by Rose, M. J.
“Sitting at Hertwig’s hearth, by the fire where the herbs and flowers hung drying, among the bottles of strange, wonderful, and foul-smelling liquids, La Lune took instructions on how to prepare the final brew, the one the old witch promised would return her lover to her.”
I was exhausted, but I couldn’t stop telling the story. Not yet. Not until I was finished. For the last few minutes my grandmother had not moved, but sat still, frozen, staring at me.
“ ‘There is so much blood here—perhaps you would like your own ruby necklace,’ Hertwig offered. ‘Rubies would look good around your neck.’
“La Lune said yes, she would, and Hertwig promised she would have it waiting for her when the brew was ready. In payment, La Lune gave her two goblets made of gold encrusted with pearls that had been left on a tray in Cherubino’s room along with an empty bottle of wine.
“A week later Hertwig was waiting with the necklace and a small bottle of a rose-colored liquid.
“La Lune did everything that she had been taught. She poured Cherubino his wine and whispered the spell over it as she dropped in the proper amount of potion. It worked. Cherubino was seeing her anew. He wanted her as he had when they’d first become lovers. And after they were both satiated, he drifted off to sleep. But he did not wake up. He didn’t die, but neither was he alive. He remained in that state for days. Rudolf himself came to see Cherubino and sent his own physicians, but nothing could wake the painter.
“Since La Lune had been seen going to Hertwig’s shop on the golden lane, she was accused of being in cahoots with the witch and casting a spell on Cherubino, and Rudolf’s henchmen imprisoned her.
“While La Lune languished in that chamber of horrors attached to the castle, she could think only of Cherubino. When the inquisitors came and asked what she had done, she didn’t know what to say. If she admitted the truth, they could go to Hertwig to try and reverse the spell. Yes, La Lune would burn for being a witch, but Cherubino would have a chance to survive. If she didn’t tell Rudolf’s men, no one would be able to ask Hertwig to help, and Cherubino would certainly die.
“Finally La Lune agreed to tell them what she’d done, but only if she could talk to the emperor himself.
“When he arrived, she offered Rudolf a deal. She would tell him what she had done and who could save Cherubino, but only if he would promise not to have her or Hertwig killed. Rudolf acquiesced with the stipulation that La Lune return to France immediately. That very night, before Hertwig could be summoned to brew an antidote, Cherubino died.”
Tears dripped down my cheeks. My mind was a jumble of feelings and images and words.
My grandmother’s face was a mask of fear. She stood still and frozen to the spot. Then slowly she raised her hand, pointed at the empty space behind me, and shouted into the air: “Get away! Get away from my granddaughter! Get out of my house!”
Her face was florid. Her expression crazed. Who was she screaming at? I turned. There was no one there. I followed her finger. My grandmother was indicating La Lune in the mural.
“She’s laughing at me,” my grandmother said. “She’s laughing at me because I tried to keep you safe. But you had to seek her out. You had to disobey me. Now she has what she wants. You’re under her influence, and I don’t know how to fight her. I don’t . . .” She collapsed on my bed, crying.
My grandmother’s shouts had echoed through the house and brought the housekeeper. Together we managed to subdue my grandmother and take her to her own bedroom, where her maid gave her a draught of laudanum to quiet her. We then went to summon the doctor.
By the time the doctor arrived, I had cleaned myself up and redressed, and I met him at the door. I showed him to my grandmother’s boudoir, where he spent a half hour with her before coming out to speak to me.
“She is talking about many very strange things, Mademoiselle Verlaine. Can you tell me what happened?”
“Not really, no. She went to a funeral for our cousin Jacob . . . Rabbi Richter, and returned quite disturbed.”
“I suggest you keep her sedated for the rest of today and this evening. I’ll check in with you tomorrow. She should be better by then.”
But when he returned the next day, she wasn’t better. And after three days of keeping her quiet and sedated, there was still no progress. In fact, she was becoming even more incoherent.
“She can only talk about her fear that you are being taken over by the moon. Sometimes she says the moon is a ghost, other times a witch. I think a stay in a sanatorium might be our best hope.”
I didn’t explain. Perhaps I should have, but it wouldn’t have helped her.
And so I signed the appropriate papers and sat and waited in the parlor for her maid to dress her and then watched as the doctor escorted my grandmother out. She seemed to leave willingly, but I knew that she was still under the thrall of the drugs and not herself. She didn’t even look like herself. My grandmother had aged years in days. Her vibrant red hair looked dull. Her glowing complexion was pasty. Her flaming eyes had lost all their luster.
“I will come and see you tomorrow,” I said to her as I kissed her good-bye at the door. I felt both sick and elated, as if I had impossibly succeeded and failed at the same time.
There were tears streaming down her cheeks. Her lips were pale, and there were hollows in her cheeks. Her voice trembled, and she sounded as scared as a child caught up in a nightmare. As she spoke, her eyes widened as if she were seeing the ghost right there in the room beside me.
“Only if you don’t bring her with you. If you do, if you bring that creature with you, I won’t let you in.”
Chapter 21
With my grandmother in the sanatorium, there was no reason for me to remain in the apartment, and I moved into Maison de la Lune on rue des Saints-Pères, bringing the maids and the cook with me. In addition to wanting to be there, I was comforted by the thought that if Benjamin’s detectives had discovered the rue de la Chaise apartment and were watching it, this move would throw them off.
It was a bittersweet homecoming because we all were worried about my grandmother. I fervently hoped she would get better quickly so she could join me there. Was sure that once she saw how happy I was at the maison and how glad the house was to have me back, she would stop being so afraid for me.
I painted for hours that first day. While in the studio, brush in hand, brilliant colors swirling, my mind was focused on the canvas, and I felt nothing but joy. But as soon as I left the tower, I was overwhelmed with concern for Grand-mère and haunted by what she’d said about the spirit taking over me.
The only person I could think of talking to who might understand was Julien’s client Monsieur Dujols. As a student of the esoteric and occult, surely he would not be surprised by what my grandmother claimed and would be able to explain it to me. Perhaps he would even have some advice.
It took me most of the next day to work up the courage to go to the Librairie du Merveilleux. Even though I knew Julien didn’t approve of Dujols’s beliefs I wished he were available to go with me. Something about the store and its owner intimidated me, but Julien had gone back to the furniture factory in Nancy, and I was on my own.
Finally, late that afternoon, I walked over to the shop, being careful to make sure no one followed me. I now habitually watched the reflections in store windows, looking for any suspicious behavior of people lagging behind me.
The latest telegram from Mr. Lissauer had reported that Benjamin had fired his first detective agency, hired a new one, and put forward a reward that was more money than most people made in a year.
Since Benjamin was unaware of just how much I knew about his scheming, the size of the offer made sense. He had to be wondering if my father had confided in me and shown me enough incriminating evidence to destroy Benjamin’s reputation.
The largesse was also fueled by pride. In disappearing, I’d outsmarted him and Be
njamin couldn’t abide being shown up. Why wasn’t it enough that, without suffering any consequences, he’d driven my father to suicide and taken over the bank, our residences in New York and Newport, and all our valuable collections?
I turned the corner and arrived at my destination. Dujols’s store was so dark I thought it was closed and was about to leave when I noticed shadows moving inside. Trying the door, I found it open and entered.
More than a dozen people milled about, and the furniture was arranged with all the chairs in three rows, as if a lecture was about to begin. The air was thick with the scent of heady incense and sweet tobacco. Open bottles of wine and absinthe were lined up on a sideboard.
A petite woman, wearing a dark caftan embroidered with silver symbols like those on the wall, eyed me suspiciously and asked who had brought me. When I said no one, she arched her eyebrows and looked at me askance.
“I wanted to see Monsieur Dujols,” I told her.
She nodded and slithered off, going, I hoped, to find the publisher.
“Mademoiselle Sandrine,” Dujols greeted me by taking both my hands in his. “How did you know about our lecture? Did Julien tell you? No matter, you’re here.”
“I didn’t know about it. I came to talk to you because—” I broke off, unsure how to broach the subject that was the reason for my visit with so many people around.
“It’s all right, Mademoiselle. I know why you came,” he said. “There are things happening that you don’t understand, and you need help, don’t you?”
There was so much sympathy in his voice that my eyes filled with tears. Taking me by the arm, he ushered me into a small alcove.
“How do you know?”
“I’m acquainted with your grandmother. And as you know, your family’s legends are familiar to me. I’ve studied them and researched them. First for her, then for my own edification. I can help you. Explain what is happening to you. I have an idea of what you are suffering. I have some books . . .” He pulled one book and then another off a shelf. “I think if you start by reading these it will give you a foundation. And then we can delve a bit deeper and contact La Lune.”
“Contact her?” I felt the now familiar nausea.
“We often have séances here to reach out to spirits beyond our dimension.”
“Has my grandmother attended these séances?”
“No, we met privately,” he said without further explanation. “Here, take these.”
He handed me the two slim volumes. Their leather covers were worn, and they smelled of old paper, musty and waxy. It was a scent that reminded me of my father and our library at home. A scent that was both comforting and exciting. My father would have relished poking around in Dujols’s collection.
“I am at your service, Mademoiselle. Once you have read what is in these books, come back and I will do my best to explain it all to you. Then we can gather some kindred evolved folks together to reach out to La Lune. Trust me, Mademoiselle, I can guide you through this.”
I stayed up late that night reading the first book and began the second the following day. I never left the house but read continuously, even during my dinner of a simple bouillon, roast chicken with braised endives, and a dry white wine. I read without stopping, my mind bursting with questions about the theories exposed by Dujols’s contemporaries. The concepts were strange, disturbing, and seductive. Were there spirits trapped between this life and the next? Could they haunt their old habitats? Did they need our help to set them free? Was it possible to summon them through séances? Was what my grandmother believed even possible? Was I being inhabited by La Lune? Was that where my passion to paint had come from? Was she changing me?
And if she was, how could I get rid of her?
A sudden and violent stomachache and nausea chased away all thoughts except of how to alleviate the pain. No doubt my condition had been brought on by my lack of sleep and concentrated reading. I called for Alice and requested she prepare a powder remedy and to make it extra strong.
Despite her doing so, relief was slow to come, but finally, sometime past midnight, I fell asleep.
The next morning at ten, Alice came to my room to tell me that Monsieur Duplessi had arrived and was confused to find her there. I told her I’d see him and hurried downstairs, relieved that he’d come back to Paris, hopeful that, now that he was back, he could help me make sense of what was happening.
I greeted him downstairs, still in my peignoir instead of a day dress. “Welcome to my home,” I said.
“Your home? Has something happened to your grandmother?”
“Yes, she is unwell. She’s been taken to Dr. Blanche’s for care.”
“The sanatorium?”
“Yes, she had an episode. It was horrible. She is convinced . . . It’s so absurd . . . She thought she saw a ghost . . . and couldn’t cope with the shock of it.”
“How terrible,” he said.
“Yes, I’ve spent the last four nights crying myself to sleep.”
And I had. I was a mess of emotions. Elation and horror living inside of me at the same time. Torn by terribly missing my grandmother and fearing for her and simultaneously delighted that now that I’d moved into Maison de la Lune I would be able to devote much more time to painting and being with Julien.
“Monsieur le Docteur assured me that it is only temporary and that Grand-mère will recover and be able to come home in a week or two. A few weeks at the most.”
“How did this happen?”
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know if Julien would be sympathetic or think us all mad. “She went to my cousin’s funeral, and when she returned became hysterical.”
“Were they very close?”
“I think they were.”
“But she’s a very strong woman. To become undone to the extent that she has had to be hospitalized? Surely something else occured.”
I desperately wanted to confide in him. I kept seeing my grandmother’s eyes staring at me with horror and fear. If I told Julien, would he look at me the same way? Surely not. He’d taken me to the occult bookshop, but he didn’t believe in Dujols’s mystical and occult world. He’d made that clear.
“Sandrine? What really happened?”
“Why do you think something else happened?”
“I can see how nervous you are.” He picked up my hand. “Look at your fingernails. You’ve picked at them to the point that they are bleeding. There are deep circles beneath your eyes.”
“My grandmother is in a sanatorium!”
“Yes, but you told me that the doctor believes it is just a short stay and that she will be fine.”
Julien pulled me toward him and held me, whispering: “What aren’t you telling me? There’s no need to be afraid. What is it?”
I insisted there was nothing.
“Why don’t you get dressed? We can take a walk. The fresh air,” he said, “will be good for you.”
It was chilly out, but he was right. The bracing air did clear my head. We walked to Ladurée, where he procured a table for us, and we sat among the lush tropical murals, on scarlet and green cushioned seats and sipped strong tea. He ordered us macarons, but I wasn’t hungry, and the pastel-colored cookies sat on the china plate untouched while he held my hands and I recounted the story.
I told him how I’d met our cousin the rabbi and his reaction to me. Then about my grandmother’s efforts to have what she and Cousin Jacob believed was a demon exorcised. How my cousin died and how my grandmother had tricked me and locked me in the bedroom to keep me from going to his funeral, and how I’d occupied myself while she’d been gone. By the time I got to the description of the paintings I’d done on the walls, he was biting his bottom lip. I finished by telling him how my grandmother had reacted when she’d seen the mural.
“She was convinced I was being taken over by the ghost of a witch from t
he 1600s who had returned from the dead to claim my soul.”
“What made you paint that story on the wall? What were you thinking? Where did the images come from?”
“Ever since you and I found the paintings in the tower, I’ve been dreaming about La Lune and Cherubino Cellini. They’re in my head, Julien, that’s all. There’s nothing going on except that my imagination has been stirred.”
He nodded thoughtfully. Neither of us spoke for a few minutes.
“Does the house feel different to you?” I asked.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Well, what if my grandmother is right? What if La Lune is in the house? What if she’d been waiting for me and is glad I’m back?” I whispered. “It would explain why the house seems happier now.”
Julien turned my hand over and looked down at my palm as if he was going to find the answers there.
“There’s no good to come of this line of thinking.”
“So you don’t believe it’s possible?”
“I most emphatically do not! I do not believe in ghosts or hauntings or any of that mystical nonsense.” The anger was bubbling out of him.
“Then why are you so scared of it?” I didn’t know how, but I knew that he was.
He shook his head. “I’m not. It can be seductive, but it’s not real, Sandrine. There’s too much of this talk going on in Paris. People are losing their reason. Taking you into Dujols’s store was a mistake. It put ideas in your head.”
I laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. I knew all about those ideas from my father.” I took a breath. “I went back there, Julien. Monsieur Dujols is a wonderful teacher. He’s given me books to read and is helping me to understand.”
“That’s not wise.”
“Why are you reacting this way?”
He lifted my hand and kissed my palm. I reached out and smoothed down his hair with my other hand.