“And now I have something to tell you. I am going to be moving. For good this time. To Paris.”
“No!” I shouted, surprising both of us with the force of the exclamation. Madame made a small leap backward in her seat. “Oh, no, madame,” I said again, more quietly. “Excuse me. But I would miss you so.”
“I will miss you, Marie. Very much. But it’s time for me to go. There’s little keeping me here now.”
I swallowed, feeling the sadness collect in my throat.
“I would like to leave you with something, Marie. A gift to remember me by. I would like you to have my library.”
I hesitated, amazed. “Madame,” I whispered. “All those books?”
She nodded, delight in her eyes. “Paris has more books than I will ever be able to read. And it would please me so to know the books were in your care. Will you accept them?”
“I’m honored, Madame. I don’t know what to say.”
“Of course, I realize it may be hard for you to find the space for them. You won’t need to move them from the castle for some time yet—I don’t plan to sell it immediately. In the meantime, I thought Monsieur le curé might be able to build you a library of your own to house them, since he takes such pleasure in building.”
“Yes,” I answered gratefully. “Yes, I imagine he might do that.”
I left the château that day in a pensive mood, saddened by the impending loss of Madame, humbled by her great gift as well as by her wisdom. She was mistress of herself, more so than anyone I knew: she knew her own demons and dealt severely with them. Likewise, she understood the nature of pleasure: how the imagined, anticipated event was often far more rich and rewarding than the event itself. And she had suffered so. Perhaps it was true, then, that suffering was a necessary predecessor to wisdom.
TWO NIGHTS LATER, Bérenger and I reached the little Berthelot coffin. I held my breath as Bérenger forced open the fluted lid, eager to snatch the book from the coffin before he could grab it and afraid, too, of what more we might find within. I had dreamed that afternoon, in an hour of stolen sleep, of a lifelike corpse with skin as smooth as Pichon’s and eyelashes as long, darkening the full cheeks with a filigree of shadows. But there was no undecayed flesh here, no undefiled arm to reach out of the grave and circle its slender fingers around my wrist. Nor did I glimpse any book. There was only bone: a small skeleton draped with bands of tattered gray cloth. Emboldened by disappointment and relief, I picked up the skull. Its lightness was remarkable. On its left side, just above where the ear would have been, I noticed a slight indentation about the size of a horse’s hoof. I laid it down again, and as I did, the knobs of vertebrae clacked delicately, one against the other.
In the end, we opened all the tombs, and even dug a few feet into the massive pile of dirt that blocked the bottommost room, but found no evidence of the book of visions nor of any ancient passageway. Only more earth, more rubble, more dirt—and more wealth. Bérenger worked with the same driven meticulousness that he used when planning and supervising the construction in the church. He steadily opened the tombs, and though he wrote nothing down, I could see him cataloguing each item in his mind as he saw it, making note of its relative worth, the quality of the material, the weight. He had begun to touch the jewelry—only to touch, and he replaced each item just as it was—but his wonder in the age and the fine crafting of some of the items became more and more proprietary. Little by little, these small treasures seemed to be supplanting his thirst for God’s favor.
When we did not find the book in the crypt, we decided to turn to the cemetery, where we wielded our shovels and picks to exhume the graves of the more recent dead, including Jeanne Catherine Berthelot’s. (Inside it, we found a golden bracelet endowed with a large ruby and a skeleton—clean, like her son’s.) We dug in the churchyard cemetery by night off and on over the course of the next year, trying to find an alternative entry into the crypt and hoping, despite all signs to the contrary, that we might still find the book of visions.
Throughout that year my dreams were filled with dirt. Dirt gritty against my palms, in my mouth, sifted into my clothes and hair, lodged beneath my fingernails, settling into the deepening lines of my face. When I woke, I found my sheets silted with dust; when I ate, I crunched grains of sand between my teeth. I drifted through those days—for I slept irregularly, catching a fitful hour or two some nights before going out to dig and then sinking into a deep sleep just before morning—with dirt and dust on my body and my mind. I felt it always on my skin, and despite my most vigorous efforts with a washcloth and basin in the silent predawn, I could not scrub it all off. I saw it everywhere: inside and out, beneath my feet on my way to the grocer’s, clinging to the cloth I swiped over the shelves, in the air as motes turning in a sun ray. I felt it filtering into my lungs when I took a breath. Pulverized rock, bits of skin and bone, decayed flakes of flesh, minuscule pieces of waste, hair, fingernail, dirt, soil, earth, ground, clay, mud, land. I ingested it, I breathed it, I imagined it, I was it: I was the dust that would return to dust. Each moment of each day, I knew the eventual fate of my own flesh, my own bones: my eventual grinding down, my disintegration.
Disintegration. A funny word, for it appears to mean the opposite of mixing, of merging, and yet the disintegration of one thing must imply the integration of another. I saw, more clearly than ever, the disintegration of previous wholes: bones, stones, roots, tree trunks, teeth—all ground down and newly integrated into this one thing: the astonishing red-brown dirt.
It was this dirt, I saw, this pitiless, masticating earth, from which the Church strove to save us. Hell was not fire and brimstone—nor unending pain, for pain implied vitality. Hell was the apprehension of this nothingness, the unfeeling sleep of the dead, our own soulless decomposition. What a brutal, unjust end: to live for years, sensing, recoiling at pain and luxuriating in pleasure, dreaming futures, remembering pasts, constructing stories of ourselves that spoke of nobility, strength, hope, and unmet yearning, and finally to have it all cease, to have it come to nothing but dust. It was too cruel a fate to abide.
Yet the alternative seemed equally cruel. Could I really hope for my own soul to persist for eternity? This immaterial assortment of grasping desire, of need and disappointment, of pain, confusion, resentment, self-pity, and, yes, cruelty—could I justly pray for Christ to preserve such a soul? My soul was a burden, a thing just as mortal as my flesh. How could I faithfully ask for God to save such an evil thing, to gather up such a blighted harvest and accept it into his Kingdom? And if his Kingdom housed a store of souls like mine, what sort of a heaven would that be? I believed I should prefer the hell of nothingness to an eternity of human limitation.
But that is not heaven, Bérenger insisted when I confessed my worries to him. Heaven is bliss. Heaven is living in the presence and the sight of God himself. Heaven is to breathe, to drink, to soak, to swim in God’s love for all eternity. There is no place for human failure in heaven.
But how can we deserve such a place? I would ask. How can we free ourselves of sin? We are flesh, God has made us so, and flesh knows only its own desires. Must we shun our own bodies, our own selves?
You have to want it, Marie, he would say. You have to long for salvation with all your heart, soul, and mind. You have to pray and yearn after God and strive to avoid sin. And repent. You have to hunger for it.
He pronounced the words, but it was a rote response. He no longer hungered for heaven—he had given up. The world had thoroughly seduced him.
Though he had initially balked at our first transgression, it was not long before we succumbed once more to the mounting pressure of our desires. We began to sneak kisses throughout the day—at his desk, over a bubbling soup pot, even out in the open air, if we felt sure no one else was about. Kisses grew into devastating embraces. Finally, one night after I had been asleep for a long while, I awoke to a knock at my door.
“Hello,” I whispered, still half-asleep.
Bérenger
entered, dressed in his nightshirt.
He lifted me from my bed by the elbows and held me aloft while he kissed me ravenously: lips, ear, throat. When he finally set me down, his hands were trembling too much to unbutton my nightdress. I slipped it over my head, then held the bedcovers open for him to climb in.
We shared a bed more often than not after that. At night, we would dig in the graveyard, then stumble into bed together, our dirty fingers fumbling at each others’ clothing. On nights when we were too exhausted to dig, I would tiptoe upstairs to Bérenger’s room and wake him with whispers. The days were a haze of sensuous recollection, the evenings a stretch of voluptuous anticipation.
Finally, done in by exhaustion and increasingly disturbed by Bérenger’s fervent cataloguing of the treasures of the dead, I declared I would help him no longer. He continued to search the graveyard, albeit at a slower pace. And he still came to me nightly, smelling of soil and sweat. He pretended that he still sought the book of visions, but in truth he was tabulating a grim inventory. He had to know what was in each of the graves, what sort of wealth we were sitting on. The discoveries continued: heirloom necklaces and earrings, antique pistols, hand-crafted belt buckles, engraved pewter mugs, silver letter openers, even slugs of raw gold. He described each discovery to me in loving detail. And along with his descriptions came ruminations, tentative forays into the blind logic of sin.
“It makes one wonder, Marie,” he ventured, “why people insist on burying their treasures with them. They’ve no use for them where they’re going.”
“It’s to comfort the families of the deceased.”
“Yes, true. Still, it’s puzzling, don’t you think? What good is gold to a corpse?”
I shrugged, unnerved. “It belongs to the earth, now,” I countered. “It’s gone back where it came from.”
“Of course, Marie,” he replied. And then added, defensively, “I’m merely raising a hypothetical question.”
Finally, after a few years of Bérenger’s nightly excavations, the villagers began to complain. What was M. le curé doing, digging in the graveyard after midnight? What sort of sordid activity was he up to? He met the first complaints with the excuse that he was removing the old bones to make room for the new. And he dug at night so as not to upset people. This excuse was, as always, half true. The graveyard was overcrowded and disorganized. His digging served a dual purpose, for as he disinterred the old bones, he piled them in an ossuary he had installed at the corner of the cemetery. This kept the criticism at bay for a time. Eventually, though, the municipal council issued an order prohibiting him from digging in the graveyard.
By that time, Bérenger had come to the conclusion that the Austrian’s story must have been a distortion of some kind, that the old priest he had met in Vienna must have embellished the tale, and that the objects we’d found beneath the knight’s stone were the only things his friend had hidden. That there was no book of visions.
I entertained a slightly different explanation, for I was too attached to the existence of the book to allow that it might have been an invention. I imagined that the priest must have changed his mind at the last minute and sneaked into the tomb one final time to retrieve the book and carry it with him over the mountains, to keep him company in his exile.
Whatever the truth may have been, the book was irretrievable. I believe Bérenger was, strangely, relieved. His mission had failed. And the failure of his mission allowed him to relax, to accept his position as an earth-bound priest, a man not of God, but of the world. He began to talk of the treasures as if they were gifts from God, meant expressly for his—our—use.
“What about the test?” I challenged him. “The way you would find your way back to God.”
“I tried, Marie,” Bérenger responded. “We don’t have the book.”
“But don’t you think this might qualify as a test as well? An even greater one? All this wealth at your disposal? Might not God be testing your loyalty?”
“Perhaps, Marie. Perhaps. But perhaps he is smiling on our church, on my plans for the renovation, on the future of our village. Perhaps he intends for us to take advantage of what we’ve found.”
“That’s a false argument, mon cher. You can’t mean to imply that God intends for you to steal.”
“Of course not,” he replied. But his tone was not convincing. Nor could I pretend to speak to him from a position of moral authority, for I had expressly encouraged him along his path. Hadn’t I been the one to suggest he find God in this world, not the next?
I never saw him steal, nor do I have any concrete evidence of it, other than the steady increase in his wealth and his multiple trips away from home, valise in hand. I have not even been down to the crypt since we last left it together, but I believe I would find the coffins empty now, no more than boxes of bones.
There is another possibility: that he did, in fact, find the book, tucked in a hidden corner. Rather than burn it, he might have brought it to one of his superiors in the Church. For such a book, Bérenger could have finessed a healthy sum.
AND WHO AM I to criticize or condemn? He hurt no one. Rather, he helped, for with the proceeds of his thievery, he was able to finish his work on the church: he installed a fountain in the garden, a stunning calvary, and a beautiful and serene grotto made from stones he gathered himself on his daily walks over the hillside and the nearby woods of Rennes-les-Bains. He ordered a new rendition of the stations of the cross, done in painted terra-cotta, and hung the fourteen pieces along the walls of the church, giving the nave some sorely needed life. From the same artist he bought several sculptures of saints, also in painted terra-cotta, including the Virgin Mother, Saint Roch, Sainte Germaine, Saint Joseph, Saint Antoine de Padua, and his beloved Marie Madeleine. The cemetery walls he repaired and he installed a tall iron gate at the entrance, to keep out the grazing animals. He also built a sturdy cobblestone path up the hill from Couiza to enable the myriad workers who came and went to drive their mules and carts up the steep hill with more ease.
All these improvements benefited the villagers. But it would be misleading to claim that he robbed those graves like a Robin Hood, as if his intentions were pure.
Between 1898 and 1899, seven years after he first opened the tomb, Bérenger bought several parcels of land adjacent to the presbytery. He bought them in my name, I should add, for he was still concerned that the republican government might someday decide to confiscate any property belonging to the Church. In the years that followed, he razed the few abandoned hovels that were left on that land and built his dream, his fantastic playground, where he could pretend to lead the life he might have led had he never been ordained, never promised his life to God: the Villa Bethania and its grounds, with their pebbled pathways and meticulously trimmed lawns, the Tour Magdala, where he housed my library and his office, the promenade, from which the view of the valley and the distant Pyrenees could be seen in all its spectacular beauty, and the conservatory, where he planted several orange trees and kept his monkeys, who swung happily from the branches.
And he was proud of it—how proud he was! It was, admittedly, a remarkable achievement. The villa, designed by an architect from Limoux, towered over the valley like a modern-day manor. It held two kitchens, one in the basement to be used in the summer, for it was always cool, and the other just above it for the winter. Bérenger kept the cellar full of fine wines and liquors, delivered from two different suppliers in Carcassonne. There were four bedrooms in the house on two upper floors, which were only used by visiting guests (I never slept in the villa, despite Bérenger’s urg ings), one of which held an impressive canopied bed. For the dining room, fitted out with Louis XV furniture, he purchased Limoges china—as well as flowerpots and vases—and pottery from Toulouse. The living room he furnished in the style of Napoleon III: red-and-pink-banded sofa and armchairs, a black wood table inlaid with brass, and a marble fireplace and mantelpiece, on which stood a statue of the baby Jesus on a pedestal of gilded wood, robed in velv
et and wearing a crown of jeweled gold.
He also paid to have a Parisian photographer come to take our portraits, his and mine, and hung the larger-than-life photographs on the wall of the living room, the gold frames nearly touching. Over the entryway to the villa he installed two stained-glass windows with the image of the pierced and bleeding Sacred Heart of Christ, as if to quell the doubts of anyone who should think the enterprise was anything less than holy.
Once the villa and grounds were built, and the construction of the tower was well under way, he entertained visitors from all over France. He had cultivated relationships with the notable figures he’d known in Narbonne and people he’d met during his travels, and he invited them all to Rennes-le-Château to dine at the villa and enjoy the grounds. He welcomed dignitaries of all stripes: army officers, parliamentarians, moneyed aristocracy, anyone curious to see the extravagant estate built by the eccentric priest. He even welcomed some of his brother David’s friends—artists and musicians, freethinkers—for he grew less stubborn in his politics as the years passed. He was an impeccable host. He loved showing off his property, discussing his future plans for improvements on his land and in the village: he intended to bring running water to every house, and wanted to build a road for automobiles. For my part, I enjoyed the praise I unfailingly received for the elaborate meals I cooked: terrines of pork, confits of turkey and pigeon, dozens of cassoulets, pastries stuffed with goat cheese, and of course, my house specialty, rabbit stew.
Despite Bérenger’s ready excuses—that he had received many generous donations from anonymous donors—the villagers still tossed about the rumor of treasure. But the unwritten village contract, the cardinal rule of minding one’s own business, saved Bérenger from facing any direct confrontations. I escaped out-and-out accusations as well, though I will admit to being generally friendless, with the exception of my family, who remained loyal. I—shamefully—was not above flaunting the gifts Bérenger showered me with, despite my suspicion and my disapproval of the source of his wealth. Bérenger stocked my wardrobe with dresses of the finest Parisian design, and the deliveries came to our door with astonishing frequency, the boxes smelling of perfume, the clothing wrapped in meters of tissue paper. He did not skimp on his own wardrobe, either, ordering suits, shirts, hats, scarves, belts, a dashing woolen cape for winter travel, all straight from Paris. The villagers took to calling me the priest’s Madonna, for they said that Bérenger worshipped me more devoutly than the Holy Virgin, bestowing gifts upon me that should have been offered to her.
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