statue and the Madame slammed the wooden window shutters, announcing the closure of the café, and thus the whole village. It was decided Michel would stay with Lucien.

Lucien did not live far, and Michel thought at first that he was being taken back into the woods and towards the river. ‘There were two cats there?’ he told Lucien, pointing at the thick branches. ‘Two, identical. They had blue eyes, I think, or green, and they watched me. Sorry.’ He stopped. ‘I sound foolish. The wine, you see, and little food.’

‘You saw the twins,’ Lucien said.

‘The twins?’

‘My cats. Twins, as I said. Same litter, the same markings, and as villainous as each other. They come and purr by the fire for a while, but then, my friend, they plot and scheme to make my life difficult. One minute I go to sit down and one of them runs underneath my foot, so I fall! But I look over and there they sit, together, their tails moving in time with each other. I know they are laughing at me; I know! But my wife, she thinks I’m mad. One day, though, one day, she shall learn the truth!’ Lucien’s voice had taken on a distinct edge that set the dog Coquette howling along with her master. ‘See?’ Lucien pointed at his dog. ‘She knows. She understands.’

Michel wanted to tell him that he mistrusted cats too, but his tongue was thick and heavy, his mind swam with tiredness, and the pain in his ribs had returned, reminding him of the afternoon’s adventures.

‘Not far now,’ Lucien said. ‘This heat makes the strongest of men wilt.’

‘It is not just the heat.’

‘Then it is your journey.’

A minute or two later, Lucien rounded the bend to reveal a tidy farmhouse with stables and barns to the rear, vegetable patches to the right, and to the left neat rows of vines that continued for a mile or so.

‘A few vines?’ Michel asked.

‘Just a few.’

Before they reached the green-painted front door, it was swung open by a squat woman with white hair, cheeks as rosy as apples, and eyes as blue as the sky. ‘Lucien!’ she commanded. At her tone, Coquette ran to her and sat at her heel, giving a perfunctory lick to the woman’s bare calves by way of apology. ‘Lucien!’ she shouted once more.

‘This, Michel, is my wife – my darling, darling wife, Isabelle.’ Lucien took the worn cap from his head and bowed deeply, as if visiting royalty.

‘Get up, you old fool! He has been drinking again at the café. I can tell. Why did you let him drink?’ she asked Michel.

‘I didn’t,’ he muttered.

Isabelle looked Michel over, head to toe. ‘You’re not from here?’

‘No.’

‘A city. Paris, Marseille?’

‘Paris.’

Suddenly, Isabelle’s face softened. ‘Paris is my love. I should have married it and not this brute. Come. Come in, Michel. I’ll get you some wine.’

‘And me?’ Lucien asked.

‘You have had quite enough.’

Michel followed Isabelle into a warm kitchen, where pots and pans bubbled on the stove and the back door was open to let the last of the day’s air seep inside as the sun began its lazy descent.

‘Sit, sit,’ Isabelle demanded, indicating a chair at the wooden kitchen table.

‘You see? They are here again! Causing havoc!’ Lucien appeared in the kitchen, blood-red wine spilt down his shirt, a bottle in one hand, cork in the other, and the twin cats, pebble-coloured, swarming around his ankles. ‘They did it on purpose.’