“I won’t!” He couldn’t believe this was happening. Anything but the amulet. He jumped up from his desk and broke for the door, but she caught him by the shoulder and pushed him down roughly. She set her paddle down and with her free hand lifted the amulet from around his neck. Moussa was squirming, his face red with anguish. He clutched it tightly as she pulled, but then let go for fear she would break it.
Sister Godrick held it up for the class to see. It dangled from her hand, a dark leather cord with a pouch at the end that was sewn around the edges, its contents hidden. It was to her a tool of devil worship, a heathen offering to false gods, an adornment of evil that belonged with voodoo rituals and savage sacrifices. Worst of all, it was a direct denial of the power of the Almighty.
“This is an abomination under God,” she said, her voice rising. “It is a violation of His commandments. It is a sacrilege. There is only one Church and one true God, and this” – she shook it in her fist – “this is not His sacrament. Michel has jeopardized his eternal soul by wearing it, and by ascribing to it false powers, and by bringing it among us.” Moussa’s eyes were riveted on her fist, desperately afraid of what she might do.
Unlike Moussa, Sister Godrick was not resigned to letting things continue along as they had been. If there had been lengthening moments of peace between them, she knew the boy was far from broken. He was still the lamb of God with a disease that could infect her entire flock. He was poisoned by an independent streak that remained as noxious to her as the breath of the devil himself. She had been ready to destroy the amulet right there, to take scissors to it and shear it to pieces in front of the class. But she read the expression on Moussa’s face and instantly understood that she held in her hand the instrument of his submission to her will. His eyes were vulnerable as they had never been under punishment or threat. She could see the amulet meant everything to him. She let him go, and walked to her. She found paper and hastily drew a picture. She turned and walked to the lesson board, where there were nails for displays. She spiked the picture on the nail. It was a crude likeness of Satan, and the nail poked through his forehead. Then she hung the amulet over it, and it appeared to hang around the devil’s neck. Satisfied with her handiwork, she turned to the class.
“The coin that does not bear the image of the Prince of Heaven has no place in His Kingdom,” she said gravely. “The works of man that do not have the love of God stamped upon them, have no value in Heaven. This is a work of blasphemy, of magic and sorcery, and has no place in this life. It is a sign of weakness, of submission to evil. You will see it hang there on the proper neck, and you will remember that they belong together. Over the weeks as it hangs there you will observe Michel, and see that he does not need it for luck as he believes. One has no need of luck when one has the Lord.”
She opened her desk drawer. Looking carefully before she reached in, as she now did every time she opened it, she withdrew a small rosary. She took it to Moussa and held it out to him. “Idle hands that have need of occupation can do no better than this, Michel. You will leam that lesson and one day bless the Lord for His light.” He made no move to take it from her. She set it on his desk and turned her back on him. It was time for the day’s other lessons.
Sister Godrick could not have stricken more directly at Moussa with a spear to his heart. For the rest of the day he sat dumbly in his seat, devastated and in shock. She had taken from him his protection, his shield against a hostile world. It had saved him from the boar and from French bullets, from fevers and accidents and he didn’t know what else. It held the spirit and goodwill of his uncle, a man he had never seen. His mother had told him about the amenokal, and Moussa saw him as a great and powerful man, just and wise. Such a man would never have given him the amulet without being certain of its effectiveness. Moussa believed in its power as surely as he knew the sun rose in the morning.
At recess he sat at his desk, refusing to go outside until she made him leave, and then he stayed just outside the room. He didn’t want to go where the other boys were. He felt naked. He looked to be sure it was still hanging there. He was desperately afraid she’d throw it away while he wasn’t looking, and that it would be gone and he wouldn’t know where. He paid no attention during lessons. She spoke and he heard nothing. She gave instructions and Paul had to nudge him to comply. The amulet hung on its devil, and Moussa tried to think of what to do.
After school he waited until the other students had left, and in one of the hardest moments he could remember approached Sister Godrick, who was writing at her desk.
“Yes, Michel?” she asked without looking up. “What is it?”
“Sister, I’m sorry I brought the amulet to school.”
“As am I.” The words were delivered sharply.
“Sister, if you will just let me take it home, I promise I won’t wear it, and that I won’t bring it back—” There was pleading in his voice, a desperate tone she had never heard. She was pleased. Her assessment had been correct. His weakness was within her grasp.
“Get to your knees, Michel,” she directed. “Bow your head. And close your eyes.”
He had guessed she would do something like this. He told himself she would soften if he complied. He hesitated for a moment, to make it look to her as if he was deciding, but his decision had already been made. He sank to his knees and closed his eyes. He rested his elbows on her desk and clasped his hands.
“Let us pray.” She led him through the Lord’s Prayer, and after that an act of contrition. He repeated the words after her, with the promise to sin no more. Then she told him to say a prayer out loud, a prayer of his own making. He felt awkward and struggled to find the words. He hadn’t made up a prayer since he stopped praying, and he’d never made one up for someone else to hear.
“Father, forgive me for my sins,” he began. Those were easy words, that started many prayers. “I know it was wrong to bring the amulet to class. To St. Paul’s, I mean. I know it is Your house and I meant no harm by it. I’ve learned my lesson, God, I promise, and I won’t do it again…” He didn’t say, “if You’ll just make her give it back.” After all, she wasn’t stupid. She was just a nun.
When he finished he almost forgot. “In Jesus’ name, Amen,” he said.
“Amen,” Sister Godrick repeated. He opened his eyes. They were filled with hope that all had been rectified.
“May I take it now, Sister?”
“You have a great distance to travel, Michel, on the road to God’s salvation. I find your words self-serving and your motives transparent. You value your pride more than your soul, which stands in mortal peril.” She rose and dismissed him with an icy wave. “The amulet will stay where it is.”
“Sister, please,” he beseeched her, his voice trembling. “I’ll do anything you ask.”
“It is not what I ask of you, Michel, it is what the Lord asks. When you understand that, when you truly believe it, then I will know. And I will give the amulet back to you, and you will destroy it yourself. Go now. I am busy.”
He shook his head and tried to absorb it all. He felt betrayed and full of hatred. He got to his feet, shaking with anger. “You tricked me! You’re worse than the devil! I hate you! I hate you!” She didn’t flinch. Her eyes were penetrating and cold and steady, and she knew she had him. He would not be long now, coming to the ways of the Lord.
Moussa ran from the room, blind with tears and rage, alternating with promises to himself that he’d kill her, that he’d steal the amulet back, that he’d burn the cathedral to the ground if he had to. He didn’t know what to do. He wanted to die.
CHAPTER 13
You live among jackals. they will forget you, and turn on you, and eat you alive.”
Every night Delescluze came to him, mocking, taunting. Every night he said it again: “Your world is finished.” The colonel laughed at the absurd notion, secure in his empire, unafraid, unbelieving, and spit in his face. A gust of wind blew up and turned the spit around in midair and it landed back on Jules’s cheek.
Delescluze shrieked with laughter when he saw. “You wear it so well, Colonel.”
He awoke in his recurring fog of pain. His head screamed and his temples pounded. His tongue was thick. His throat and mouth were dry and tasted hideous. He squeezed his eyes shut in dread of the new day. He had no desire to face it. His days were running sores that ran together, one after another, the next just like the last, tomorrow more of yesterday, today just the same, stuck in between. He hated waking up. The room was dark. He was alone now, the other side of the bed empty. Had Elisabeth been there? He didn’t remember. He doubted it. She didn’t sleep in their bed anymore. He wasn’t sure if she slept in the château, either. It didn’t matter.
He dragged himself from his bed to a sitting position, and with a supreme effort stood up. Too soon, too dizzy. He sat down again and held his head in his hands. How could it hurt so much? He had no idea how much he’d had to drink the night before. Where had he been? In? Out? Had someone been there with him? Dim memory, of Paul and dinner. No, that was the night before. Someone was yelling, someone’s face was in his face, and he’d gotten angry and – had he hurt anyone? He didn’t think so. But he didn’t know. That was the worst part, not knowing whether the savage had struck or not. He couldn’t imagine striking someone in his family. As angry as he’d gotten over the years, he’d always kept his temper under control, neatly buttoned up and stored inside, and when it was too much there were always his troops to take it out on. But even they had never felt the back side of his hand. They got extra drills or short rations or stood all night in the rain. He shuddered, feeling it deep down to his soul. He’d hit Paul. He knew it. He didn’t remember doing it, couldn’t see it in detail, but he knew he had. What in the name of all reason would make him hit Paul? There was nothing, nothing at all, but he got so angry and he fed the anger liquor and the liquor took over and he couldn’t stop himself, didn’t know what was happening. There was a stranger inside him, a stranger who lived in the bottle and came out with the liquor, a stranger with a face of wrath and powerful hands and terrible venom, and the stranger’s fury built up until it was blind and then nothing on earth could stop it.
When he was conscious he felt old and tired and lost. It was an effort to do even the simple things, like dressing or eating or brushing his hair. His appetite, always so robust, had left him. He wandered around the house, entering rooms without knowing why he went in. He leafed through Henri’s journals but the pages were blurred, the subjects lost. He stared at the labels on the cans and jars in the pantry. He sat in a chair and listened to the squirrels running on the roof.
When he could he avoided his son, whose company he desperately wanted, but he didn’t know how to talk to the boy. He had no idea what to say. He had had no idea for years, really, and the words had always come in a trickle. Only now the words had dried up altogether, and when their eyes met it was the father, the stranger, who dropped his gaze first. It was the most horrible of feelings, to be mute and ashamed before one’s son.
He sat on his bed and was sick. It came quickly, the bile rising in his throat. He stood too quickly and staggered a few steps to the chamber pot. He sank to his knees and put his arms around it, his face just above it, and threw up again and again, retching a horrid yellow vomit that wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t let him alone and racked his guts and made him cough and heave. He rested his cheek on the cool brass until the misery passed. He got to his feet and poured water into a wash-stand to rinse himself. The water felt soothing, but nothing would truly diminish his agony but time. He didn’t know anymore if time would do it, either.
He saw the blinds were not drawn. It was still night out. The château was quiet. Exhausted, he returned to his bed, and then he saw the papers crumpled on the dresser. In a wave of horror it all flooded back; he remembered the night before, at least some of it, and he felt the despair welling inside him once again.
Elisabeth would not be there. Not tonight, not ever again. He had discovered what she had done. He had been looking in a closet for one of his bottles when he overturned a box with papers in it. The seal of the diocese was imprinted in bright red wax, and when he saw his own name on it he had read it. He had already been drinking, and it took a few moments before he was certain he understood. He read it and then re-read it, until there could be no mistake. An extraordinary amount of money to be paid by the Church so long as either Jules and Elisabeth deVries lived, half that much to Paul should they die.
When Elisabeth came in he showed her the paper. The color drained from her face and she snatched it away.
“It is nothing for you to be concerned about, dear,” she said lightly. “You have enough on your mind. I am taking care of it,” and she turned to go.
“Do not tell me it is nothing to be concerned about,” Jules thundered. “I have read it. Tell me what it means. I have a right to know.”
“You’re so difficult when you’re drunk,” she said, once again turning to leave, but he grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her around.
“You will not do this to me! I am not so drunk I can’t understand there is something wrong in that paper. Tell me what it is!”
Elisabeth sighed. So he had found out. She knew he would, sooner or later. So it was to be sooner, then. “Very well,” she said, “you are right. You have a right to know what has been done for you.” She sat on the bed and calmly told him of her business with the bishop. She was light and matter-of-fact and told him everything. Jules was so stunned he forgot his bottle and collapsed heavily in a chair. For a long time he couldn’t speak as he tried to absorb it.
“How could you do this to Henri?” he asked at last. “How could you? He is our family. He has provided us a home.”
“He has done nothing for us. This was your father’s home. How gracious that your brother should deign to share it with you and your family. He keeps the family fortune, which he has not earned. What a great and good and noble man he is, your brother.” Her voice was bitter and laced with sarcasm.
“He is the count. It is all his by right. You know that.”
“What I know is that you made a terrible mess of things, Jules, and that you were in prison, on trial for desertion. I did what I did to get you out of that. I did it for our family. Our family.”
“Henri is our family,” Jules said dumbly.
“Your family, perhaps. But he has done nothing for me, or for Paul. And besides, he can afford what has been done. It makes barely an iota of difference to him, and all the difference to us.”
“Why didn’t you simply ask him? He would have done anything. He would have helped, of course. He did everything in his power for me.”
Elisabeth laughed scornfully. “He is weak, Jules. He does nothing that is not proper. He reeks of order. He never would have interfered to save you from a firing squad in the way that I did, the way it had to be done. Mon Dieu, Jules, he was counting on justice to set you free. He was blind to what was happening. Would you rather have faced the firing squad? I did what had to be done. Your brother hired the lawyers but it was I who saved you. And in the process I provided for our future. I did it for us, Jules. Don’t you see that? Don’t you know it? I want us to be whole again. I want us to be free. I want our family to have what it deserves.” She stood and crossed the room. She knelt before him and tried to throw her arms around him, to persuade him into acceptance of what she had done.
Savagely he pushed her away. He was reeling at her revelations, not the least of which was that she had bought his freedom. She had shattered his belief that he had been acquitted because it was right, and because the charges were ludicrous, and because he was not guilty. But the ugly allegations of the newspapers and the crowds had been right all along: the verdict had been purchased. Jules had always lived his life by the book, and if he had been stuffy or stilted, there had been no fuzzy edges. Now he trembled at his own naïveté. He knew nothing of his world, or anyone in it.
“You think I could countenance this? Did you think for a moment th
at I would turn my back on my own brother?”
“I thought only that you would care for your wife and son, Jules.”
“My God, Elisabeth.” He looked at her through heavy eyes. His shoulders sagged and he slumped in his chair. “I had no idea. You have always worked your little intrigues with the world, always tried to have your way. I let you do it myself, more times than I can remember. But this – this is evil, what you have done. Truly evil. I honestly don’t know whether I am more upset discovering you are capable of this, or finding out what a stupid man I am.” He shook his head sadly. “I shall tell Henri, of course. What you have done will be undone.”
The sense of finality in his voice was clear, his tone unmistakable. His mind was made up, and he would not waver. Elisabeth knew she had lost, that further argument was futile.
“You will only do harm to your son and wife.”
“You are not my wife, Elisabeth. My wife died a long time ago, and I never knew it. I will provide for my son as I have always done. He will never be wealthy, but he will be fine, in spite of this, in spite of what you have done to him. To our name.”
Elisabeth stood, her eyes flashing in anger. She clutched the precious paper in her hands. “Tell him if you wish. It will do you no good. It is done already, and will not be undone by you or the count. You are an idiot, Jules, a little man. I despise you. Go bury yourself in a bottle.” The rest was blurry in his memory. He knew he had exploded in rage, and that he had struck at her, struck with all the pent-up fury and helplessness he felt. There was a broken table. Her violet drapes were crumpled on the floor, and a plate lay shattered at the foot of the bed. He couldn’t remember how that had all happened. He remembered the shouting. And he remembered that she had not shed a tear, and when she left the look she gave him was one of hatred and satisfaction. He had had a lot to drink then. He knew because of the way he felt now. The bile came again, sudden and furious. He curled up on the floor around the chamber pot, gagging and heaving until his insides hurt.
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