Read Online The Splendour Falls by Susanna Kearsley - Free Book Online

anyway.’
    He meant the broad, inviting flight of cobbled steps that cut between the buildings to our right, in a direct line with the fountain. The steps themselves didn’t appear to be particularly steep, but it looked a long way up. I could just see the small cluster of yellow-white houses peering over the edge of the cliff that rimmed the town.
    ‘What is this stone, do you know?’ I asked my self-appointed guides. ‘All the buildings here seem to be made of it.’
    Simon proudly supplied the answer. ‘It’s tufa-stone. Tuffeau in French. It’s the same stone they used to build Westminster Abbey, as a matter of fact.’
    ‘He’s been reading the guide books,’ Paul explained. ‘It’s just a porous limestone, really. That’s what the cliffs round here are made of.’
    Tufa-stone. I filed the name away in my memory. On some of the buildings it almost looked like marble, hard and smooth and faintly reflective, cut in enormous blocksthat had been fitted so expertly one could hardly spot the seams. Coupled with the slate-blue pointed roofs, it gave the town a certain unity of colour and style that lovingly embraced the eye. Most of the shutters were open, now – painted metal shutters stained with rust, and older wooden ones, unpainted, that hung unevenly on their hinges, fastened back against the walls of their respective houses by ancient iron latches. I could understand why Simon found his curtain rod such a nuisance. French windows begged to be flung wide – it seemed a crime somehow to keep them closed.
    The rue Voltaire led off the square as well, a narrow cobbled street that cut a line between the cliffs and the river. It was a lovely street, tastefully restored and rich in atmosphere, but I only caught the briefest glimpses of its tight-packed houses as Simon drove us past them at a breathless pace.
    ‘And here,’ he said, coming to a full and sudden stop where a narrow street angled across the rue Voltaire, ‘is the Great Crossroads. Well, it was a lot greater in the old days, I guess. This,’ he told me, pointing up the smaller sloping street, ‘was how people used to get to the château back then. And that well over there, against the wall, is where Joan of Arc got off her horse when she came to Chinon to see the Dauphin.’
    ‘Ah.’ I smiled. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Joan of Arc – I had in fact been fascinated by her in my younger days, but having lived in France I’d gorged myself on Joan of Arc relics and Joan of Arc books and Joan of Arc historic sites until, in the end, it had produced the same effect as hadthe one too many Rusty Nails I’d drunk the night of my twenty-first birthday. All these years later, I couldn’t face a Rusty Nail without a shudder.
    Still, so as not to ruin Simon’s tour I dutifully inspected the well and made the proper noises. Satisfied, he turned to lead the way up the tilting little street. ‘We go up here. Just watch your step, it’s pretty rough.’
    And pretty steep, in spite of the fact that the road bent back upon itself several times in an attempt to soften the grade of the ascent. Halfway up I stumbled on the jutting cobblestones and paused to catch my breath.
    ‘Small wonder Joan of Arc got off her horse,’ I said, between gulps of air. ‘No self-respecting horse would want to make this climb.’
    Paul laughed and moved steadily past me. ‘You get used to it.’
    I wasn’t so sure. ‘Is this really easier than going up the steps?’
    ‘Yes,’ both boys averred, in unison.
    Simon grinned, and pushed the hair back from his face. ‘Neil goes up and down those steps a few times a day,’ he informed me, ‘for exercise. He says musicians need to keep in shape.’
    ‘Bully for Neil,’ I muttered, and forced my wobbling legs to push onwards. Just when I thought they couldn’t possibly carry me any further, we cleared the final corner and found ourselves gazing out across the rooftops to the gently snaking river. It was a breathless