The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy (36 page)

On their third day, Darcy did not find his brother in the bedroom, or any of the others. When he asked a worker, he was told his brother was outside.

Grégoire Bellamont was not immediately found. The bench was empty. Darcy walked along the shore. He had played here as a child. The ocean seemed endless on a misty day. In the distance, he could see ruins.Yes, that was right. There had been a monastery on the island, before the Dissolution of the Monasteries by King Henry VIII. Moss grew over the remaining stone frame. Only a few arches still stood. Grégoire sat on a fallen column.

“He starts his story from the beginning,” Grégoire said, not looking up from the text. “I would warn you before reading this.”

Darcy was startled but said, “I am not afraid. Let me see it.”

Darcy handed back the papers. “That is enough for today.” Without explanation, he walked off. Grégoire did not follow. No explanation was needed.

That night, Darcy could not find sleep. He did not have his sleeping draught with him. He wandered the long hallway of sitting room after sitting room. Most of the books had been packed and taken away, or were lying in open trunks. At the end, only moonlight illuminated the bedroom. Neither of them wanted to sleep in it.

Grégoire was asleep, but if he was still adhering to his wild schedule; he would be up for prayer in a few hours, even in the dead of night. For the time being, Darcy was alone. He carried his candlestick in and used the flame to light the old candle at the desk, not quite melted all the way down. He set his own stick down by the dresser and opened the drawer. He had not been thoroughly through it, and the objects were foreign to him, especially in the dim light. There were many small miniatures, carved out of wood—clearly his uncle had whittled as a hobby. There were numerous birds, horses, and a few human figures, not distinct enough to recognize. Perhaps they were not meant to be a specific person.

He would have all of the items put in his own luggage and taken back to Pemberley. He had already decided it; there was no need to dwell on it now. He turned to the desk and opened it. Only one folio remained, still covered in dust. He wiped it away and saw the date. Darcy must have been four and ten, maybe five and ten—this was the last journal, unless Grégoire had removed another one. He sat down and brought the light up closer as he began to read it. It was mainly theological or philosophical arguments Gregory seemed to be having with himself (Gregory himself commented that he was not sure whether he was mad or just bored).

Why am I doing this to myself?
He could see that only a few pages were left. There was no need to guess at why that was.
Perhaps I am
as torturous to myself as Grégoire is to his body
. He sighed and turned the sheets over with great care until he found the last two entries.

“Darcy?”

It was like coming out of a dream. Perhaps he had fallen asleep. But no, there they were, the final letters large on the page. “Grégoire.” He looked at his watch. “Oh yes, of course. Which one is this?”

“Vigils.”

Darcy slumped back into the chair. “I won't keep you.”

Grégoire looked down at the open folio, and then at Darcy. “I have some time. Is it so terrible?”

“It depends. He was a suicide. He is doomed to hell, is he not?”

Grégoire swallowed but did not answer. He read the pages in silence and put the folio down. “Have you been to his grave?”

“I confess not.”

“I found it today. Do you want to see it?”

At half-past three in the morning? Why not?
“Yes.”

The grave was near the abbey walls, so close that it might have been on consecrated ground. The stone had only his name and birth and death dates. The day of death was a day later than the journal entry—they must have discovered him the next morning. The hour he had died was a mystery that would never be solved.