Death and Transfiguration

Chapter 26

When I woke up the next morning, my mind was racing, and I realized that I needed to get away from it all, so I packed my bags, and I headed for the train station. On my way out the door, I heard Moreau practicing like his life depending on it, playing the same bar from the third movement of the Mendelssohn concerto over and over again. I knocked on the door, but he didn't answer, which was perhaps for the best. As he continued to play, I went downstairs, and I walked past Sylvestre's house and headed to the Gare d'Austerlitz.

The station was somewhat older in style than the Gare du Nord, and much to my chagrin, it was just as crowded. I had to stand in line for what felt like forever just to purchase a ticket, but then again, I didn't know where I was going. I felt like I needed to get out of Paris, to leave Léa and Moreau and the mystery and all of my troubles behind, but I didn't know where to go. Bourges? Toulouse? Maybe I could even take a vacation in Spain.

By the time I reached the front of the line, however, I knew exactly where I was going. "I'd like a one-way ticket to Orléans, please," I said, and the man behind the counter handed me my ticket and sent me on my way.

I headed toward the platform, which was something of a struggle as the other passengers pushed and shoved their way past me. Once or twice, I wished Léa was there, if only so that she could challenge some of the more belligerent ones there to a duel. However, I eventually made it to the platform, and I climbed aboard the train to Orléans.

The train was already stuffed with people, and it took me a while simply to find my seat. Most of them were minding their own business, reading a book or newspaper, but others were loudly conversing with their friends. Just before the train started moving, I found an empty seat, and I sat down and stared out the window, trying to ignore the woman with the oversized hat in the row in front of me, leaning across the aisle to talk to a tall, bespectacled man.

I pulled out my composition book, and I tried to sketch out the accompaniment for the end of the second movement, but I couldn't focus. My mind kept on drifting elsewhere, and even when I stared at the blank page, forcing myself to write something, anything, it didn't work. Normally, composing helped me take my mind off of things, but now, all it did was remind me of everything that had happened the day before.

Perhaps I should have seen some of this coming. How many times had Moreau suggested that Léa was interested in women? How many times had I wondered how Gertie and Moreau knew each other, why they acted like old friends who hadn't seen each other in a long time? None of what Léa had said that day should have been a surprise, and in retrospect, it all made sense.

The one thing that I couldn't sort out, that I couldn't put into words quite yet, was how I felt about all of this, which I suppose was why I was running off to Orléans in the first place. I needed some time alone to figure myself out before I tried to talk to Moreau or Léa again.

A month earlier, I might have been repulsed by Léa's affection for me, but now that I'd gotten to know her, I wasn't quite sure what to feel. I certainly liked her as a friend, but I wasn't sure I wanted our relationship to be anything more than that. Besides, Léa and I had such a beautiful friendship, and the last thing I wanted was to ruin it.

As for Moreau, I still wasn't convinced that he fancied me in the way Léa thought he did, but the rest of what she had said about him seemed to be true. Then again, did any of it matter? It wasn't really my business, and it didn't change the way I thought about him. In the end, he was still the same man who had been so kind to me on the day I arrived in Paris, who had introduced me to Bertrand Sylvestre, who had been with me on the night Lajoie died. In my mind, he would always be Felix Moreau, no matter what.

Then again, Moreau must have known who I was from the day we met. I may not have recognized him, but he must have recognized me the second I moved into the room next door to his. He'd put so much effort into hiding from me, into convincing me that he was just another stranger in an unfamiliar city. Surely, that was why he'd hidden his letters to Gertie, why neither of them were willing to tell me exactly how they knew each other. Moreau didn't want me to find out that I'd known him back in London, years ago. He didn't want me to know his secret.

My mind drifted away from Léa and Moreau, and for a while, I deliberated over who the murderer could be. I knew Sylvestre was innocent, and I was fairly certain that Moreau wasn't involved either, but beyond that, I wasn't ruling anyone out yet. Then again, there was so little evidence - how could anyone say for sure who had killed Bergmann and Lajoie?

I thought of Bertrand Sylvestre, and I wondered how he was handling all of this. He'd looked so scared when Robiquet and the other officers had arrested him, and even now that he was out of jail, now that the police department had evidence that he didn't do it, there was no telling what would happen to him next. I could hardly imagine what it was like for him, constantly being accused of something he didn't do.

Eventually, I returned to writing the symphony, but with so many thoughts, so many feelings running through my head, it was nearly impossible. I was constantly distracted, but as I sat on that train, hurtling toward Orléans, I decided that at least distraction was better than despair.

Two hours after we left Paris, the train finally pulled to a stop, and the conductor announced that we had arrived at the Gare d'Orléans. I put my composition book back into my purse, and I stepped off the train, ready to take some time for myself, to leave my old life behind for a little while.

Other than giving me some room to breathe, the train station in Orléans was really no different than the ones in Paris, but when I looked out the window, I saw half-timbered houses and statues of Joan of Arc. I had made it to the heart of the Loire valley, and I was certain that this would be the perfect place to spend a few days, a few weeks, a few months even. I could take a break from the insanity that was going on in the capital, and I could focus on myself and my compositions for a while.

Just as I was about to leave the station, I ran into someone. I thought I recognized him, but I couldn't quite place where I knew him from. The picture in my head was a little blurry, like I had seen him before, but I hadn't cared enough to capture the memory. Nevertheless, his straw blond hair and his piercing blue eyes seemed strangely familiar.

He looked me over and then said, "You're Sophie's tutor, aren't you?"

I'd gone to Orléans to get away, but clearly, Paris wasn't through with me yet.