Louis had led Modestine a little way down the cattle path towards Florac, waiting for Father Secours to appear, but he never did. They waited as long as Louis felt reasonable, and with consideration to the heroic donkey’s wounds, he decided it was best to get her attended to as quickly as possible.
At the flat of Adèle and Colette, Louis tied her outside where they had just a day ago. Colette fretted over the absence of her son, but Adèle was galvanized and made to the convent to inquire into some assistance with the donkey. Two sisters—much younger than Adèle—emerged from behind the wall, spoke briefly with the aunt, and then walked quickly down the street.
Soon they returned with the man employed by the convent to act as daytime hostler in the stable. When he heard that Louis and Modestine had a brush with the maniac that had been terrorizing the town, he hurried immediately and refused to accept payment. He dressed the donkey’s wounds, which he judged superficial, and then provided the extra service of running to fetch Yves, the police constable, for Louis was too unfamiliar with the town.
It was not long before a group of citizens gathered in front of the home of Adèle and Colette. Louis sat inside, at the bench where they had dined previously, drinking a cup of wine to calm his nerves. The voices outside buzzed low as the inspector knocked and then entered the flat. His friend, Honoré, followed him in, both their faces awash in concern and utter solemnity. Louis managed to convince the old women to stay where they were and watch over Modestine, as the crowd gathering outside had taken to inspecting her. She had become an object of curiosity, having come so close to the fate that had taken so many of the town’s beloved.
All went outside and the crowd parted. The two women went to Modestine and stood beside her protectively. Yves addressed the people in his official capacity.
“Tout le monde, écoutez-moi!” he began, looking slyly at les madames Secours. “We will need volunteers to accompany us to the scene.”
All hands went up.
“Very well,” the constable said, and he gave the old women a wink, then motioned for Louis to lead the way.
Louis gave Modestine a reassuring pet across the snout and then left to guide the policeman and the crowd out along the cattle path to the body of Surrel, the pamphleteer of Monastier.
Once there, Constable Yves gasped, the quality of which betrayed familiarity. Louis shot him a questioning glance.
“My cousin,” the lawman said.
Louis’s eyes grew wide. Was there no one throughout this region that was not related over miles of mountain, valley, and rough terrain?
Yves knelt beside the riven corpse.
“He arrived on my doorstep last night complaining that his mother had turned him out once more,” he sighed. Standing again, he continued. “You would think, at his age—but no. So he arrived, and given the cool feelings between himself and my wife, I allowed the guard to have the night off and gave Surrel the keys to the prison.”
Louis looked at him.
“Très stupide. I thought, a roof over his head for a night’s work.”
Louis set an understanding hand on the policeman’s shoulder.
“I don’t know how I will tell Claudine,” Yves finished and shook his head.
Claudine, Louis thought. The old woman at Monastier. He realized, although he’d sketched her a hundred times over and laughed with her at her own audacity, he’d never thought to ask her name.
No one would know what had really happened. Louis chose instead to lie, thoroughly and thoughtfully. As far as the town would ever know, Louis and Modestine happened upon the eviscerated corpse of Surrel—who would prove to be the killer’s last victim before the monster disappeared mysteriously—and upon their horror-stricken flight, the donkey lost her footing and injured herself in the fall. He had seen no trace of the person responsible for the murders. Yves would deal with the pamphleteer’s body as he saw fit, and the fiend would never be known as anything more than a brute, a peddler, and a victim of unholy murder by the beasts he so detested.
The following morning, after checking Modestine’s wounds and deciding she could withstand the weight, Louis helped the two old women onto her back—together they weighed about the same as the pack—and he led the donkey with her load out of Florac and to the farm. Judging where the previous night’s horror took place, he steered Modestine from the path and returned to it only when he felt they were safely past any residual gore. The authorities had collected Surrel’s tattered remains and installed them in the morgue until Yves could send word to Claudine.
When they arrived at the farm, they met Gilles and Thierry, who were just turning their horse-pulled cart around in the yard to position it in the direction of Florac. They were about to run and fetch Louis.
“Good man!” Gilles said, smiling and shaking Louis by the hand emphatically.
Louis wasn’t exactly sure how to respond, for although the murderer was brought to a kind of justice, he still had no idea what had happened to Father Secours. Since first laying eyes on the worried face of Colette, Louis had feared the worst. Perhaps Surrel had managed somehow to dispatch the priest without him hearing. It had certainly been dark enough for it to occur without the slightest knowledge on Louis’s part.
But Gilles slapped him on the back and then moved to the donkey to help his maman Adèle and his tatine Colette down. He squeezed them both. Louis could only look after them without a word, puzzled as to the man’s elated mood, for as far as he could tell, no word had reached this far from town. At least, not yet.
Then a hand fell to his shoulder from behind and Louis spun around to find himself face-to-face with Father Secours, whose given name he shouted in astonishment and joy.
Louis embraced the priest, who winced but smiled.
“You, now,” he said, laughing, “may certainly call me Victor.”
Louis drew back and his face fell, for the priest was shirtless and bandaged about the shoulder, arms, and side.
The heavy truth of what had happened hit Louis fully in the chest, and he brought his hands to his mouth in horror, like a child. His eyes trailed down to the ground, trying to absorb the facts. Father Secours—Victor—had inherited the curse of the change, and last night, after Modestine, he had probably saved Louis’s life.
His eyes darted to Victor’s.
“I shot,” he said, worried.
“And it was true enough,” the priest responded with a grin, gently tapping his side.
Louis was mortified and began spilling over with apologies and remorse, but Victor shook his head and did his best to assuage the poor man’s guilt.
“You know as well as I do that it was unavoidable,” he said, “so enough of this.”
At that moment, Colette must have looked from Gilles and saw her son, for she squealed with delight and barreled toward him. Victor braced himself and winced again as she fell into him weeping.
Louis caught Victor’s eye.
“Clémence?” he inquired.
Victor nodded, and then motioned with his head that she was inside.
They all entered the house, and after a round of heartfelt greetings and concern with Sylvie and the children, Louis asked if he could see Clémence.
“Of course,” said Sylvie. “She is upstairs. She might be sleeping.” And then she pointed to the steps and flicked her hand to indicate that Louis should go up.
Louis took the stairs softly, just in case she was slumbering, but as he reached the landing and placed a hand at the edge of the curtain that separated the bedroom from the short hallway, he heard her voice.
“Come in,” she said clearly. “I am awake.”
He moved the yellow and brown flower-printed partition, entered, and let it fall behind him. For a moment, he only looked at her in wonder.
She sat up, propped with a few thick white pillows, and basked in the warm sun that filtered in through the open window. Simple drapes blew gently with a slight breeze, which stirred her golden curls.
There was something different about her that he could not place. He looked and looked, while she looked right back at him without saying a word. Finally, he smiled awkwardly and shook his head. He moved closer, inquiring with his eyes if he could take a seat.
She nodded and smiled, and when she smiled, that’s when it occurred to him. He lowered himself slowly onto the foot of the bed and continued his embarrassed inspection.
“Forgive me,” he said. “But, have you . . .?”
“Yes,” she answered.
And he was correct. Although bandaged anew from the previous night’s struggle, her older bandages from the fire—the ones he’d seen so recently—were lighter, and covered less of her. While her one eye and her arm were still wrapped, the gauze was thinner, and in the places it no longer covered, the flesh was pink, but not twisted and poreless like the scars of the victim of such serious burns.
Louis shook his head again.
“I’m sorry,” he began, and then his mouth opened and closed a few times without saying another word, for he could not find one.
Clémence giggled, which surprised Louis, for he presumed—and rightly—that it had been the first time the girl had laughed since losing her family.
“Apparently,” she said. “The change heals.”
Louis only looked at her in joyous astonishment.
“Cousin Victor knew. I did not. But I do now. And this,” she said and curled a ringlet around her finger, “will grow back.”
“Victor says?” Louis asked.
“Victor says.”
They smiled with one another for a moment, and then Louis grew more serious.
“Clémence,” he said. “I am sorry for everything. It is impossible for me to not feel somehow responsible. I know many things were out of my hands, but even providence feels cumbersome to me.”
The girl looked at Louis sympathetically, and then she reached out and set her hand atop his.
“Perhaps,” she said, “a change can heal you, too.”
Louis looked at her thoughtfully, and he smiled.
“Perhaps so,” he said, and then stood. “Get your rest.”
“Please pet Modestine for me,” Clémence requested as he made to leave.
“I will,” he replied. “But not so much that it spoils the wicked thing.” And with a wink, he descended the stairs.
* * *
The following morning—after much laughing and crying, and deeply-felt well wishes—Louis took Modestine back to Florac to retrieve his pack. Next, he deposited the remainder of his foul-tasting brandy into the Vibron and replaced it with a light, aromatic Volnay. Finally he departed Florac, the place where his story had ended.
As they walked, he realized that, indeed, everything that he’d been keeping track of alongside his usual, pedestrian travel notes, was over. Finished, to be forgotten.
From Cassagnas to St. Germain de Calberte, he had tied a line around his waist and attached the other end to Modestine who led him along a clear path without trouble. As he let her take the reins, so to speak, he read back through his journal, as upon thinking on it, he had been seized with concern that the salient sum of his writing consisted of monks and werewolves, intrigue and murder.
Now, only a day removed from events, it was already starting to fade into a sort of questionable dream. He worried that his notes wouldn’t be sufficient to provide him with enough material to churn out a perfectly boring, but respectable travel book though, as he read, he was relieved to see that, throughout, he’d kept the presence of mind to write of other things—the landscape, the people, how they looked, how they spoke. And Modestine, the stubbornly loveable little animal.
He looked up and watched her for a moment. Her mouse-colored rump bumped left, then right, and back again; her tiny hooves dug into the path and kicked up tiny clumps of dirt with each step. Beyond her hindquarters, her long, furry ears stood upright, flicking at the occasional insect or stray breeze.
Louis wondered what life would be like back in Edinburgh, back at 17 Heriot Row, his parents’ stone-faced house overlooking the Queen Street Gardens. He pictured himself, his mother and father, and Modestine—the little donkey’s brays echoing down the street and across the green field of grass and flowers, across the upscale homes of New Town, and uniting with the rumble and squeal of the locomotives of Waverley Station.
No, he could not take her with him. But neither could he bear to part with her.
At St. Germain, he stabled Modestine without fear, he took his meal without concern, and he slept neither tossing nor dreaming. He recorded the details of his encounters in his journal, which he judged mundane, and found his mind to be blank.
When he’d left Monastier, he had never expected that his thoughts—so full of emotional turmoil, so hurt and so bewildered—could be vacant. He had longed for some peace from his raging thoughts and hoped that his journey would provide that distraction, or preferably, a soothing meditation. Instead, he received an overload of experience, outright panic and fear, and a violent severance from his treasured logical mindset. His brain, at this point, felt sapped of all function except those that were most simple—eat, sleep, walk, smile, write. In fact, he was ending this journey richer in understanding, and yet no closer to solving the problems that lie in wait for him at Alès.
Alès! His mail!
Fanny could have written; Fanny had to have written. After everything he’d been through, after all that he’d witnessed and endured, she simply must have written. Obviously, there was no possible way for her to know all that had happened, but surely fate would not allow such a defeat. And, aside from that, his domestic troubles—that he’d come on this journey to escape—provided the only immediate relief from the numb and empty aftermath of his trials. At least they would be a diversion!
At St. Jean du Gard, Modestine was declared unfit for any further travel. Though her legs were weary and they were out of salve, she seemed in good spirits.
Louis pulled the hostler out of hearing range of the tired little donkey.
“Pardon,” he began. “How much to take this donkey back to Florac?”
“Quoi?”
Louis repeated his question. The young man wiped his rough hands on his leather apron and then pushed up his already-rolled sleeves, thinking.
“Perhaps thirty-five francs,” he answered, doubtfully, as if he might be asking too much.
“Done,” Louis said, and he shook the man’s hand.
“She must rest, though,” the hostler added quickly and sincerely. “Two days, at least.”
“At least two days, then. Make it three,” Louis said. He trustingly paid the man his thirty-five francs, an additional thirty-five francs for three days of stabling and feed, and then an additional twenty francs for his coach ride back to St. Jean du Gard and his meals along the way.
The man stared at the money in his hand.
“Monsieur,” he said, “how do you know I will take the donkey at all?” By his tone, he was not asking as though he might just take the money and sell Modestine to the highest bidder, but as if he was truly perplexed that anyone could be so naïve.
“I’ll know,” Louis answered and grinned at the man, who then took the Scotsman’s hand again and gave it another reassuring shake.
Louis went to the stall where Modestine lay on her side on a clean-smelling patch of straw. Her weary legs splayed out beside her, her head lolled lazily up when he arrived, then she pushed her lips out and like little fingers, they took up some of the straw and she pulled it in, munching as it disappeared into her mouth.
He sat down beside her, wrapped his arms around his knees, and looked at her. It had not occurred to him that he would become attached to this little pack animal, but then, he hadn’t expected to go through an event of such a bonding nature with her. But he did, and he knew now that he would miss her terribly.
Draping himself across her furry little body, he stroked her ears and neck and explained to her, as eloquently as a crying man could, that she was the best damned ass in the world, and that he would never forget her. Modestine raised her head and nodded a few times, snorting, then she drew in one long slow breath and a nearly gentle bray swept through her insides like a bellows. With that, he hugged her neck and his reluctance to leave eventually led to his falling asleep against her tear-wet fur. He was awakened by the hostler, who, upon seeing this man’s deep attachment to this little beast, offered to take him to the nearest café so that he might drown his sadness, if only just a little.
Louis took him up on his offer with no shame. He kissed Modestine’s nose one last time, dried his face, and then left her in the stable.
Modestine was taken back to Florac and gifted to the Secours family, who heaped upon her a heroine’s welcome. For the rest of her days, the only pack carrying she did were two old ladies to and from the farm, and even then only on occasion. She was unofficially adopted by Clémence, who was also unofficially adopted by Gilles and Sylvie. Their little family grew and when their son was born, he was named Louis, pronounced in the English manner.
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