Séléné considered. “Since none of us has met the Marquis, I suppose it’s possible in theory. Donatien and Ulysse both like to joke that they’re really the Marquis, since after all no one’s ever seen them together. But with all the busybodies in Paris, one would have to be very secretive indeed to conceal that one was really a Savoyard nobleman. So far as I know, Harlequin has a run-down estate somewhere in Picardy, nothing to speak of apart from the title that went with it, which he doesn’t use in any case. Donatien on the other hand, now his family’s estate near Dijon is said to be quite elegant with a lot of land attached.”
“Harlequin does seem secretive though. Or at least guarded. Doesn’t he?”
“Bof. Enough about him. He’s not ever going to have an affair with you, that’s all you need to know. Come on, I want to show you something. Have you been out to the standing stone before?”
“The what?”
“The standing stone, at the entrance to the forest.”
“Outside the garden? But the gate’s always locked tight, and there’s no way over the walls.”
“Silly, of course there is. But shhh, it’s a secret.”
We’d arrived at the fountain of the spring set into the back wall of the garden. On either side of the fountain were mermaid figures cast in stone and set into the wall. Séléné set down the lantern, grasped the left mermaid statuette with both hands, and pulled down. The statuette shifted forward and downward like a lever, and what had seemed to be a small, bricked-in arch behind the fountain rumbled open, swinging inward to leave just enough space for a person to slip through the gap. She picked up the lantern and we went through the dark entrance. It was a sort of stone tunnel, but I could hear the trickling of the spring above and to the side of us.
Séléné raised the lantern over her head. In the wall of the cavern to our right, the spring coursed along a sort of raised aqueduct, before spilling out the opening to the fountain on the other side of the wall. Trickles of water ran down the sides of the wall and gathered in pools at our feet, draining into another tunnel underneath that led downward to the right. To our left were strange, delicate-looking rock formations suspended from the low ceiling of the grotto, like icicles or dangling tree roots made of stone, interspersed with patches of green, blue, and purple crystals. I drew in my breath in wonder.
“It’s beautiful,” I said. “Aurore told me there was a grotto.”
“Isn’t it magical? I thought you’d like it, if you hadn’t already discovered it. Those are real jewels, too – emeralds, rubies, sapphires, amethysts, diamonds …”
We continued forward and the floor of the passage sloped downward and widened. We arrived at a fork, where another tunnel veered off to the left from the main passage and led further down into darkness. Séléné pointed. “Whatever you do, don’t go that way, or you might find yourself in an old abandoned quarry under the streets of Paris. I’m not even joking. I’ve come to Boisaulne that way from Paris, several times before.”
We continued along the main passage, which widened still more and sloped upwards, and came out of the cave into the moonlit night. To the side of the entrance of the grotto we’d just come out of stood an upright oblong stone, as tall as a man, like a black sentry.
“That’s the standing stone,” Séléné said, raising her lantern to illuminate the stone. “My maid in Paris talked about seeing them in the countryside sometimes around her village in Brittany, and in the old sacred places in the forest. She said there are some rather obscene traditions connected with them. They’re a remnant of the old heathen beliefs the village priests could never entirely stamp out. They were associated with fertility rituals, and young girls would go and seat themselves atop them for a night, to find themselves lovers, or assure themselves of a fruitful womb.”
I blushed a little, strangely aroused by her description and grateful for the darkness as Séléné set her lantern down again. She took me in her arms and embraced me, backing me up against the stone. She nuzzled her lips against my cheek, kissed it, and then began to kiss me on the lips, opening her mouth to mine like a man. Her hands caressed me down my chest and breasts and then she reached down to lift up my skirts and caressed me under them. I pretended to myself I was too drunk to stop her, but a small part of me knew I could stop it if I wished to, and I didn’t. She asked me to return her caresses, and I did. It all seemed unreal, like something out of a dream.
When each of us had in turn moaned and shuddered and cried out, she held me half-undressed in her arms for a long time. I thought of Thérion and wondered where he was just then. Would he be angry if he knew I had done this? Had he thought of this happening when he granted my wish for more company? I took heart, remembering the motto Harlequin had laid down in his speech at dinner: We don’t speak in the day of the things we do in the night. Perhaps no one else need ever know of this, not even Thérion.
I closed my eyes drowsily for a moment. The sound of twigs snapping under a heavy tread made me open them wide again. Séléné noticed nothing, resting her head on my shoulder. I stayed motionless, watching the path that led out from the grotto entrance into the forest. Was I only imagining it, or did I see the black silhouette of a massively tall and gaunt horned figure moving through the trees toward us? My heart beat a hundred leagues a minute and for a few seconds I was paralyzed with terror, as in a nightmare. Then I shook off my stupor and quickly moved out from under Séléné’s embrace, pulling the top of my dress back up and refastening it.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“I’m frightened. Let’s go back. Now. At once!”
Before she could respond, I seized her by the hand, snatching up the lantern in my other hand, and dragged her back down into the cave, back along the path through the grotto and up through the arched stone door behind the fountain, into the garden.
“How does it close?” I asked frantically.
“The mermaid, just push it back up.”
I scrabbled in the darkness to find the stone mermaid, now jutting headfirst out from the wall as though on a ship’s prow. I pushed it back upright against the stone. The gate rumbled back into place as it was before.
I stood there catching my breath, and slowly my heart stopped pounding.
“Did you see that?” I asked.
“See what?”
“The roi des aulnes. The Erl-King. Coming toward us from the woods.”
“Oh, come, surely not. It was just a deer, I bet, and you mistook it for a monster from a story.”
“No, I saw him. He strode on two legs like a tall man, but his head was antlered.”
“Bof. You’ve taken a fright somehow. Let’s get you into bed.”
We made our way through the garden back into the house, where the lights had been extinguished and no more music came from the salon or the music room. We set the lantern back into its sconce in the gallery and at the end of the hall found the anteroom with a low light still burning, like a night lamp waiting for us. By the light of a few of the sconces still lit on each landing, we made it up to the third floor, where we parted ways with kisses on each cheek, I to my chamber and she to hers. The clock struck two as I changed into a fresh chemise and got into bed in the dim glow of the embers in the fireplace.
I fell asleep quickly, my last thought of Thérion and the fact that he had not come to me that night. Or did he come, only to find my bed cold and empty? The beast I saw in the forest – was it him, going in search of me?
IX
I slept through to mid-morning and took my coffee in the pale blue and white morning room. The Scotsman had just sat down when I came in, and Tristan arrived a few minutes after me. Neither of them commented on my disappearance with Séléné the night before. They both spoke of what a remarkable place Boisaulne was, and how charming the party of the previous evening had been.
Over breakfast, the Scotsman told me he was curious as to the avenues of education in Savoy compared to his own country, and so I told him what I could, that
it was a country of devout Catholic faith with a few small pockets of other forms of belief, with very limited opportunities sometimes in the mountain villages. I described to him my own education and autodidactic efforts and, forgetting the rules of the château for a moment, explained how my son had gone away to school amongst the Catholics in Annecy and had to hide his Vaudois faith, while my daughter was being educated by a governess who had come from Lyon to live with my sister’s family on their farm. I didn’t mention that I only knew how my children were being educated because Thérion told me the news he received from my father.
“But I know Annecy well,” Tristan said. “I lived there nine years, and much of my own education took place there.”
“Did you go to school there?” I asked.
“I studied music there for a time. I was born in Genève, and my father was my earliest teacher. We used to read books aloud together – all through the night sometimes. Then I was sent away to an apprenticeship in a printer’s house, where I was miserable – they starved us and we had no rest, and I had no time to read, though I was surrounded by books. So I ran away and crossed the border into Savoy. I’d befriended a priest, though I was raised a Calvinist, and he introduced me to a wealthy lady he had converted, who lived in Annecy. It was agreed she would take me in and provide for my education if I agreed to be baptized a Catholic, which I did. Converting was a practical expedient and didn’t matter so much to me. In my heart I’ve always had my own faith in natural religion, independent of dogma or creed.”
“That’s quite a story,” the Scotsman said. “And then you chose music for a profession?”
“It was a while before I settled on anything,” Tristan said. “My benefactress entertained educated men and women who came to visit, and all of her friends were keen to help me find a suitable profession. I gained an interest in botany at her house, since the lady was a great believer in the powers of herbs and had an expert gardener who taught me the varieties of plants and their properties. I didn’t see a living in botany, though. Working as a gardener seemed too menial. Then it was found I had a talent for singing, so I studied music and learned enough to make my living as a teacher and copyist and composer.”
“A most unusual upbringing,” the Scotsman said. “But a good way to feed a wide-ranging and curious mind. You ought to write your memoirs one day. For my part I just went to school in Edinburgh and liked to study, so I kept at it and ended up by writing books.”
“Are you thinking of writing a book on education?” I asked.
The Scotsman shrugged. “Oh, probably not a whole book. An essay maybe.”
“The challenge of education,” said Tristan, “is that men are born in harmony with nature. Our Maker endows us with natural goodness, but society has a degenerating effect on us – on all things, really.”
“The view of man in the world fallen from grace,” the Scotsman said. “Which some might debate, but if that view were granted, what would you see as the implication for schooling?”
Tristan chewed his bread thoughtfully, swallowed it down with coffee, and answered, “The key thing is that learning shouldn’t extinguish the natural light that’s in us, but nurture it. Yet it must still prepare us for life in society with its corrupting influences. The aim should be to balance the need of society to form good citizens, by shaping us for civil and cooperative life, against the need for the individual to live for himself by the light of his own good nature and reason.”
The Scotsman took a breath and was about to reply when a crash of thunder struck outside. Our eyes were drawn to the window, which now framed black clouds sweeping in over the mountains. Rain began to pour down on the château, its grounds, and the surrounding forest.
“Ah, what a shame,” said Tristan. “I hope it doesn’t last. I wanted to see the gardens later. I hear they’re quite lovely. I’d promised to meet Clio for walk there in the afternoon.” He blushed a little as he said it, and the Scotsman looked stern for a moment, then shrugged.
“Who knows how long it could last? One might need an ark to survive this deluge. But I suppose it’s as good a day as any to take care of some correspondence I need to write.”
“But one can take a pleasant walk inside the château,” I said. “It’s bigger on the inside than it looks from the outside. In the library alone you could amuse yourselves for days on end. And there are curiosity cabinets in several of the rooms. Scotsman, in fact you might be interested in a chest of local antique artifacts. I haven’t found it yet, but Harlequin mentioned there was one, and I think I saw a chest the other day that might have been it. We could look for it and see if it’s unlocked or ask Harlequin if he has a key.”
“Exploring for treasure,” said the Scotsman. “Why not? Could be a right adventure.”
We finished our breakfast and set off together in search of the chest. I discovered it half-hidden under a table in a smaller room with cabinets of clocks, sundials, astrolabes, and compasses in curious designs, some with precious stones or metals worked in, some with enamelwork in deep jewel-like colors, some in the form of ships, owls, or dragons. The chest was large and made of heavy dark wood, so Tristan, the Scotsman, and I heaved together to pull it out from under the table. It was unlocked and filled with smaller chests, bags made of cloth and leather, and objects tied up with ribbons or twine, some with labels written on strips of vellum. Just as Harlequin had told me the night I arrived at Boisaulne, the artifacts ranged from coins and spearheads to amulets made of bone or copper crusted over with the green of age. There were wood and stone fragments with carved inscriptions in Latin, and a few that looked even older, in patterns the Scotsman recognized with excitement.
“Extraordinary. They appear to be something like runic symbols. These would have been created prior to the widespread diffusion of Christianity through the region. For all we know even prior to the Roman conquests. They’re not unlike the remnants of the old pagan Celts one can sometimes find in ancient barrows in the countryside in the British Isles.”
Reverently he pulled out another small box and opened it. I gasped. It was a large round medallion on a plain black ribbon, made of tarnished silver with a figure stamped on it, a man wearing a great antlered mask made of a stag’s skull.
“But it’s him!” I cried, forgetting myself in my astonishment. “I saw him last night in the forest.” I leaned over the box in the Scotsman’s hands to examine it more closely. At the base of the figure, in Latin capitals, the word CERNUNNOS was inscribed.
“Who? Who is it? What did you see?” said a deep voice behind us. I turned and realized Harlequin had come into the room and had been watching us examine the contents of the chest. He took a few steps closer and saw what I was looking at.
“Did you go outside the garden?” he asked me quietly.
For a moment I was too stunned to respond. Then I recovered my composure enough to shake my head and pretend to laugh at myself.
“It was just a dream I had last night. I dreamt I saw a figure very like this one, striding through the forest. I was just surprised by it, that’s all.”
Harlequin regarded me contemplatively.
“I asked a few of the villagers about some of the objects,” he said, “whether they could help identify them. The priest was rather frightened of that one. He said it was an old devilish symbol, a forest god who once was worshiped in these parts. I had to promise him it would be destroyed. Of course I did no such thing. I assume Cernunnos was the name of the deity.”
Tristan had already gone back to looking at other artifacts in the chest, but the Scotsman nodded and said, “Perhaps from Latin cornuos, horn. It might be a co-mingling with the Roman Pan, or a kind of satyr figure.”
“Perhaps,” Harlequin said.
The Scotsman closed the box with the medallion and returned it to the chest. Later, when no one was looking, I quickly reached under the lid of the box, took the medallion, and slipped it into my pocket. I didn’t mean to steal it, but only to borrow it to look at
more closely when I was alone. After we’d gone through the rest of the trunk, Tristan excused himself, eager, I suspected, to go in search of Clio to revise their plan for a walk in the garden. The Scotsman withdrew to write his letters, and I was left alone with Harlequin. We walked out to the gallery together.
“Belle-me,” he said, “tell me truly, did you go outside the garden last night?”
I blushed at his kind tone, patient as though he were a father questioning a lying child.
“I did, but I wasn’t alone.”
“Who were you with?”
“Séléné showed me the way through the grotto from behind the fountain of the spring, but we didn’t even go into the forest. We stayed just outside by the standing stone.”
“You must never go that way alone at night. Will you promise me that?”
I nodded. He looked stern for a moment, but then his serious expression relaxed. Slowly he began to laugh. “Did Séléné get to you so soon? You can be flattered, you know, that she made you her very first conquest. Are you blushing?”
I hadn’t thought it possible for my face to get any redder. I felt sweat trickle down from under my arm.
“I thought there was a rule,” I stuttered. “We don’t talk in the day of the things we do in the night.”
He pursed his lips, holding back laughter.
“Don’t feel bad. Nearly anyone worth pursuing succumbs to her at some point. It just shows you’re not ugly or dull. She might seduce someone boring if they’re attractive, or someone ugly and interesting, but never anyone both dull and plain.”
“You mean to say she has many lovers.”
“It’s nothing to take seriously. I don’t believe she takes it seriously.”
“And you? Have you been with her?”
“Me? No,” he said flatly. “I’m ugly and dull.”
“You’re reserved, but not dull. And I don’t think you’re ugly.”
He shrugged but didn’t seem unhappy. “And did you enjoy it?”
The Prisoner of the Castle of Enlightenment Page 11