Haidée took the gravel path from the observatory to the village. She had decided to wear her walking boots--a sturdy pair of black footwear that she had ordered from an exclusive cobbler who had set up shop on the banks of the Seine, just outside the squalor of Paris. She was also wearing a yellow walking dress and a thick brown jacket which hid the ruffles of canary colored lace on her bodice. The outfit was completed with a bonnet that had a wide brim to shield her eyes and a pair of white gloves. The air was crisp although it was still somewhat overcast like the day of the funeral.
The observatory was not far from the village of Mont Saint Filan. It was perhaps less than a mile according to the gravel path. Usually, Haidée did not walk around Paris--she took a hired carriage instead--whenever she needed one. Here, on an island, ordering a carriage was too over the top considering everything was within walking distance. The only reason one would rather ride a carriage would be if one didn't want to get any exercise.
Haidée had nothing against exercise--as long as she didn't have to exert too much effort. Why run when one could walk from one point to another? And she was in no hurry to get anywhere--not since she was on vacation. An enforced vacation.
Approximately five days prior to her arrival to Étretat, the coastal resort town that was the main land connection to Mont Saint Filan, Haidée had been ensconced in her Paris town house wondering if she was slowly going mad.
The headaches had been severe and the strange waking visions that she got when the headaches were especially acute were at the least, disturbing. She had told Monsieur Signe, the director of the theatre, about them and he had brushed it off as her overwrought nerves.
"Pah, pistol fights and bloody sword wounds," the director had scoffed. "That is nothing worse than a particularly exciting bit of drama on stage. Although I must admit that the rabble has gotten quite restless lately."
They had been sitting at a discrete café overlooking the Seine River--it was a private table, away from prying eyes. Haidée had managed a lofty smile at Signe's blithe comment even as she sipped her drink--a poppy wine substituted for the red. At the time, she had felt quite lucid although now she wondered if she had looked too worn out to Signe for him to have made the suggestion of vacation.
"It's been a week since the play has closed and I haven't scheduled anything until next spring, unfortunately."
"You were forced to reschedule to next spring," Haidée had murmured. "What were you thinking when you had us open that satire on the storming of the Bastille? That is too recent--the wound in the public heart is still too raw. Of course, there would be a backlash."
Signe had given a disgruntled huff. "How was I to know that the French mind was still so conservative? Liberty, they say, and yet they don't practice what they preach!"
"At least you can afford to close for the winter season."
"Yes, because the theatre is still funded by certain wealthy patrons who don't care what sort of controversy is stirred up." He had paused for a moment before saying, "Speaking of controversy, what of those letters that you had been receiving?"
She had taken another sip of her tonic to fortify herself about thinking about those letters. They were threatening letters by rather irate theatre patrons about her last performance. But those letters weren't so bad that she would have been forced to hire a bodyguard. Or at least she didn't think so. "They haven't stopped, if that's what you're asking."
"All of this is just additional stress for you, my dear. I don't want you to be completely unhinged when spring arrives and our new play opens. Since the theatre itself is on a sabbatical right now, why don't you take a vacation yourself? Perhaps somewhere restful in the country."
She had shuddered at the suggestion. "Spare me that idea, Signe. I am no country girl. Farms don't have fashion or gossip. And you know I live on fashion and gossip."
"Sometimes there is such a thing as too much of a good thing."
And then one thing led to another and she had found herself packing two trunks and dismissing her house staff for the month. She took a coach out of the city with the final destination of Mont Saint Filan. Signe had somehow convinced her that the island off the coast of Normandy was an excellent vacation spot with all the advantages of the country and the amenities of the city.
"Just like that English city called Bath," Signe had said, "Except without those infernal hot springs."
Of course, Signe had never visited the place. He had based his recommendation from a friend of a friend. And after what she had gone through the past two days, she doubted that she would ever trust Signe's suggestions in the future.