Colophon
Copyright © 2006, S. Y. Affolee

A spider sewed at night
Without a light
Upon an arc of white.
If ruff it was of dame
Or shroud of gnome,
Himself, himself inform.
Of immortality
His strategy
Was physiognomy.
--Emily Dickinson 

^^^^
October 16, 1796
Part I

	Writers and poets claimed that one of the properties of poppy wine was to numb the senses and to give fleeting dreams more substance.  It had an altogether different effect on Haidée.  Yes, it eliminated her headache, but in the process it made her feel altogether more sensitive to reality.  At the moment, she couldn’t recall any of her dreams.  Although under the circumstances, it was hard to recall anything when her favorite pair of slippers from Paris was sinking into the mud.
	Haidée stood somewhat apart from the accident.  The traveling coach had gotten stuck in the muck that was the temporary causeway from the mainland to Mont Saint Filan.  The natural roadway which was studded with perilous traps of sinkholes and quicksand—one of which had ensnarled the back wheels of her transportation—was only revealed once a month when the full moon and the tides converged.  Briefly, Haidée looked away from the men struggling to push the coach out of the mud to glance at the hulking monolith that was her destination.
	The debris of broken shells and driftwood littered causeway led to an island shadowed in the late afternoon sun, its white cliffs burnished a dark copper in the light.  Further in the distance was the sea with its ominous glitter—a threat of its return. The stink of sea life vied with the screeching seagulls overhead for loudness.  Haidée watched one of the birds dig up a small clam from the exposed sediment and smash it onto a nearby rock to get into its contents.
	Two men were pushing the back of the coach—one lean, one fat.  The lean one said, “It’s almost there Felix.  Have the horses pull it a bit more to the left…”
	Felix the driver, a short wiry man with a wig that was a bit askew, clicked his tongue and grasped the reigns on a pair of grays nickering in annoyance.
	Haidée thought about helping, but getting further into the mud would ruin her dress.  And she doubted that the men would even allow her to even touch the coach at this point.  Instead, she concentrated on the bit of mud stubbornly clinging to the coach wheels.  Something seemed a little odd about its shade of brown; it didn’t match the rest of the soggy ground.
	“Excuse me, Messieurs, but don’t you notice that there’s something strange about this whole situation?” she said aloud.
	The fat man stopped for a moment to wipe his brow as the others continued working.  The powder from his wig was mixing with his sweat making his florid face appear even splotchier.  Maurice Ducos was a fellow vacationer who was going to meet up with some of his cronies on Mont Saint Filan for relaxation.  Ducos wore an exquisitely tailored brown velvet coat that was now splattered with mud, but he didn’t appear to notice that as he nodded to her in a condescending matter.  “Do not worry your pretty little head, Mademoiselle, we will get free before the tide comes in.”
	“I wasn’t exactly worried about the tide.”  Then she thought about the hat she was wearing.    “And I don’t have a little head,” she said after a pause.  The hat was another accessory that she had gotten in Paris—it was studded with brass buttons and trimmed in black satin that matched her slippers.  There was even a large ostrich feather on top.  The brim was long, shading most of her face.
	The lean man snorted and glared in her direction, the late afternoon light glinting gold on his spectacles.  He was the only man who wasn’t wearing a wig.  Instead, his dark hair was tied back in a queue, but the autumn wind was rapidly tugging strands loose.  “Only a fool wouldn’t be worried about the tide.  Pay no attention to the Mademoiselle, Ducos.  She’s drunk.”
	Haidée couldn’t quite remember the lean man’s name.  His last name was Renaud.  His first name was far more vague.  Jean? Jacques?  Jean-Jacques?  Who cared anyway?  She didn’t like him the first time she set eyes on him at the inn back on the mainland.  Something about him was off—although she couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was.  In comparison to Ducos, he was lean, but she had the impression that his overly large greatcoat was more of a deception.  Renaud was one of those men of science—a follower of the intellectual movement.  He was going to Mont Saint Filan to do some studies at its astronomical observatory which stood on a hill on the island.
	Perhaps that was it—this was the first time that she had encountered a man whose brain primarily resided between his ears and not elsewhere. 
	“What I mean is that the mud is different here.  It’s as if it’s deliberately trying to catch the wheels.  And it’s ruining my shoes.”
	“There are more important things than shoes,” Renaud replied.  “I have a more practical suggestion.  Why don’t we throw some of the trunks out to lighten the load?  We’ll start with Mademoiselle Avenall’s things.  Shoes and fancy dresses aren’t that necessary anyway.”
	She crossed her arms.  “Why don’t we throw your ego out first, Monsieur Renaud?  I think it’s far heavier than my luggage.”	
	“Ha!  Imagine that line coming from an actress.”
	“Children!” Felix said repressively.  The wiry man tried to frown reproachfully but he ended up looking like a comical gargoyle.  “Now is not the time to bicker.  Push a little more to the left and I’ll see if these equines will put in a bit more effort in getting the coach out of this muck.”
	Haidée wanted to stamp her foot and call them all names for ignoring her.  But the mud—darkening by the second, it seemed—warranted far more attention than an actress throwing a fit.  So instead, she pressed her lips together to prevent herself from making another remark and began drawing on the ground with the heel of her slippers.
	She swept her ankle around in a semi-circle and closed the arc before bisecting it with a line that pointed straight towards the mud covered coach wheels.  She whispered into the air and the temperature suddenly plummeted.  She wrapped her arms more tightly against herself as the dark patch of mud began to shrink and with a final push, the men rolled the coach out of the mud.
	Her head began to throb.
	“What did I tell you, Mademoiselle?” said Ducos triumphantly.  “We got the coach out of that quicksand and we have plenty of time to spare before the tide comes in.”
	“Not that much time,” Felix cut in.  “I suggest you three get on now.”
	She got on first as Ducos helped her into their conveyance.  When the coach was in motion once again, she rubbed her temples, wishing for her supplies that she had stuffed in one of her trunks.
	“Are you feeling well, Mademoiselle?” Ducos inquired.
	Haidée shook her head lightly.  “I just need a drink.”
	Renaud’s lip curled in sardonic response to her remark.  “Figures.”

^^^^

Part II

	Motion sickness was for the feeble-minded, or at least that was what Haidée believed before the coach had to traverse the thin path that zigzagged around up the cliffs of Mont Saint Filan.  She sat stiffly in her seat with fists clenched and eyes closed in mock sleep.  She silently swallowed, trying to keep the bile down in her unsettled stomach.  By the time they reached The Comorant, an inn in the island’s small village, she was ready to pitch over in a dead faint.
	“The place does look lively, doesn’t it?” said Renaud as he stepped out first to survey the surroundings.
	Haidée soon followed somewhat shakily.  The air outside blew coldly, hinting at the chilly night to come.  The setting sun washed the sky in a nauseous orange color.  She put a hand to her mouth and studiously averted her eyes from the scene above.  The inn was a three story stone building, whitewashed and trimmed with flower boxes at the windows.  Curtains were pulled aside revealing light within.  Snatches of conversation and music drifted outside.
	“I, for one, am looking forward to a hot bath and dinner,” announced Maurice Ducos.  The stout man marched to the front door and flung it open.  Haidée, Renaud, and the driver Felix followed behind him.
	The first impression that Haidée had of The Cormorant was that it was crowded and noisy.  If this was the kind of patronage that frequented the Rue de la Seine Theatre back in Paris, the director, Monsieur Signe would have thrown a tantrum.  An audience was supposed to be sober, attentive, and quiet.   But that didn’t mean that she didn’t like the crowd—just that she was uncomfortable being among the people instead of in front of them on a stage.
	“You’ve finally arrived!   And at the nick of time, as well.  They say it’s less than an hour until the tide comes in,” shouted someone from the crowd.  A slightly balding man, middling in height and in dark non-descript clothes detached himself from the milieu of the busy inn tavern and headed toward Ducos.  The two men clasped hands, apparently already well acquainted with each other.
	“What a surprise,” exclaimed Ducos.  “It seems as if the entire place is full tonight.  The locals?”
	“Oh no,” his friend replied with a wink.  “They all arrived with me earlier in the day.”
	“Hopefully there is still room…”
	“I reserved a bed already for you, my friend.”  Then the man glanced at the three persons trailing behind.  “You have companions?”
	“Other vacationers,” Ducos replied, placing an emphasis on the word “other.”
	Further back in the inn tavern was a counter where the innkeeper was busy playing bartender, plying out drinks to his customers.  He was a rather thin man with an enormous moustache and a stained apron, and he sent out a strange, inhospitable glare as the new travelers headed towards his location.
	“Monsieur Fasset,” said Ducos’ friend.  “Apparently you have some new customers.  I will be gracious and ask you for them, have you any extra rooms?”
	Fasset cleared his throat in irritation.  “No extra rooms.  Not unless you want to sleep in the courtyard.”
	Haidée put her hands on her hips.  “I am not sleeping in some courtyard.  Surely some of your customers would be so kind as to share some rooms to free up more spaces?”
	“I don’t think so,” the innkeeper replied.  “First come, first serve.  Unless you want to share a room with some of my other customers.”
	She huffed and couldn’t prevent herself from stomping a foot. “How rude!  I am not that kind of woman.”
	The innkeeper grunted.  “One wouldn’t think so except for that monstrosity on top of your head.  I usually don’t allow any of the demi-monde around in this establishment—not that there are any around here anyway.”
	“I am an actress,” said Haidée, her voice rising.  “And this monstrosity you speak of his my hat.  It is of the latest fashion in Paris.”
	“Bah, Paris,” Fasset said darkly.  “And I don’t make exceptions for actresses either.”
	“I’m afraid The Cormorant’s innkeeper thinks you’re too fast in either case,” Renaud told her, the edge of his mouth curved in amusement.  “And it probably doesn’t help that you look like you’re about to regurgitate your lunch.”
	She swirled around to pin Renaud with a haughty glare.  “Just wait until I regurgitate my lunch on you.”
	Ducos’ friend laughed.  “Monsieur, you must have a devil of a time trying to control your wife.”
	“My wife?” said Renaud with a horrified expression.  Haidée blanched at the man’s implication.  “She’s not my wife.”
	“Thank God,” she muttered under her breath.
	Felix shook his head.  “You needn’t worry about me.  I am staying with my sister and brother-in-law who live on the other side of the village.  I am sure they wouldn’t mind having extra guests, if they actually had any room.  They have a rather large family, I’m afraid.  Six children.”
	Haidée shuddered.  Even if Felix’s sister had room enough, she didn’t think she could stand having a vacation with children running underfoot.  She’d had enough bad experiences taking care of the brats of the well-to-do before she was fortunate to be discovered by Monsieur Signe to last her several lifetimes.
	“There is the observatory, though,” continued Felix.  “I heard that they sometimes take on guests that the astronomers invite or when some of the dignitaries from the government come to visit.  I am sure that they have some extra rooms.”
	“If that is the case,” Haidée replied, “Then why haven’t you gotten a room at the observatory?”  She gave Renaud one of her pointed looks that usually made men whimper.
	Renaud only grinned.  “I was not aware that the observatory had any extra rooms.  Besides, I’ve arrived on short notice so the director of the observatory does not know that I am coming.  I did not want to suddenly impose on their hospitality.”
	“Somehow, I think worrying about imposing on their hospitality was the last thing on your mind,” she replied.  “But if there is room in the observatory, I suppose I cannot complain, even if the company is less than stellar.  I would rather have a roof over my head tonight.”

^^^^

Part III

	Felix had offered to drive Haidée and Renaud to the observatory which he claimed was not far from the village.  Almost reluctantly, she had gotten back onto the coach, not quite looking forward to the ride even though it promised to be short and the destination a place with a bed.  By the time they had reached the observatory, the sky was the color of her new navy riding coat that she had just received from the modiste before the theatre director had bid her adieu to her enforced vacation.  It was too dark to make out the observatory with any detail.  To Haidée, it looked like a large black lump with windows.
	It was Felix who knocked on the door.  After a moment, it opened revealing an older man silhouetted by the interior light.  The only hairs on his head were the tufts springing above his ears.  He had thick eyebrows which were beetled as he observed the three people on the doorstep.  “What is it?” he asked in a surly tone.
	The driver was unfazed.  “Good evening, Villiers.  The Comorant is full tonight and I have two travelers with me tonight who need room and board.”
	“Vacationers?”
	“Monsieur Renaud is a visiting astronomer…”
	“I’ll go see what Everard has to say about it.”  Villiers slammed the door shut.
	“He wasn’t very polite, was he?” remarked Haidée.
	“Villiers is one of the people who work for the astronomers,” Felix explained.  “Do not worry too much about his attitude.  He always acts as if his breeches are a bit too tight on his sensitive parts.  Come to think of it, I haven’t really seen him being congenial except when someone else is suffering.”
	“How boorish,” said Renaud.  “Why hasn’t anyone turned him out for his surliness?”
	Felix shook his head.  “You mainlanders don’t understand.  Workers are hard to come by, especially on this island.  Except for once a month, this place is completely cut off from the rest of the country.  It’s extremely difficult to get here or to leave without the causeway.  The currents surrounding Mont Saint Filan make sailing treacherous.  So I’m sure the astronomers had to make a choice—either to put up with Villiers, or to go without help.”
	“Well, I suppose there could be worse things,” Renaud replied.
	After a long moment when Haidée was sure that Villiers had decided to leave them on the doorstep to expire, he opened the door again, not bothering to hide his fierce scowl.  “Monsieur Everard claims that there is room.  This way, please.”
	“What about our things?” Haidée asked.
	“Don’t you worry about that, Mademoiselle,” Felix replied in reassuring tones.  “I’ll make sure your things will get up to you.  Is Claude in, Villiers?”
	“He’s in, as you say, but that does not mean that he’s available.”
	“Oh, stop being so sullen, Villiers,” came a voice from the interior.  An energetic, whipcord thin man emerged and swept a low, dramatic bow.  “Please come in.  We wouldn’t want you to freeze on our doorstep.  I’m Claude, by the way.  Felix and I will bring your things in.  And what are you standing like a thundercloud, Villiers?  Aren’t you going to show our guests to their rooms?”
	“Very well,” Villiers sighed, exasperated.  “But may I remind you who’s higher on the hierarchy in this place?”
	“Liberté, égalité, fraternité,” quoted Claude.  “Just because your formal title is butler doesn’t mean that you’re any better than me.  Besides, don’t you agree that I have more common sense out of the both of us?”
	As Villiers beckoned for Haidée and Renaud to follow him out of the sparsely decorated stone receiving hall, she heard him mutter under his breath, “Cocky upstart!”
	But Haidée paid little attention to Villiers’ disgruntled mumblings as she followed him past the receiving hall to a long side corridor lined with sconces.  The light flickered like unsure dancers, illuminating the bit of mosaic motif lining the tops of the walls.  Every few paces stood statues the saints and disciples with their hands outstretched in the moment of piety.  If she didn’t know any better, she would have guessed that the place was a church of some sort, not an observatory.
	A small flight of marble stairs trailed upward in a strange, lopsided spiral.  She clutched the railing as she went up, feeling somewhat off balance with the combination of her headache, an empty stomach, and the aftereffects of her “medicine."  She wasn’t sure if it was all of these things that were making her see things, but she thought she saw something inscribed on one of the steps ahead.  It looked like a very strange symbol of some sort, inked faintly so it would mostly blend in with the natural markings of the marble.  She squinted and nearly tripped on her own hem.
	A hand on her elbow steadied her.  “Tipsy?”  Renaud asked.
	She jerked her arm out of his grasp.  “You assume too much,” she replied stiffly.  “My head is as clear as a bell.  I’m just tired.  Traveling does take its toll on a lady’s constitution.”
	He gave one of his lofty smiles.  “Well, if you say so.  Don’t blame me for contradicting a lady’s word.”
	On the second floor, there was a hallway leading to a row of sparse wooden doors.  Almost reluctantly, the butler handed them heavy iron keys and pointed to the rooms that were assigned to each of them.  Haidée’s room was the second to the last; Renaud’s room was the last.
	Villiers’ eyebrows twitched as he took an obvious step away from them.  “I am sure Felix and Claude will be up in a while with your trunks.  Monsieur Everard will meet you in the dining hall in about half an hour.”  With that, he twirled around in an odd half step and promptly stalked back down the rest of the corridor.
	Haidée put her key to the lock and it turned soundlessly.  She turned to watch Renaud opening his own door.  “He didn’t tell us where the dining hall was.”
	“I’m not surprised.  But I wouldn’t think it would be all that hard to find,” he replied.  He turned to glance at her, but his eyes were hidden under the glare that the light made on his spectacles.  “Perhaps you should ask Claude when he and Felix come up with your things.”  After that, he shut the door behind him, discouraging any further conversation.
	She left her own door slightly ajar so that a sliver of light could penetrate the darkness of the room.  In the dimness, she could make out curtains at the far end of the room.  Cautiously, she approached and flung open the drapes to let the moonlight in.  She coughed a bit as she disturbed the dust.  Her room overlooked a bit of the island and in the distance, she could see the dark sea.  The full moon was up, a round lantern amidst a sprinkling of stars.  Silver highlighted a bit more of the room.  Nearby was a canopied bed and a small table with a candle and a plain metal box.
	Haidée groped for the candle and went back out to the hall to light it from one of the lamps.  Once the flame caught on the wick, she went back to her room and closed the door.
	She had expected a rather sparse room—somewhat like that of a rather cheap inn.  And with the religious motifs on the first floor, she had been more inclined to think that the astronomers at the observatory lived more like monks in empty cells with unforgiving wooden cots.  Instead, the room looked almost like someone’s study—with the exception of the bed—that had been suddenly abandoned.  The walls were lined with shelves of books stuffed in a rather haphazard fashion.  Closer to the window was a large oak desk with a few blank papers scattered on its surface.  A small pendulum clock with a gilded face sat on one of the shelves, silently counting the time.  On the other side of the room was a wardrobe.  She opened it, finding it empty.
	Beside the wardrobe was a small thin door with a key stuck in the lock.  She turned it and pushed the door open.  She raised her light and glanced into an odd room studded with green-blue tiles.  In one corner was a square table with a large mirror framed with the decorative swirl of wooden carvings.  A claw-footed porcelain bathtub sat on the opposite end of the room.  Directly across from her door was another door, presumably leading into the room next to hers.  
	“Merde!”
	The angry shout appeared to come from the other side of the door.  It sounded like Renaud.  She pressed her ear against the opposite door and strained her ears.  Nothing.  She tried to turn the knob, but it wouldn’t budge.  Perhaps there was a key on the lock to this door as well.  She tried her own key to the door and to her surprise, the lock clicked.  But before she could open the door, it was jerked open of its own accord.
	“Mademoiselle Avenall, what a surprise,” said Renaud glaring down at her.  “Have you ever heard of knocking?”
	“I was curious,” she replied.  “And you sounded like you were in distress.  I thought it would be better to come to your aid and to ask questions later.”
	“Me?  In distress?”  He looked past her shoulder to the strangely tiled room.  “What an odd place.  I gather my room is not directly connected with yours.”
	“No.  This is apparently one of those new bathrooms.  Instead of leaving the toilette and the bathtub in a corner of the bedroom, it’s a separate room.  I think there’s even a separate pipe near the tub to pump in water. I’ve heard of such things—in the homes of the very wealthy and the eccentric.”
	“You have a quibble about hygiene?  Don’t tell me you’re one of those backward thinking biddies who wash their faces every Tuesday and don white linen rather than scrub the grime off their backs.  But seeing that you’re wearing that awful hat, and perhaps a wig as well, it wouldn’t be too much a stretch of the imagination that you’re masking some…defects.”
	“Think what you wish,” she replied.  “But I am not going to discuss my personal toilette or my fashion sense with you.  You have no fashion sense anyway, so that is beside the point.  What were you yelling about anyway?”
	“I stubbed my toe,” he replied easily.  “Which is no problem of yours.  And as for this room—I suggest you lock my door when you are using it.  And I shall do the same.”
	“That sounds sensible.  I have no desire to accidentally walk into this place if your pants are down.”
	He clicked his tongue in disapproval.  “I thought actresses were all open-minded.  I was thinking more about my own modesty.”
	“You?  Modesty?  I’m not sure the two go together.”
	“Mademoiselle Avenall?  Are you in there?” called out Felix from just outside her bedroom.  “We have your things.  Where do you want us to put your trunks?”
	“You’re things have arrived,” Renaud said in mock seriousness.  “I’m sure you’ll want to change into a dinner gown.  That is of the latest fashion, of course.  But unfortunately, you’ll probably take an entire hour to put it on and you’ll miss dinner.”
	“Just put them next to the wardrobe,” she called out.  Turning back to Renaud, she replied, “You’re mistaken, Monsieur.  I have no intention of changing into any fancy gowns.  Especially since it wouldn’t be appreciated by men like you.”  She slammed the door on his face and marched out of the bathroom to see to her trunks.
	Renaud’s chuckles drifted through the door.

^^^^

Part IV

	“Monsieur Galliard and Father DeLorme have also decided to visit us this evening,” said Claude as he led Haidée and Renaud down a different flight of stairs.  This one was narrow and cramped forcing them to go one by one—first Claude, then Haidée, and then Renaud bringing up the rear.  “Monsieur Galliard is a friend of Monsieur Everard.  Although Galliard mostly concerns himself with the daily tasks that being a magistrate on this island entails, he does have an honest interest in scientific matters.”
	“Galliard is an amateur astronomer?” inquired Renaud. 
	“Yes.  He says he took up the hobby of sky gazing when he had matriculated at the Sorbonne when he was a younger man.  I’m sure he will tell you all about it during dinner.”
	“And is this Father DeLorme also another astronomy enthusiast?” asked Haidée.
	“Are you worried that the dinner conversation will bore you?” said Renaud.
	“On the contrary,” she replied coolly.  “I was hoping to learn something of the stars.  I know little of the constellations.”
	“Well said, although I’ll have to admit that most of the old bachelors in this observatory would find it a daunting task to teach a beautiful young woman such as yourself,” Claude replied.  He turned back briefly to grin at her.
	“Ah, Monsieur, you flatter me,” she said coyly.
	Renaud gave a bark of laughter.  “Don’t be fooled by her pretty eyelashes, my friend.  I bet she’s probably a hundred and five under that powdered mask.”
	At the bottom of the stairs, she gave a quarter turn before raising her chin and glaring.  “It is no laughing matter to joke about a lady’s age, Jacques Renaud.”
	He was smiling in vicious pleasure when he said, “My name is Jacot Renaud, Mademoiselle.  And I hope you don’t forget it.  Unless your aging memory fails you again?”
	“Pardon me, but by the way you pronounce your own name, any reasonable person would be mistaken.”
	Claude shook his head.  “The dinner hall is this way.”
	The dining hall was long, thin, and high.  A table of polished cherry stood at the center, set with silverware, wine glasses, and white porcelain dishware decorated with painted rosebuds.  A chandelier of iron and crystal hung suspended over their heads from an arched ceiling buttressed by fat, plain columns.  At the end on the room was an enormous window paneled with a multitude of square glass, each pane no bigger than a handkerchief.  The light thrown by the wall sconces and the chandelier reflected off the glass making them appear opaque, obscuring anything that might be seen outside.
	Claude directed Haidée and Renaud to their seats.  Already at the table were several men who hastily stood to introduce themselves.  Leonard Everard, a rather tall but plump man with a meticulously curled wig and a faintly stripped brown waistcoat with square buttons, was the first to greet them.  Renaud received a hearty clasp of the hands and an exclamation of surprise that he had arrived one month earlier than had been expected.  Haidée received an impersonal, yet polite greeting with the comment from Everard hoping that the accommodations were adequate despite that fact that the observatory was not an inn.
	Haidée noticed that the other astronomers, who tried their best to ignore her, were watching Renaud with ill-concealed malcontent.  She had had little contact with the scientific elite—most of them considered the theatre a waste of time—but she had heard that intellectuals were often egotistical and too sure of themselves.  Everyone else who worked in their own fields were often regarded as rivals of the utmost echelon.  There were four of them, and they clustered near the far end of the table closest to the window.  Edouard Garnier was a rather short, red-faced man with graying hair.  She judged that he was probably still a few fingers shorter than she, even if she was not wearing any shoes.  Garnier also had the odd habit of scrunching up his face whenever he was talking.
	Raymond D’Aubigne was thin and bespectacled.  His hair was the color of flax and he wore several fobs and a pocket watch on his waistcoat.  He made an obscure joke about telescopes and the “coefficient of expansion” that made all the men laugh.  Haidée frowned, sure that it was a dirty joke even when the mechanics of it completely flew over her head.  Laurent Roland, if it was even possible, was thinner than D’Aubigne, and truly appeared to be one hundred and five.  The old man walked hunched over and bore a wooden cane.  His wig was ill-fitting and his skin appeared so papery that it looked like he could blow over at any moment.  Xavier Legard was rather robust and appeared to be the leader of the group with his brash gestures and his flamboyant tongue.  Legard reminded Haidée of some of the actors that she had worked with in Paris who specialized in playing dark-haired villains with swarthy complexions.
	There was another astronomer who also worked at the observatory named Paul Ninon.  However, he almost never came to dinner with the rest of the astronomers as he was married and owned a small cottage with his wife Josette in the village.  Haidée thought it too bad that the Ninons were not attending the dinner—at least then there would have been another woman to talk to aside from the observatory servants, a maid she had glimpsed while walking to the dining hall and the cook.
	The two other guests at the dinner, however, did not wear wigs.  Father DeLorme was perhaps in his fifties, but he managed to cut a dashing figure in his entirely black frock and a shock of silver hair that looked like it had been mused by the wind outside just a moment ago.  His eyes were a clear gray and he smiled congenially invoking blessings from God as he personally greeted Haidée and Renaud.  The magistrate of Mont Saint Filan also seemed to deviate from Haidée’s mental image of local politicians.  Merle Galliard wasn’t dour and stout.  In fact, he looked like one of those young dandies who often hung about the backstage dressing rooms, hoping that one of the actresses would bestow her favors on one of them.  If appearances were anything to judge by, Haidée figured that he probably only graduated from the Sorbonne a few years ago.  With his shining brown hair and a mysterious scar on his cheek, Haidée fancied him quite dashing.
	When she was introduced to Galliard, he made a gallant gesture of sweeping her hand up for a kiss before pulling the chair out for her.  “I’m enchanted to meet you, Mademoiselle Avenall.  You brighten up an otherwise dreary affair with us old cranks.”
	“You are certainly not old,” she replied smiling.  “You couldn’t possibly be older than a few years out of university.”
	“You are correct, Mademoiselle, if those few years equals a decade and a half,” he replied.
	As everyone was seated and Claude and the maid, a rather mousey looking girl named Colette, began to serve out the first course, Father DeLorme tapped his glass with a spoon.  “I would suggest that we say grace before our meal, shall we?”
	“Oh.  Hm.  All right,” said Everard reluctantly.
	“What if we don’t believe in God?” Legard said loudly.  His fellow astronomers nodded.
	The rest of the dinner guests were silent.   Galliard’s mouth was hanging open as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.  Haidée slanted a glance at Renaud.  He seemed impassive.
	“We’re atheists,” Roland explained in a rheumy tenor.
	Everard gave an embarrassed cough.  “Father DeLorme will do the blessing.  I don’t see how that would hurt regardless of your beliefs.”
	Roland subsided back into his chair.  “Well, you have a point.  I don’t see how a blessing will hurt out digestion.”
	Legard wasn’t appeased.  “Well, it will hurt my digestion.  I do not wish to be subjected to something that is idiotic and superstitious.  I’m going to take dinner in my room.”  The man got up, scrapping his chair along the floor in an agonizing screech, and then flounced out of the room.
	When he was gone, Everard said, “My apologies, Father.  Monsieur Legard has been out of sorts lately.  Problems with his current research as I understand it.”
	The priest nodded sagely.  “I will pray for him then.  Hopefully his humors will align themselves back into accordance with the natural laws soon enough.  The Lord loves all of his flock, be they amiable or in need of some guidance.  I have noticed that Monsieur Legard has never attended any of my Sunday services.  Perhaps you can prevail upon him to try at least once.”
	The head astronomer reluctantly shook his head.  “Xavier is a hot-headed man.  It is his personality, you see.  He would take any suggestion the wrong way.”
	“I see.  Well then.”  Father DeLorme folded his hands on the table serenely.  “Let us proceed in asking for the Lord’s blessing for the meal tonight.”

^^^^

October 17, 1796
Part V

	An agonized scream ripped Haidée from her nightmare.
	It took her a moment to realize that she had not screamed and that she was sitting among the bedclothes of a guest room at the observatory of Mont Saint Filan and not sleeping amidst the feather down pillows that a besotted innkeeper had supplied her back at her stay in Étretat.  But she had heard a scream.  She was almost sure of it.  Perhaps it was from the ghost of the dead astronomer.
	During dinner, conversation had turned toward one of Renaud’s acquaintances.  Apparently, he had had regular correspondence with a Danton Neville who used to work at the observatory until just about ten days ago when he committed suicide by jumping off the bluffs on the west side of the island to drown in the churning waters below leaving nothing but a pair of shoes, a hat, and a brief note that just said “Au revoir.”  Renaud had claimed that he had no idea that Neville was in such a mental state that he was contemplating suicide—all of his letters to him were mostly about his recent observations about strange objects orbiting the moon and how well his research was going.  And according to Everard, Neville did not exhibit any depression or paranoia before his death.
	Actually, Haidée didn’t believe in ghosts except when she was playing a character who believed in them.  What she did believe, though, was that sometimes the impression of a violent death could somehow affect the surroundings and those who were close to the deceased.  Maybe a piece of undercooked roast duck had disturbed her sleeping patterns or perhaps the thought of someone committing suicide so recently had rattled her more than she wanted to believe.
	Rattled nerves made her think of her tonic.  She had taken a sip of it before going to bed, but apparently that sip wasn’t enough.
	The scream pierced the air again, sharp even as it the sound passed through walls.  A terrified man’s scream.  And then it was cut off abruptly, making her ears ring.
	Without thinking of the consequences, she tossed the blankets aside and leaped out of bed, heedless of the cold stone floor chilling the soles of her feet.  Her head rebelled at the sudden movement and for a split second, she didn’t see the dark shadows of the bedroom.  A bright, horrifying image flashed in her vision and she caught her breath—not sure if it was one of those eerily prophetic images that came with her headaches or merely a remnant of her nightmare that was already fading from her memory.  Haidée staggered back up right and managed to make it to the door, which she pulled open.
	Someone was already up with a candle in his hand, the light catching on his loose hair like a black halo.  Jacot Renaud.  He turned his head when he heard her door open.  He frowned, causing his spectacles to slip down his nose.  “Go back to bed, Mademoiselle.”
	“Oh, no.  I’m not going back to bed ignorant of what just happened.  I heard it.  I know I did.  And you did too.”
	“Well, the middle of the night is no time for a lady to be wandering around underdressed.  Shouldn’t you be getting your beauty sleep?”
	“Look who’s talking!  I don’t see why I should be criticized when you’re only wearing your night clothes.  And I was getting my beauty sleep when I heard that scream.”
	They heard a bang from the other end of the hall and then two more doors opened, revealing two of the astronomers. Laurent Roland was busy tugging on a garish yellow-green robe embroidered with fraying gold threads over his night clothes, but he had completely forgotten his wig revealing a wrinkled, bald head.  Edouard Garnier was rubbing his eyes and scrunching his face in an effort to keep awake.  His gray hair was sticking straight up in a messy tuft.
	“What’s going on?” Garnier yawned.  “I thought I heard something.”
	“Did someone let a bunch of cats in here?” demanded Roland as he tried to straighten up his robe and ended up dropping his cane.
	Another door opened.  Everard stomped out wearing a red night cap and matching slippers.  His pudgy face was red.  “Who’s making that infernal racket?  If anyone is doing any experiments at this time of night, he’s going to be expelled from this august institution!”
	“I’m not doing anything,” Garnier replied.  He put a hand up to his mouth in a vain attempt to stifle another yawn.  “I was in the middle of sleeping.”
	“So was I,” claimed Roland.
	“I was asleep too,” said Renaud.
	The men turned to look at Haidée.  She crossed her arms across her chest and scowled.  “If I were the one screaming, every one of you would be deaf by now.”
	There was another banging sound and then a hearty curse.  Everard strolled towards one of the doors at the other end of the hallway, the second to the last before the main stairwell.  The head astronomer pounded on the wood and demanded, “Open up, D’Aubigne!  You’re making an infernal racket!”
	The door abruptly opened, revealing the flaxen haired astronomer.  He had a look of consternation on his reddened face.  “I’m not making that damned racket, Everard!  It’s Legard, I tell you.  His girly screams woke me up from a sound sleep.  I tried opening the door between our rooms, but the bastard has it locked!”
	With that, Everard marched to the last door and pounded on it, yelling at Legard to unlock the door.  No one answered.  There was no screaming or strange thumps heard.  That method exhausted, Everard commanded D’Aubigne to go to the servants’ quarters to wake Claude and Villiers to help break down the door.
	As D’Aubigne hurried away and the men began discussing how best to ram the door open, Haidée spoke up.  “Why don’t we try a key instead of brute force?”
	They stopped talking to stare at her.  “What, Mademoiselle?” Everard said stupidly.  “Please, do not worry about this.  You can go back to bed and let us men worry about this.”
	“She does have a point,” Renaud cut in.  “Don’t you have an extra key to all the rooms?  Perhaps Monsieur D’Aubigne’s key would work since his room is connected to Monsieur Legard’s room.”
	“All right.  It does sound like a more sensible idea than breaking down the door,” admitted the head astronomer.
	Roland gave a hideous cackle, revealing nothing but gums.  Apparently, the teeth he had flashed during dinner had been fake.  “Oh ho, the great Everard bested by a woman.  Perhaps we should offer her a position as a theoretical scientist?”
	Garnier tried to hide a smile by yawning again.
	Everard shot the old man a warning look.
	Haidée managed a sly smile.  “Why Monsieur Roland, you shouldn’t make fun of me so.  I am an actress, so it is quite plausible that I may be able to act like a theoretical scientist, but that doesn’t mean that I would produce any research that would be useful to the scientific establishment.”
	“Actually, I don’t think that would be such a disadvantage,” Roland mused.  “Theoretical scientists do a lot of hand waving anyway.  Much like actors, I suppose.  Don’t you agree, Monsieur Renaud?”
	At Everard’s spluttering, Renaud replied tactfully, “I wouldn’t know.  I haven’t much occasion lately to attend the theatre.  I’m afraid that Mademoiselle Avenall is my only example.  And the only hand waving she’s done is to crack a fan.  Or to pull out a bottle of her special medication.”
	“I have not cracked a fan,” Haidée retorted.  “You haven’t seen me with a fan.  And if I were to crack one, which I have never done in my entire life, it would be over your hard head.”

^^^^

Part VI

	D’Aubigne pounded back up the steps, out of breath.  Behind him were the observatory servants, Claude and Villiers.  Claude was still trying to tuck his undershirt back into his breeches.  Villiers was wearing a very long night shirt—almost like a night gown—that was made of an odd white and blue striping pattern and reached his ankles.
	“It turns out that we won’t need your assistance,” Everard told Claude and Villiers.  “We only need a key.  Raymond, doesn’t your key also fit into Xavier’s door?”
	“Oh, that.  I have no idea,” replied D’Aubigne.  “I have never tried my key on his door.”  He fumbled in his pockets and came up with two iron keys, one smaller than the other.  He held up the larger one.  “This one goes to my room.  The smaller one is used for the connecting bathroom.”
	D’Aubigne tried to open Legard’s bedroom door first.  The key went in easily, but did not turn.  So they all followed him back to his own room where he opened a small door, similar to the one that led into the bathroom that connected Haidée and Renaud’s rooms.  It was another bathroom as well, but this one was tiled in a light gray.  Haidée stood back a little ways to observe the men go about the unlocking of doors with the utmost seriousness.  She glanced around D’Aubigne’s lodgings, taking in a bed with a wrought iron frame, two squat wardrobes sitting side by side, a desk with a closed trunk wedged underneath, a padded chair stacked with papers with an ink bottle serving as a paperweight, and a pile of books just underneath a window in which the drapes were drawn shut.
	“Ah!  So my key does work on his door!” exclaimed D’Aubigne as everyone heard an audible click.  He pulled the door open and walked inside first.  “Le…” there was a horrified choking sound and then a thump.
	“D’Aubigne!” shouted Everard.  “Legard!  Good God, what is this?”
	She trailed in after the men who seemed to have forgotten her as they had their attention fixed on the commotion.  The first thing she saw was D’Aubigne who was sprawled on the floor with his hands covering his eyes and moaning.  She looked over Garnier’s shoulder toward the interior of Legard’s bedroom and her breath caught in her throat and her skin went cold and numb.
	A candelabra sitting on a bedside table cast a golden sheen over the scene.  The bed itself was one of those heavy wooden monstrosities consisting of a thick frame covered by a stifling canopy.  But the green velvet bed curtains were drawn aside to reveal the interior—a smoothed over coverlet and pillows indicating that no one had slept on them.  Across from the bed was an open window looking out over the dark island.  The drapes slowly fluttered as a cold breeze drifted inside.
	And then there was the body.  Legard was kneeling on the floor next to the bed, naked.  He was leaning face down on the coverlet, his arms stretched over his head as if he were about to pray or to receive a lover.  But that wasn’t what made her feel light-headed and ill.  There were markings on his back, strange markings that were black, unnatural and glistening.  And the worst part was that those markings sparked a dim sort of recollection in the recesses of her memory.
	The others were silent, except for D’Aubigne’s sobbing, as they struggled to take in the scene.  It was only until Renaud made a move toward Legard that the others began to shift on their feet, murmuring in coherently.  He stood over the body and put two fingers to Legard’s neck.  After a moment, he removed his hand and he turned toward the others with a slight downward tilt of his mouth.  The angle of the light made the glass of his spectacles opaque, hiding his expression.
	“He’s dead,” Renaud said flatly.  “And probably not for very long.  He’s still warm.”
	“My God,” exclaimed Roland.  “How could he just die like that?  His health is better than mine.”
	“Maybe someone killed him,” supplied Garnier.  The short astronomer walked around the bed and headed to the window to examine the pane and the outside ledge.  “The murderer must have escaped this way.”
	“Save the speculations for later,” said Everard.  “Claude, go wake the magistrate.  And Villiers, go get the village doctor.  We don’t want to make any unsound judgements.  Legard could merely be in a comma.  Garnier, close the window and help me get Legard back on the bed.”
	As the two servants hustled out of the room to get the authorities, Haidée edged around the room to look at something that caught her eye.  Legard’s room was unusual in that one side of his room was occupied with a fireplace framed with a white mantelpiece decorated with gilded molding.  There was no fire in the hearth, but ash was scattered about the surrounding floor in a strange swishing pattern—as if someone had tried to clean it up with a broom.  Next to the fireplace, at the corner, was a square writing table and a plain wooden chair pushed back as if someone had just gotten up from it.  On the table were several sheaves of paper stained by an overturned bottle of ink.  The quill was nowhere to be found.
	“Mademoiselle.”  She looked up to find Renaud standing next to her.  He was close enough that she could see his eyes behind his spectacles, dark and missing nothing.  In a lowered voice, he said, “This is no place for a woman.  Everard might not believe it, but Legard is dead.  I am worried that these tragic circumstances will disturb your sensibilities.”
	“I’m not the one in hysterics,” she replied, tilting her head to indicate D’Aubigne who had now curled up in a fetal position.  
	“Your hands are shaking.”
	In response, she clenched her clammy hands into fists and shoved them behind her back.  “That doesn’t matter.  I think I agree with Monsieur Garnier—that someone else must be involved in this.”
	“Damn it, you fools!” said Roland in sudden fervor.  “Look what you’ve done!  You’ve destroyed the evidence!”
	“It wasn’t me,” claimed Garnier.  “I tried to put him face down on the bed, but Everard is much stronger that I am.”
	“I thought they were tattoos,” the head astronomer huffed.
	Garnier and Everard had managed to drag Legard’s body back on the bed, but this time he was lying on his back.  The coverlet was smeared with the ink that had been on Legard’s back.  Someone had managed to find a linen shirt somewhere and had draped it over Legard to preserve the corpse’s modesty.  Or perhaps it was to shield the dead man’s nudity from sensitive eyes.  That thought almost made Haidée scoff.  She’d seen enough naked men to say that a corpse wasn’t going to make that much of a difference to her.
	Renaud put his hands on her shoulders which made her suddenly stiffen.  “What are you doing?” she asked suspiciously.
	He steered her past the prone D’Aubigne and out of the bathroom.  “You’re not one to listen to common sense, are you?” he replied.  “Trust me, whether Legard died of natural causes or not, I do not suggest that you linger here.  The magistrate and the doctor will arrive soon and as guests, we will merely get in their way.  It is better to let Monsieur Everard and his colleagues to attend to one of their own.”  Once out in the hallway, he dropped his arms.
	“But it’s obvious that someone is involved in his death,” she protested.  “You don’t think Monsieur Legard painted those symbols on his back by himself, do you?  And while we’re out here arguing about this, the murderer could be getting away!”
	Something dark glittered in his gaze.  “You forget, Mademoiselle.  This is an island and today is a new day.  The tide is in.  If there is indeed a murderer, there is no way for him to leave.”

^^^^	

Part VII

	The morning was overcast—the clouds thick, heavy and gray, swirling overhead as a stiff breeze blew past the mourners.  Large drops of rain began to fall, slowly as if waiting just for the right moment for someone to shift a foot there so it could land on a nose or even better, in the eye.  Haidée couldn’t have planned it better if she was a director of a play, in charge of getting the scenery just right.  The cool autumn day struck the right chord of somberness and dark eeriness that somehow, she couldn’t quite shake.
	When the magistrate Galliard and the village doctor, a Doctor Martin, arrived at the observatory soon after the discovery of Legard’s body, the rest of the astronomers scattered out into the hallway where she and Renaud had been waiting.  D’Aubigne had managed to pull himself together to drag himself out.  And while they were waiting for the verdict, the flaxen haired astronomer had declared that he was going to the servants’s quarters to sleep for the rest of the night—if he could get back to sleep after the trauma that he had suffered.  The other astronomers had looked at each other and had begun murmuring in low voices, speculating on what the doctor would say.  Everard seemed adamant that Legard was still in a coma—but when the old, wrinkling doctor came out, shaking his head, the head astronomer seemed to collapse into himself.
	“What a promising scientist!” he had wailed.  “All gone to waste in his prime!”
	Haidée shifted on her feet, thinking that the pair of shoes that she had donned for Legard’s funeral was a poor match for the occasion.  In fact, she was sure that if her choice of outfit for the funeral got out to the rest of society on the mainland, she would be ridiculed.  No woman of fashion would ever wear a dark burgundy gown to a funeral.  If she had known that someone on this godforsaken island would have the bad manners to die, she would have packed the appropriate mourning dress—which was black.
	The servants, Villiers and Claude, had ended up taking Legard’s body out of the room to be placed elsewhere before a coffin could be made.  Where, she had no idea.  But then upon reflection, she didn’t really want to know where Claude and Villiers had put the body.  She had seen corpses before—but they were of the theatre variety, either a mannequin made of rags or an actor smeared with red dye and clutching a blunted foil.  But then the corpse was the least of her worries.  There were the markings to consider—and she was reluctant to recall where she had learned that before.
	The small cemetery beside the parish church was bounded  by a wooden fence and a copse of bare trees.  In the distance stood the observatory, a round Byzantine hulk upon a dark hill.  By a series of ropes and pulleys, a four of the village workmen lowered a plain wooden coffin into the ground.  Father DeLorme stood at the head of the grave with an open Bible in his hand.  His assistant, a thin, pale young man, held a censer that spewed out noxious smoke, making those closest to the grave wipe their watering eyes with black lacey handkerchiefs.  Haidée thought it extremely odd that Legard was given a Christian burial when the night before he had adamantly proclaimed that he was an atheist.  But what was done was done—Father DeLorme, after all, was the only one on the island who had had any experience with burials.
	Haidée discretely tried to pull her coat closer to her body.  The wind seemed to turn suddenly cold as if someone among the mourners was trying to work a certain curious art.  She studied the faces of all the mourners, but they were muffled either with handkerchiefs or collars and everyone was looking slightly away from the hole in the ground as if it were something unbearable and taboo.
	Much of the village came out to pay their respects for the dead astronomer.  She was quite sure that everyone in the village knew Legard much better than she, so politely, she stepped aside for anyone who wanted to edge closer to the focal point of the event.  Father DeLorme began speaking in low, solemn tones, but she wasn’t paying attention to the words.  She had somehow found herself at the edge of the crowd.  To her right was Maurice Ducos, the fellow vacationer who had a friend reserve a bed for him at The Cormorant.  His hefty bulk was shifted forward as he strained to see what was going on.  To her left was one of the astronomers—the old man Roland.  He was wearing a dark brown coat, but at least he was also wearing a black scarf as a concession to the occasion.  He was gripping his cane as he listened to the sermon.
	“Bah,” Roland said lowly.  “Legard is probably rolling in his coffin.  I suppose the priest does have his last laugh.”
	“I’ve never heard Father DeLorme laugh,” Haidée said lightly.  “I’m sure this is as much a shock to him as it is to us.  Legard was murdered after all.  What I don’t understand is why we’re having this funeral when we could be looking for who killed him.  Besides, this is on such short notice that I couldn’t find anything proper to wear.”
	“I agree with you that the murderer must be found, but I care very little for fashion,” replied Roland.  “But what do I know?  I’m just an old man.  What Everard says goes.  And you’ve noticed that Galliard doesn’t exactly contradict him.  Ha!  The young puppy thinks Everard knows everything since he’s in charge of the observatory.  But I admit that it is a shock.  People need to grieve before they can move on to anything.”
	“That’s true.”  She was silent for a moment before she said softly, mostly to herself as she remembered what Renaud had told her.  “The murderer might be here among us.”
	“Yes.”  The old man slanted her a glance.  “You’re a bright girl even if most of your brain is consumed by frivolous fashion.  Who do you think it might be?”
	“How would I know?” she replied.  “I just arrived on Mont Saint Filan last night.  You know the island far better than I.  Did Monsieur Legard have any enemies?”
	Roland chuckled and then coughed loudly before he hacked up some sputum and spat it on the ground.  Several of the mourners, including Maurice Ducos, turned to the old man with glares.  “Sorry,” the old man mumbled.  When they turned back to hear the rest of the priest’s speech, Roland continued, “Legard acted like a blowhard.  I wouldn’t be surprised if everyone viewed him as an antagonist at one point or another.  Personally, I’m most suspicious of D’Aubigne.”
	“Monsieur D’Aubgine?” said Haidée, surprised.  “He is the astronomer who shares a bathroom with Monsieur Legard, correct?  He seemed severely traumatized by Monsieur Legard’s death.  A killer certainly wouldn’t react that way, could he?”
	“You tell me,” the old man replied.  “You’re an actress.”
	She frowned.  “I suppose shock can be feigned convincingly.”  She thought of a play she had done two years ago where she had played a grieving widow.  She had bawled and cried crocodile tears and had no doubt that everyone in the theatre didn’t believe her.  Then there were those more subtle instances when she had cried to win the director’s sympathy—the director never believed her tears.  But then everyone in theatre tended to disbelieve each other.  As for ordinary people, she doubted they even thought of acting when they confronted something as sudden as a death.  But with Roland’s words, a seed of doubt was planted in her mind.
	Roland wiped his mouth with the end of his scarf.  “D’Aubgine does have cause to dislike Legard—perhaps even to the point of hate,” he whispered.  “When he first came to the observatory, Everard put him under Legard’s tutelage.  They worked together for some research about studying the parallax of stars.  When it was time to present the research at the Royal Academy, Legard claimed most of the authorship even though we all knew that D’Aubgine did most of the work.  But no one did anything—Everard said nothing about it.  And when the person in charge condones something like this, it is hard to bring this issue up.”
	“But is taking credit for someone else’s work really enough reason to kill?” mused Haidée.
	“You do not understand the world of academia, Mademoiselle.  Intellectual minds have tried to kill each other for much less.  It was soon after that when D’Aubgine managed to convince Everard to let him go on the research alone.  But that’s the problem.  D’Aubigne is very good at doing the work, but he is poor on ideas.  Legard is very good on ideas but he is not very good at doing the work.  The two need each other even when their personalities do not mesh.  Perhaps D’Aubigne realized this and it was too much for him.”  Roland cleared his throat.  “But what do I know?  Take the delusions of an old man as you will.”
	Shrewdly, Haidée asked, “And what was your relationship with Monsieur Legard?”
	“He was a fellow astronomer and a fellow atheist. That is all.”  Roland coughed again, but this time, it sounded somewhat false to her ears.  “Pardon me, Mademoiselle.  It seems as if the weather has gotten quite cold.  I’m afraid my constitution isn’t as good as it used to be.”
	Haidée turned to look at the rest of the mourners, but out of the corner of her eye, she observed the old man switch the cane to his other hand and make a strange shuffle with his feet.  Her own feet felt suddenly chilly.  “That is unfortunate, Monsieur,” she replied softly.  “But fear not, I am quite sure that Father DeLorme is almost done with his elegy and we’ll soon be able to go back inside.”

^^^^

October 18, 1796
Part VIII

	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.

^^^^

Part IX

	The rustic atmosphere of the village made Haidée think of coarse linens and bad shoes.  The smell of the place was no worse than the city.  If she wanted to be honest to herself, the smell was actually better.  The village of Mont Saint Filan had little place for farm animals so the island wasn’t overrun with stinking cows and pigs.  Unlike the city where the air seemed to settle down around the buildings and stifle people at days at a time, the ocean air currents carried most of the scent away leaving an almost astringent, salty odor.  One of the things that Haidée didn’t like about the city, but never said aloud to anyone, was the city folk’s penchant for dowsing themselves with heavy perfumes to mask their body odor.  Unlike herself, most city folk disliked bathing but still liked to smell “fresh.”  Unfortunately, masking did not always go over so well.
	The gravel path from the observatory to the village terminated into a paved square at the center of the village.  On one side was the inn, The Cormorant, which stood three levels high in a rough hewn gray stone.  The shutters were closed—apparently all of the occupants were still asleep or away.  The other buildings were made of a similar material, most of them also two or three stories high, and a main street ran from the east to the west with the inn as the center point.  Few other villagers were about, seemingly busy, although they had enough time to shoot her odd looks.  Her fashionable day walking costume was obviously out of the norm.
	She headed west on the main street with no particular destination in mind.  She had left the observatory around nine-thirty, after a brief breakfast in the kitchen served by the mousey and shy maid, Colette.  The cook was nowhere to be found, although Colette had mumbled something about “picking apples for the noon pie.”  She had eaten alone.  Nine-thirty was quite early for her—Haidée usually got up around noon when she lived in Paris—but the astronomers had gotten up even earlier around six in the morning, no doubt to immerse themselves in their research and as an attempt to forget about Legard’s strange death.
	The way Legard died bothered her.  It also bothered her why no one on the island seemed so up in arms about it.  Perhaps Legard had many enemies on Mont Saint Filan, even more than that old astronomer Roland had dared to tell her, and that they were all glad that Legard was gone.  But not knowing all the details, she felt it was unjust.  Even if Legard had been a miserable human being rather than just being merely annoying as she had briefly observed on her first night at the observatory, it was still wrong to kill him.
	Most of the houses along the main street appeared to be residential.  A couple doors down from the inn, however, was a sign hanging over a small shop with only one word, “rue”, being the only one that was readable.  The rest of the sign’s paint had peeled away leaving only the darkened wood underneath.  Curious, Haidée approached the front steps when the door to the shop opened suddenly, making her jump reflexively backward.
	“Pardon me, Mademoiselle,” huffed a shop patron.  She looked up to see that it was Maurice Ducos.  “I did not see you there.”  He was carrying a rucksack of something.  Groceries, she assumed, since a loaf of bread was sticking out at the top.  “I hope that you are not hurt?”
	“I am perfectly fine, Monsieur Ducos,” she replied.  “I was out taking a walk and I saw this shop.  You are out shopping for food?  I thought that the inn also provided the meals.”
	“Humph,” Ducos replied with a shake of his head.  “You should be glad that you are not staying at the inn, Mademoiselle.  The innkeeper is a tyrant underneath his laid back veneer.  He says that he does not serve lunch, only dinner!  My friends and I have taken turns coming to this grocery to get something before we parish of hunger.”
	“Oh, how dreadful,” she tsked.  “Doesn’t the innkeeper know that being so strict with meals will drive his clientele away?”
	“On that count, Fasset is quite clever,” Ducos said.  “He owns the only inn on this island.  And there is no way off of this place until the tide goes out a month hence.”
	“Quite true,” she replied in a commiserating tone.  “Unless one would care to make a swim for it to the main land.”
	“I would sink like a stone,” Ducos exclaimed.  “Besides, what sane person would want to swim?  Water is bad for you.”
	Haidée wrinkled her nose.  She didn’t want to be reminded that certain people wouldn’t want to bathe even if their life depended on it.  “Water is only bad if you drown in it.”
	The door to the grocery swung open again, revealing a tall, broad shouldered figure with gleaming brown hair.  It was the magistrate, Merle Galliard.  He was holding a rucksack as well, but when he spotted Haidée, he made a surprised exclamation and swept into a bow before taking her hand and placing a kiss on her fingers.  She should have been pleased that the only good-looking bachelor on the island was paying so much attention to her, but instead, she was somewhat irritated that her pristine white glove was now dotted with saliva.
	“Mademoiselle Avenall!  What a pleasure to see you this morning!”
	“What a coincidence, Monsieur Galliard,” she simply greeted.  She wasn’t quite sure if the pleasure was mutual.  “You are also shopping for food like Monsieur Ducos?”
	“The boy invited himself along,” the portly vacationer explained.  “He wants to see how well we visitors to Mont Saint Filan are doing.”
	“I’m just being an attentive magistrate,” said Galliard, smiling and revealing dimples.  “I hope that all our visitors to Mont Saint Filan have a pleasant visit to this quaint island, bar a few out of character mishaps.”
	Haidée didn’t think that murder was merely a “mishap,” but she decided not to comment on that at the moment.  “I suppose Mont Saint Filan is a quaint island—depending on your definition of quaint.”
	Galliard laughed.  “You have such a humor, Mademoiselle.”
	“I didn’t think I was that funny.”
	“It was sarcasm then?”  He sounded clueless.  “What brings you out on this overcast day?”
	“I wanted to take a walk and to look around at the village,” she replied.  “The place is quite small, so I’d imagine that I would be heading back to the observatory soon.”
	“If that is so, please let me accompany you back,” offered Galliard.  “Surely you would enjoy some company in your walk?  Or perhaps you would like to join us for luncheon?”
	She saw a surprised look briefly come over Ducos’ face before he quickly masked it.  Apparently, Maurice Ducos was in charge of the meal at the inn and Galliard had little authority to invite anyone, even if he was the magistrate.  She shook her head.  “I would not want you to take you away from your meeting with Monsieur Ducos.  I am fine by myself—there is a certain adventure about exploring a place oneself.”
	“If you say so, Mademoiselle.”  This time, a shadow fell over the magistrate’s face, the scar on his cheek making him look even more stark than he really was.  “But please, do remember what has happened on this island so recently.  Mont Saint Filan is a serene place, but it would not be very wise to venture to too many places alone.  There is danger.  Do not forget that.”
	“Yes, about that danger,” she said.  “Surely you are still looking into what happened to Monsieur Legard?”
	“It was an unfortunate happenstance with Legard.  An assistant and I are doing all we can at the moment,” he said solemnly.  “Rest assured that we will do all we can.”
	When the two men finally bade her a good day and strolled back down the lane to The Cormorant, Haidée sighed, pensive.

^^^^

Part X

	“Oh my.”