The store was unlike any other Emilie had ever seen. There were rows of bottles filled with various contents, such as scented oils, herbs, powders, bone fragments, dried insects, flowers, holy water, eau de cologne, roots, snakeskins, berries, nuts, and desiccated chicken feet. Each bottle was labeled with a yellowed parchment on which mysterious symbols were written that could have been Latin, Greek, or Kabbalistic. There was also a large assortment of candles in various colors and sizes, talismans, crucifixes, charms, rosaries, and statues of saints and African deities. On one wall there were pictures of saints with eyes that looked curiously alive. It was enough to make her skin crawl, but she had come too far to back down.
The Grand Zamy laid down his fountain pen. “Is there something I can do for you, mam’selle?”
“I, uh—” Emilie froze.
He leaned forward and urged her to continue with a kindly, paternalistic voice.
“I. . . uh. . . need some help,” she said, feeling strangely awkward.
The Grand Zamy motioned toward a chair. “Please sit down, mam’selle. What is your name? Don’t be afraid. I’m here to help you.”
Emilie slithered into the chair and met his gaze. His face looked so normal, so paternalistic, almost like a kindly grandfather. She could hardly believe this debonair gentleman was responsible for so much death and turmoil, most of which was only spoken about in hushed tones. She had heard a rumor from Victorine that his first wife went insane and was shut up in the lunatic asylum on rue Levassor, although no one knew for certain. She simply disappeared one day, and the sisters of Saint-Paul de Chartres who cared for the patients were notoriously tight-lipped about them. But Victorine’s face went grim when she told Emilie that no one had ever seen or heard from his wife again. But that was many years ago. Most people had forgotten about her. No one knew precisely what went on inside the stone walls of the asylum, although some people claimed they heard screams in the night. Others told stories about restraining chairs and other forms of torture. Victorine said she had heard of people who were poisoned by him. And some who were turned into zombies. It was all terrifying to Emilie. Adding to the mystery, everywhere he went he was trailed by an alluring servant girl, even when he went to mass each morning. The exact nature of their relationship was always the subject of gossip and innuendo. Still, Emilie reasoned that this sinister character was her best chance for breaking free of Lucien.
“Bonjour, my name is Emilie Dujon, and I have a problem.” As she spoke, the Grand Zamy fixed his eyes on her, as if he was hypnotizing her. She shifted in her seat and continued, “You see, I’m engaged to a man who is unfaithful. . .” She paused for a moment to let that sink in. The Grand Zamy nodded, sphinxlike, and urged her to continue. “Since I no longer love him or wish to marry him, I must find a way to end our engagement without causing a scandal.”
The Grand Zamy leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “So if I understand you correctly, you’re engaged to a man you do not wish to marry.”
“That is correct.”
The Grand Zamy regarded her through narrow slits. “Does this man love you?”
“Yes, I believe he does, in his own way.”
“But you don’t love him.”
Emilie shook her head. “No.”
“Then, mam’selle, you have a serious problem indeed.” The Grand Zamy closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead, as if deep in concentration. “Let me think for a moment. Love, you see, is a powerful emotion. Once it takes hold, it is very hard to uproot. But there are certain herbs that can help mitigate the situation, provided of course you use the correct mixture and in the correct dosage. Luckily for you I have great experience in these matters. As you can see, I have a well-stocked laboratory.” He motioned toward the shelves with the assortment of bottles. “In addition, there are powerful incantations that can increase the effectiveness of the potion. I recently assisted a young man from the village of Pointe-Noir who fell in love with a young lady whose family objected to their engagement. They whisked her away to the other side of the island, which enraged him. He came to me in a state of great agitation, vowing revenge against anyone who would take away the love of his life.”
“What happened?” said Emilie.
The Grand Zamy gave a mysterious smile, like the Mona Lisa. “I don’t think you want to know the exact details of that case. Thankfully I solved the young man’s problem to his satisfaction, and in the end, that’s all that counts, correct?” Emilie nodded. “The medicine I prescribe is tailor-made to suit each patient’s needs. It takes years of experience to know the correct formula and spells. That is the art of the herbalist. But it’s a mistake to think I alone hold full control over the outcome. At most I am only an intermediary. I ask the spirits to intervene on behalf of my clients. Some herbalists—my competitors, some of whom are quite unscrupulous—think the best approach is to simply eliminate the obstacle. But that is an extreme measure I rarely employ. First, let us consult the cards and see what they have to say.”
Standing up to his full height, the Grand Zamy lit the black candles on the chandelier and said, “Spirits, I invoke you, tell me how to solve this young woman’s problem.”
The black candles flickered for a moment and then mysteriously snuffed out. Taking out a deck of tarot cards, he shuffled them and asked her to cut them. He spread the cards out on his desk in the shape of a cross, then he turned them over one by one, studying them with great concentration. Finally he looked up and said, “You have recently discovered a painful truth, or perhaps you have been betrayed. You feel lost, isolated, and alone. Perhaps you have seen your man in the arms of another woman. That is the Three of Swords. I see much anguish and despair. You feel as though you have been pushed to your limits, and you’re going through a dark night of the soul. You are filled with worry and sadness. You lie awake all night, worrying and fretting. That is the Nine of Swords.” He pointed to a card and gazed at her through narrowed eyes. “I sense you are experiencing an upheaval, a sudden change, or perhaps you have realized the truth about something. Something that was once hidden but has now been exposed. You are in a crisis. This is evidenced by the Tower card over here.” He pointed to a card that showed a tower that was struck by lightning and was in flames. Emilie shuddered at the sight of it.
“And look here.” He pointed to another card. “This is the Nine of Pentacles. It represents a lady of refinement and grace. She does not seek the easy way out but learns to take matters into her own hands. She relies on herself to solve her own problems. This, mam’selle, is you. You must learn to trust your own abilities. And do you see the Ace of Cups over here? This represents a new love or a fork in the road, a new path or a struggle between two choices. Beware of overconfidence and the danger of rushing in too soon. I see difficult times ahead of you. Great strife. I see a maiden, bound and blindfolded, surrounded by danger and unable to see her way out. She is overwhelmed. She feels trapped by her circumstances, lost and confused. This is the Eight of Swords. Don’t look worried, mam’selle; I am sure you will find your way out. Look here, there is a powerful, broad-shouldered man carrying a great burden. That is the Knight of Wands. He is confident and courageous. He carries the duty of responsibility on his shoulders. He will risk anything without fear. That card is a good sign. Finally, I see an awakening to a new and even greater challenge. I see a large goal ahead of you.” The Grand Zamy looked up from the cards. “Unfortunately, that is all I see. I believe your problem is not too severe and can be solved by a simple ritual and potion.”
“Are you sure?” said Emilie.
“I’ve dealt with much worse cases.”
“Are these potions dangerous? I mean, can they cause great harm?”
“My dear, anything can be harmful if applied in the incorrect dosage. That is why you must always consult with an expert. For ten francs I will prepare a powder that will calm your fiancé’s ardor and cause him to break off your engagement. Perhaps it will set your destiny in motion. Ha
ve no fear that harm will come to him. I assure you the effects are not permanent.” He erupted in house-shaking laughter that sent a shiver up her spine.
With quivering hands, Emilie extracted ten francs from her purse and handed it over to the Grand Zamy. He placed the money in a strongbox and locked it. He explained to her that she must take three strands of her hair and three strands of Lucien’s hair and wrap them up in a sheet of silk paper. Then she must go to the cemetery and stand at the edge of an open grave and recite the following incantation: Sator arepo, tenet opera, Rohas, Enam, Binah Jhedulah, Teburah, Jiphereth, Netzah, Hod, Jesode, Malrouth, Meschache, Obdenego! Come all to help me destroy the love that oppresses my heart! Emilie wrote down all the instructions, including the spell. The Grand Zamy continued, “Then, while still standing at the edge of the grave, you must light a candle and say, Good souls of purgatory, I entrust my love to you in order to let it fall asleep in the same way that you were plunged into your eternal sleep. So be it. As you recite the words, throw the silk paper with the hair into the grave.”
The Grand Zamy stood up and strode over to the wall. He selected an assortment of bottles containing various powders and herbs. After mixing them in a wooden bowl, he added some crushed beetles, a drop of lavender oil, and a bit of tafia. He poured the mixture into a vial, which he sealed with a cork and handed to Emilie.
“Here you are, mam’selle,” he said. “This is the potion that will change your life. Now give me the young man’s name and date of birth.” She gave him the information. “Now listen very carefully. When he comes to visit, light a white candle in front of a mirror. Place the powder into a glass of punch and serve it to him. In a short while his behavior will start to change. He may seem a little intoxicated at first, perhaps even a little erratic, but he will soon ask for his ring back, and your problem will be solved.”
“Is it that simple?” she asked.
Eyeing her, the Grand Zamy said, “For you, my dear, it is simple. For me it is a bit more complicated. I will recite the appropriate spells, perform sacrifices, and petition the spirits—that is the special task of the herbalist. I do not expect a fine lady to sacrifice a chicken.”
The Grand Zamy roared with laughter, causing Emilie to almost jump out of her seat. Clutching the vial, she raced out of the store.
Chapter 18
When Lucien arrived that evening, Emilie was ready. Just before dinner she had stolen away to the cemetery with a candle and a sheet of silk paper containing three strands of her hair intertwined with three strands of Lucien’s hair, which she had procured from a locket he had given her. She located an empty grave, lit the candle, and recited the mysterious incantation. Then she tossed the paper in the grave and rushed home. She rehearsed in her mind what she would do when Lucien arrived until she knew it like the back of her hand. By the time the clock struck seven o’clock, she was as nervous as a lobster before a pot of boiling water. Her mind conjured up all sorts of terrifying scenarios, which she tried to shrug off but found it impossible. She sighed and rubbed her forehead. She had invested ten francs to rid herself of Lucien. If it failed, she would be in a terrible predicament.
As Emilie got dressed for dinner, she took great pains to hide her inner turmoil. All the lessons she had learned from Sister Marie in the convent school of Saint-Joseph de Cluny came back to haunt her—all her old fears and worries, her anxieties about voodoo and black magic. She had always striven to be an example of virtue and piety, but circumstances had caused her to fall to a level she could never have foreseen. She was dabbling in voodoo! She could almost see Sister Marie’s admonishing eyes upon discovering the truth. It filled her with intense shame and remorse. Outwardly she looked exquisite in a pale-blue tea gown and her grandmother’s pearl necklace, but inside she felt anxious and afraid. As Da Rosette brushed her hair, Emilie looked at her reflection in the mirror and felt like a hypocrite. She had never lied to her nanny before, and now she was reduced to sneaking around behind everyone’s back hiring a quimboiseur to sacrifice chickens on her behalf! She felt lower than a chicken thief. If word got out that she had resorted to voodoo, it would create a terrible scandal. She could never face her friends or even her relatives. And poor Maurice! He would be so disappointed in her. Black magic and sorcery were taboo, reserved for primitive and superstitious people. As Emilie stared at her reflection, she saw the Grand Zamy’s face laughing at her, mocking her with his yellow eyes and his white teeth gleaming like a skull. She shivered and rubbed her shoulders. She wished the night would end quickly.
Later, as Emilie marched down the stairs, she was utterly focused on her mission. She was determined to succeed. By the end of the night, she wanted to be rid of Lucien forever.
For the first time in ages, even her mother looked pleased with her.
“Well, look what we have here,” said Mme Dujon, beaming from ear to ear. “I’m glad you’ve finally come to your senses. Lucien will be overjoyed when he sees you.” Then she flitted about the house putting fresh balisier flowers in the vases. Like Emilie’s mother, even Da Rosette was exuberant. She had changed into her best muslin dress and matching turban and draped her silk foulard over her shoulders like a royal mantle. She hobbled through the house with her cane, but her back was straighter than Emilie had seen in years. Da Rosette laid out the crystal wineglasses and a plate of cake on the table, remarking how much she wished that Grandma Loulou could be there to share such a special occasion.
A knock on the door caused everyone to jump. To Emilie’s relief, standing on the doorstep was none other than Abbé Morel in his black cassock and round-brimmed hat. As soon as he saw Emilie, his face lit up, and he rushed into the house. Pulling her aside, he whispered that he would speak to Lucien about calling the wedding off. He thought that if he applied the right pressure, he might persuade the young man that she was not yet ready for marriage.
“That’s not necessary, Tonton Abbé,” said Emilie. “I have it all figured out.”
He looked at her quizzically. “Have what figured out?”
“How to end my engagement,” she whispered. “But I can’t talk about it now. You’ll see soon enough.”
Soon they were joined by her father, and by the time Lucien arrived, Emilie’s heart was pounding.
When Lucien’s carriage arrived, Georges was the first to greet his future son-in-law. He shook Lucien’s hand and patted him on the back while the latter beamed from ear to ear, especially when he spied Emilie standing resplendent in the glow of the chandelier.
“You look ravishing,” said Lucien, giving her a peck on the cheek. “I’m glad you’ve finally come around. If anything, when you played hard to get, you made me crazier about you. But I hope there will be no more of that foolish talk. You’re the only woman for me.”
Emilie offered a wan smile but was too nervous to speak.
Georges led his guests to the dining room, and after Abbé Morel said grace, servants brought out platters of food, and everyone dined. After a while the conversation drifted to the subject of politics, giving Emilie the perfect chance to put her potion to work.
Jumping up, she realized she had forgotten to light the white candle. She hurried to the salon, grabbed the candle, placed it in front of a mirror, and then lit it with a match, almost burning herself in the process. From her pocket she extracted the bottle with the voodoo potion and emptied the contents into a glass, which she filled with rum punch. With shaky hands she filled the remaining glasses with punch and carried the tray back to the dining room. One by one she handed out the glasses, careful to reserve the tainted one for Lucien. She was so nervous she could scarcely breathe.
And then disaster struck. Just as she sat down, Abbé Morel knocked over his glass of punched. She jumped up, but before she could pour him another, Lucien handed the priest his own glass, saying he had already drunk too much. Horrified, Emilie tried to snatch the glass away from Abbé Morel, but before she could grab it, he had already brought it to his lips and begun to drink.
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Emilie sank into her seat, feeling her face draining of color. She watched Abbé Morel finish his drink and set the glass back on the table. When the conversation resumed, no one noticed that Emilie failed to touch her drink. No one saw the look of horror in her eyes when Abbé Morel drank from Lucien’s cup. What happened next almost made her heart stop.
Abbé Morel’s face flushed, and his eyes took on a glassy appearance. He broke out in a sweat and started mumbling. Soon it was visible to all that he was in great distress. Emilie lifted her glass to take a drink, but her hand was so shaky she dropped it on the floor, where it shattered in a thousand pieces.
“Emilie, what’s got into you?” said her mother with a scornful expression.
“Nothing, Maman,” said Emilie. “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”
A servant rushed over to clean up the mess. Emilie bent down to help her, but the servant shooed her away. Left with no choice, Emilie squirmed in her seat, feeling a growing unease at the distressing situation.
Abbé Morel’s head began to sway, and his face turned colors. Emilie’s stomach churned. Time stood still. As the priest suffered the effects of the potion, she saw her life flashing before her eyes.
Hovering near her, Da Rosette gave Emilie a quizzical look, but the panicked expression on her face told her to remain silent. When the broken glass was cleaned up, the conversation resumed, but Emilie was filled with dread. Her beloved Tonton Abbé’s face took on a pallid color. His eyelids fluttered, and he looked queasy. She tried to revive him by patting his cheeks and offering him some fresh water, but nothing worked. Abbé was slipping into a drugged state, and sooner or later, her crime would be exposed. The idea left her nauseated.
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