The Devourer

by C H Chelser

  Traversing the length of the rue de Rivoli, they passed the long façade of the Louvre. Neither of them spoke. On both sides of the boulevard, others made the same journey they did, although Paris had so many churches that not everyone was going in the same direction.

  Danielle hovered a few metres ahead of them, running while her feet went through the appropriate motions of only some of the steps. The lively energy of the day and the living presences that surrounded her made it hard for Mercedes to maintain sight of the girl, but whenever she did, it warmed her.

  They came to the Place du Châtelet, the big square where the new boulevards St Sebastopol and rue de Rivoli met. Eric’s arm tensed to steer his wife towards the river quay, to cross to the Cité at the Pont-au-Change. Danielle ran ahead, so Mercedes obeyed without a word.

  “Look at that. More reconstruction works?” she said as extensive wooden scaffolding around the bridge caught her eye at the crossing.

  Eric scoffed, but his hitherto stoic silence soon caved. “Monsieur Haussmann has elected to demolish the Pont-au-Change,” he groused. “Apparently ‘his’ Paris needs wider bridges.”

  On the Cité, in the shadow of the Palais de Justice, they joined the growing crowd that flowed to the southeast side of the island. People from all walks of life heeded the call of the bells of Notre Dame. Around them were youngsters, elderly people, and families with more children than their nannies could keep an eye on. Yet Mercedes paid attention to their clothes.

  Clothes spoke volumes about the people who wore them. Some in the crowd donned austere yet expensive attires, while others were dressed in coats and skirts that might have been of good quality years ago, when fortune had been kinder to their wearers. Others were worse off still, their Sunday best reduced to clothes from decades ago, handed down so often and worn so thin that the greasy fabric was all but translucent. Mercedes saw only a few so destitute among this crowd, none of them moving with it. Not surprising, since people that poor would have attended Notre Dame’s low mass earlier this morning.

  The crowd gathered on the square Notre Dame Parvis, where the cathedral’s bell towers soared above the people like a mother hen watching over her brood. Below her Rose Window, three arches shielded the portals to her sanctum. Waiting in line to enter through the rightmost doors – the Portal of St Anne – Mercedes permitted herself to relish the sense of safety that permeated from the chiselled stone walls. All who sought solace were welcome under these arches. The clergy might distinguish between people, but the spirits that resided in this hallowed structure did not. Small wonder that so many came here to worship.

  Small wonder, too, that this was the only church where she didn’t feel like an apostate for harbouring the secrets she did.

  Her mouth tasted bitter at the thought. As a child, she had confused her faith in God with faith in His mortal servants. At the age of nine, for the first time insecure about seeing what no one else saw, she had confessed to frequently speaking with her dear friend, who had died of consumption months before. Her penalty of praying ten rosaries every day for the next month seemed excessive to her young self, but far worse was that the priest had informed her parents. His oath forbade him to speak of her confession outright, so he had called on them the very next day to ‘discuss her unholy aura’. Her mother had believed the priest’s every word. One of those words had been ‘asylum’. She owed it to her father’s sensibility that she was spared that fate, but even so her mother had locked her up in her room until her month of praying the rosary was up.

  Mercedes hadn’t confided in a clergyman since. At least nothing of importance. From that day forward, the Bible and her rosary were her sole means of penitence. Whether it sufficed, only God knew. She prayed for His forgiveness if it didn’t.

  Inside the cathedral, Eric led her past the many rows of seats until he secured them a spot befitting their station: not the front section of rows where the rich and noble sat, but close enough to ‘be someone’. He made no effort to help her settle down, but got out his prayer book and started reading while she fought to get comfortable without her crinoline jutting out at awkward angles. Mercedes swallowed her dejection and accepted his dramatic indifference. Perhaps he would be in a better mood after liturgy.

  Around them, more people shuffled in and found a seat. Mercedes closed her mind to the bustle and admired the beauty of the cathedral instead. Its immense size didn’t daunt her. She felt at peace here, where the haunted ghosts plaguing her at night could not enter. Not that the cathedral’s sanctity repelled them, but over the centuries, the urge to protect had seeped deep into the cathedral’s masonry. Notre Dame sheltered whoever asked it to. For the wandering spirits, ghosts and black apparitions that had lost faith in God’s love, this alone proved reason enough to avoid entering these walls.

  Which was why she didn’t sense Danielle now. That pained her.

  The big bells stopped ringing and the priest stepped in front of the altar. Slowly everyone in the cathedral fell silent. At the priest’s signal, the service began.

  Sermons in and of themselves held little meaning to Mercedes. Rather than listening to the priest’s admonishing words of warning, she listened to the man’s genuine wish to help his congregation. His intention harboured a more heartfelt message than anything he said.

  Above them, the Great Organ began to play. Her favourite part of any service, Mercedes let the full tones and harmonies flow through her, filling her up. Eyes open in the truest sense, she raised her head. High up in the cathedral’s vaulted arches, a crowd of another kind gathered. Her physical senses only saw the light of the chandeliers, but her other senses registered the brightness of the angels.

  She stared at them in wonder. To witness so many shining souls together never ceased to enthral her. The angels, with wings of light and halo’s extending far beyond their brow, rejoiced at the power of hope that accumulated in the cathedral. They floated above the people, watching and listening in silent satisfaction, and inspired more faith in return. Even if the people beneath couldn’t see them, their presence was felt.

  On the current of the music and the angels’ light, Mercedes sensed the combined faith of the many people here with her. Unknown to themselves, the pious and the sceptic alike listened to what their ears couldn’t hear. Between the one’s rapt attention and the other’s boredom, they shared the precursor of faith: hope. Hope for the future, hope of good fortune to smile on them one day. Hope of deliverance of their doubts and fears, no matter how unlikely and futile that seemed now. She cherished this human ability to hope against all odds. Only those who gave up were ever truly lost.

  At that realisation, her thoughts drifted to last night, to the terrified ghosts in her house. In her memory Danielle cried out to her, little arms begging for her shelter from the long, black claws that threatened to grab them both.

  Mercedes shuddered. Her sight was indiscriminate. The horrors she saw was the price she paid for the miracle of having her daughter back, but now her senses warned her of something more horrific. The apparition in the alley had touched those men, and last night it had touched her, too. Even now, recalling the intense cold on her jaw burned worse than the bruises on her neck. How could she ever protect Danielle from such a demon?

  Eric nudged her hard with his elbow. “Is this how you do your Christian duty?” he hissed under his breath while he got up to pray with the rest of the congregation.

  Startled from her thoughts, Mercedes rose quickly. She folded her hands as her lips moved in time to the words of Notre Père, but her mind still gazed at the cloud of angels. Between the lines she spoke to God, she addressed a silent plea to them, too.

  The first chord of the next hymn echoed through the cathedral. The congregation began to sing and she followed suit, her book of hymns clasped tightly in her hands to demonstrate her dedication. Eric’s arm grazed hers. When she glanced sideways, he gave her a curt but approving nod.

  The music soared and she raised her head as it did. A bril
liance filled Notre Dame. Warmth flowed between the people, in tune with the music and the many voices that resonated against worn stone and carved wood. So many angels cast their light, joyful and soothing, calm yet invigorating.

  And Danielle belonged with them.

  Mercedes lowered her head. Her voice broke once, then again, until finally her tears choked every note she sang. Grief had torn her apart body and soul when she had lost her daughter, only to rip up what little was left of her when God took her other children, too. If not for Danielle’s spirit visiting so often, she would have lost her mind as well.

  But what kind of mother condemns her child to a half-life in order to spare herself the pain of loss? As a ghost, Danielle remained tethered to the physical world without a chance of ever being part of it, yet those same ties severed her from the astral existence she belonged to. Whether or not Danielle had stayed by choice, she was essentially imprisoned. Imprisoned and unable to escape the clutches of the black ghost that had haunted them both last night. Yet as an angel, Danielle would forever be safe. What kind of mother was she if she refused her own daughter that salvation?

  To Mercedes’ eyes, nothing changed, but her second sight was almost blinded by a golden halo descending from on high. It hovered an arm’s length before her, oblivious of the people sitting in the next row. When she blinked, the halo took on the appearance of a man; an older man with a short, white beard, white clothes and the kindest face she had ever seen. She meant to speak, but her mouth followed the priest’s lead instead. The angel smiled in reply. Though he spoke no words either, she understood.

  He had heard her plea and offered to look after Danielle. He would take her little girl, take her to safety. The eternal safety of…

  The last line of the hymn. Her voice failed. Her chest hurt as if she had been stabbed, but what stabbed her was the truth: Danielle deserved the freedom and happiness of Heaven. Her own heart might shatter, but she had no choice. Her daughter came first. She had to let go. For Danielle’s sake, she had to let go.

  The angel disappeared, the organ stopped. Its last cords rang through Notre Dame before all faded. As if in a trance, Mercedes sat down again. The cage under her skirts twisted awkwardly, but familiar hands quickly rearranged the many folds.

  “Do mind how you go, madame,” Eric hissed as he straightened the last creases.

  Her lips twitched. “... apologies, m’cher. I...”

  He hushed her to silence and motioned her to look forward, to the altar where the priest began the presentation of the Eucharist. She obeyed. Perhaps receiving Christ’s blood and Christ’s body would heal the gaping rift inside her. She prayed that despite her flaws, the Lord deemed her worthy of deliverance, because now she had surrendered the miraculous grace of Danielle’s company, it would take another miracle not to lose her sanity after all.

  Sunday passed in a haze from thereon. After the service, Eric changed his mind about walking back and hailed a fiacre. He gave no reason and stubbornly maintained his silence throughout the ride. But in the shade of carriage, he did take out his handkerchief and wipe the fine cotton gently across her tear-stained cheeks. He didn’t ask what had made her cry. She couldn’t tell him even if he had. Perhaps he believed it to be contrition, a sign of penance. She would not correct him if he did. Instead she cherished how the few words he did speak to her lost their accusing undertone as the day progressed.

  Eventually her tears dried up and the stabbing pain dulled into numbness, not gone – never gone – but bearable. She was exhausted, first by fear, then by lack of sleep and now by grief. Minutes swelled into hours as she pretended to read the Bible. It gave her no solace. She only turned the pages to keep up the appearance of devotion.

  By dinnertime, it was Eric who took her hand to help her up. The unexpected touch broke her spiralling desolation with a jolt. Rationality found purchase in her thoughts once more, and she chided herself. She shouldn’t allow herself to grieve so deeply anymore. Self-pity was a dangerous luxury she could ill afford.

  At the dinner table, Eric brought up the delivery times of the shops’ open orders and incoming shipment of cloth due later in the week. Clothes seemed trivial compared to Danielle, but Mercedes found peace in the calculated, straightforward world of business. Life went on. Her life with Eric, with the shop and with the people who depended on them. Broken heart or no, this was where her loyalty should lie.

  Chapter VII

  Wrapped in this calm bubble of rationale, the night did Mercedes no worse than a few incoherent dreams, none of them disturbing enough to wake her. Come morning, the last shreds of them disappeared when a firm grip on her shoulders shook her gently.

  “Time to wake. You are running late,” said Eric, stern but without reproach.

  Mercedes turned over and gazed through the slits of her eyelids at her husband sitting on the side of the bed, fully dressed for the day. “Hnmm coming.” She stifled a yawn and pressed the heels of her hand against her eyes. “Has Gagnon made coffee yet?”

  “No idea,” Eric replied with a contemptuous snort. “I had some of what was left from yesterday, because breakfast is not ready and Gagnon has yet to sweep the pavement in front of the shops, too, the lazy woman.”

  “She is getting older, Eric. That is all.”

  “Too old,” he said, standing up and straightening his waistcoat. “You should consider hiring someone else.”

  Well awake now, Mercedes climbed out of bed. “Dismissing the servants is ultimately your decision, mon cher. But if you are content to leave the matter with me, I will have a word with her first.”

  “Do as you see fit, madame. All I ask is that the chores in this household are completed in a good and timely fashion, and not half a day late!”

  After Eric had departed, Mercedes pulled the cord at her bedside to call her maid. In truth, she had caught on to the growing number of little disorders and omissions in their housekeeper’s work. She surmised that the other two servants picked up some of the slack, but now Eric had noticed, the situation needed to be addressed. Tonight, possibly, but not now. She had a shop to run.

  Getting dressed always took more time than she would like. The hated crinoline waited in the corner of the dressing room while Mercedes suffered Amélie’s elbow in her back and attempted not to breathe as the girl tightened the laces of her corset. Beyond the walls, someone screamed; a sound that was part and parcel to the ruckus of the waking city. Mercedes turned her senses away from the noise. Soon they wandered elsewhere.

  A shimmer in the corner of the room drew her. Her heart skipped a beat when she hoped to see Danielle, but then remembered what she had done. Maybe her little girl had already gone with the kind angel. Gone, leaving her maman…

  The contracting corset cut off a rising sob and hid the jerks in her breathing. Just as well. It wouldn’t do to appear on the shop floor with eyes red and puffy from crying. While Amélie gave another tug, Mercedes stared ahead. Still that shimmer. Bracing for disappointment, she closed her eyes and focused.

  Without the distractions of sight, she clearly saw two small figures huddled in the corner. Children. One was Antoine, the young boy whose eternally sodden clothes had gone out of fashion a century ago. The other—

  Mercedes bit her lip to prevent her from crying out for joy when she recognised the soft curls and the white summer dress.

  Yet something was amiss. The children didn’t smile or play. They simply stood there, drawn close together, watching her with such strong intent that Mercedes’ initial relief became uneasiness instead. Shouts elsewhere in the building registered in her ears, but faded to the background, drowned out by Antoine’s anxiety and Danielle’s anger. The righteous anger of an abandoned child. Mercedes bit her lip.

  “It is better this way,” she whispered.

  “Madame?”

  Amélie’s voice was too loud ignore. Bewildered, Mercedes shot a glance over her shoulder.

  “Madame, are you well? Did I pull the laces too tight?”
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  Mercedes turned back to the corner. It was empty.

  “I’m fine,” she said, taking as deep a breath as the corset allowed. “Yes, all is well. Are you done?”

  “Yes, madame.” The maid’s gaze flitted nervously. “Forgive me, madame, but your face is white. Do you wish to sit down?” Her concern sounded genuine, but its sincerity was misplaced. Servants were servants, not friends.

  “It will pass, girl. Now, help me strap on that steel cage or I will be late.”

  More noise filtered through to the dressing room. Paris was not a quiet city and hearing a fair amount of hubbub out in the street was normal, but this morning the ruckus seemed excessive. Moreover, when Mercedes emerged from the dressing room presentable to perfection, she discovered that the excited shouts of the past half hour were a lot closer than she had assumed. This was in no small part due to the fact that the front door of the flat stood ajar, with her housekeeper eavesdropping on the commotion in the hallway.

  “Gagnon! What is the meaning of this?”

  The old woman started. “Oh, madame,” she exclaimed, wringing her hands. “Monsieur Fabron sent me down to sweep the porch this morning.”

  “As always. And?”

  “Then I found him, madame. Down by the front door, half on the stairs. Oh, poor thing!” She crossed herself. “Monsieur called the police right away.”

  Mercedes frowned. Police? “Where is my husband now?”

  “Downstairs, madame. With...” Shouts of ‘make way’ drifted up from the stairwell. “Oh dear, oh dear...” Gagnon hastily crossed herself again and bowed her head. “I will serve your breakfast, madame.”