Floats the Dark Shadow

by Yves Fey

  Theo cursed silently. She had not thought to bring her colt—but even if she had, it would be too dangerous to use.

  Michel dropped the gun.

  “Here,” Casimir said, his voice, his face growing hard.

  “Not to you.” Michel kicked the gun toward the back corner. It skittered on across the stones.

  Casimir laughed. “Theo, fetch the gun and put it on the table.”

  Theo glanced at Michel, then did as Casimir bade her. She would not defy him when there was still a chance to save Matthieu. She laid the gun down, watching the lantern light dance over the horrible array of knives and pincers, a hammer, a saw. She shuddered. Beneath the table was a streaked jug that must hold the gasoline. Casimir nodded for her to back away, then pulled Matthieu with him as he went to pick up the gun. He checked it, then trained it on Michel. “I will not go back to Paris, Inspecteur. I will not go to the guillotine.”

  Casimir yanked Matthieu back to the gruesome display. Matthieu flinched away, but Casimir gripped his hair and held him still. Nodding toward the heads, Casimir asked, “Which is the most beautiful, Theodora?”

  “They are all hideous.”

  “Do you think so? I do not.” He tilted his head, a smile teasing the corner of his lips. “Do you think Averill would see their beauty, the implacable lure of Death?”

  “No!”

  Keeping Matthieu close, Casimir went to the head on the far end. “You must remember Dondre?” Theo had all she could do not to be sick as he bent slightly, watching her as he kissed the curling hair. Disgust, fury, terror were a pack of vicious rats clawing over each other inside her belly.

  “Six boys—but you killed more,” Michel said.

  “Only the prettiest are here.”

  “Did you kill your grandfather, too?” Michel asked.

  “I tried twice—but I only succeeded once.” Casimir smirked, but then his expression warped into a mask of loathing.

  “What did he do, that you hated him so much?” Theo asked.

  “What do you think?” His voice was scornful. “I endured every form of abuse at his hands—and from whatever other part of his anatomy that he chose.”

  “So you set the fire that burned this chateau?” Michel asked.

  “I wanted him dead, but she died instead—” Casimir broke off suddenly. “It was the judgment of God on my sin, taking the only one I loved, the only one who loved me.”

  “We know about your Jeanne,” Theo said softly. At least once he had been able to love.

  “You know nothing,” he accused, hatred igniting in his eyes. “I lived with him, year after year, afraid to try again, afraid some greater calamity would befall me. I suffered every atrocity he wanted to inflict. I waited for God to take him—but he lived on and on and on.”

  “But you did succeed in killing him,” Michel said.

  “The fire at Averill’s country house was a portent. My grandfather was the cause of Jeanne’s death as much as I. He had to die. It did not matter what happened to me after. I pushed him down the stairs. I was free of him at last.”

  No, Theo thought, not free. More trapped than ever.

  “When I returned to Montmartre, Là Bas was sitting on the table, waiting for me. Averill had left it out. Another portent. I saw who I must become. Jeanne was good, but I was never good except with her. Goodness needs miraculous courage. God punishes the good, like poor mawkish Job, seeing if they will succumb. But God, like the Devil, is intoxicated by evil. I had only to be wicked enough, and I would be gathered up with love. Forgiven. Blessed. I would be taken into her presence again, she who protected me though I was not worthy of it.”

  “You were going to frame Averill for your crimes.” Michel said. “Was that another offering of evil?”

  “Averill could not have taken Matthieu.” Casimir looked at him as if he were the madman. “I ordered Corbeau to take him for me.”

  “You kidnapped Matthieu while Averill was in prison. You never wanted to hurt him.” Theo prayed it was true.

  “Oh, I wanted to hurt Averill, but only as he wanted to be hurt. He showed me that pain can lead to freedom.” Casimir laughed. “You’ll never win him, chère Amazone. Unless it hurts, it can’t be love. He needs the darkness. Your bright sunlight will only push him deeper into the shadows.”

  Theo’s heart twisted. Averill had spoken almost the same words. But her pain, her love for him was only a distraction Casimir used to goad her. Saving Matthieu was all that mattered now, but she choked on her words.

  Michel spoke for her. “You will not be forgiven if you take Matthieu with you. Your repentance will only have meaning if you surrender him.”

  “He belongs to me.” Casimir said it as if were indisputable.

  Seeing them together, Theo thought Matthieu might be Casimir himself as a boy. Denis and Dondre resembled him as well, but Matthieu most of all, with his large eyes and curling mop of hair. Casimir gazed at her, his eyes so guileless now, utterly enraptured with this evil fairy tale of his own creation. In it he destroyed his image again and again. Only his own death would end it.

  “He is not you,” Theo said, fighting her rage. “He only looks like you. He has a mother who loves him.”

  “And his own Jeanne d’Arc who will fight to protect him.” Casimir’s voice was condescending, but myriad emotions flickered over his face, sadness, envy, hatred.

  Theo saw Michel move toward her protectively. Casimir smiled at him. “Do you think I would consign her to the flames?”

  “I think you would burn the world down if you could,” Michel answered.

  “Ah, you are wrong. Jeanne d’Arc was sent to redeem me. She failed and I failed. I must achieve my own redemption. She is beyond pain, yet the path to her is through pain. Centuries ago they offered me the chance to follow her into the flames, but I was too proud, too fearful, and I let the executioner strangle me on the pyre. Jeanne came again when I was a child here, and died again, right above us. I should have burned with her.”

  He knelt, the tug of the rope pulling Matthieu to his knees beside him. He lowered his head, as if in prayer, but kept the gun trained on Michel. “I am your brother in Christ. You must pray for me and forgive me freely, as you desire God to forgive you and have mercy on your souls. I have lacerated your hearts, yet I beg you to pity me.”

  Gilles de Rais’ words, before he died. Theo answered, “I will pray for you, but only if you release Matthieu.”

  He gazed up at her. “He is my sacrifice. The greater the sin, the greater the forgiveness. I need only feel profound regret and contrition.”

  Theo did not dare look at Michel. She sensed his presence like a wire taut between them, but did not dare turn her eyes away from Casimir. “I do not see regret and contrition. I see pride, indulgence, defiance. Do not heap another sin on your soul. Matthieu is indeed your sacrifice, not burned upon the altar of your sin but freed, whole and innocent.”

  “Not quite innocent. He is anointed with my sin.”

  Matthieu gave a low sob, tears running down his cheeks now.

  She was desperate. He had an answer for everything. “No, you are the last sacrifice, Gilles. You and you alone.”

  He smiled at her, his most charming, boyish smile. “You are valiant, but you are not Jeanne. You cannot make that claim.”

  “But I am Jeanne,” she said to him. “Jeanne Theodora Faraday. When I came to France, I thought that my other name would be more unusual. I wanted to be a great artist and I chose it out of pride. I too sinned.”

  “No,” he said, rising, staring at her. Fury rippled through the muscles of his face, distorting it. “Do not dare!”

  She went on, heedless of his wrath. “Jeanne’s spirit came to me. When I was little, I would ride my horse through the meadows, dreaming I was leading her armies. I could almost hear my valiant companions—almost hear you—but I thought it was only the wind.”

  “Liar!” He searched her face, still angry and disbelieving.

  She defie
d both. “What more proof do you need than that I am here, now, when you must come face to face with God?”

  “You wear men’s clothes. You have the heart of a warrior,” he murmured, trying now to convince himself. Then he glared at her, “You are Averill’s lover.”

  “No, I am a virgin.”

  He stared at her, wonder and fear in his eyes. His lips trembled. “Her spirit came to you?”

  “Jeanne!” Matthieu called to her. He was not too young to understand some of this bizarre drama. “Save me, Jeanne!”

  Theo knelt and held out her arms, imploring Casimir. “Give him to me.”

  “I did not die alone,” Casimir said.

  “Those who died with you were your servants in evil.”

  “My servants but not my true companions,” Casimir agreed, watching her intently. “If you are Jeanne, return to me. Join with me, as it was meant to be, and I will let him go.”

  Theo walked back to the table. Ignoring Michel’s gasp, she picked up the jar of gasoline. Shaking, she poured the vile liquid over her shoulders, feeling it run down her body and soak her clothing. Beside her, the lantern blazed ominously.

  “More.” The fervor of a fanatic glowed in Casimir’s eyes.

  She poured more over her arms, her legs, then put the jug on the table with its flaunted implements of torture. Terror and hope twisted every nerve and muscle, but she kept her voice clear, commanding. “Release him.”

  “Come to me.”

  She moved closer, held out her hand, almost but not quite within reach. “You cannot have us both. You must choose.”

  He hesitated, then said to Matthieu, “You can untie the rope.” Matthieu turned, his hands fumbling with the knot. She watched, praying silently as he jerked and tugged. Then suddenly Matthieu was running—though he seemed barely to move through the yellow air thick as poisoned honey. The rope flapped as he ran past the gasoline pooled on the floor, beyond the line of staked heads, beyond Michel. As he passed, Michel’s eyes met hers and he cried out, “Theo, jump!”

  She jumped, her shaking legs seeming to give way even as she flung herself sideways. Her dive carried her as far as the stakes, the yellow light swaying above them. She rolled and kept rolling. Glimpses of terror and hope flashed with every turn. Casimir hurled his lantern at her. It crashed against a stake in a crackle of glass but its spurting flames did not reach her. Still rolling toward the door, she saw Michel rush the table. Casimir fired the gun at his hurtling body. Michel gave a harsh cry and spun with the impact. Then he whirled and kicked out, a long hard kick that hit Casimir and sent him flying back to crash against the table. The jolt of his body set the lantern rocking. Michel staggered back toward the door then collapsed. The lantern toppled, the glass shattering on the floor. With a hissing rush, the pool of gasoline became a pool of fire. Greedy fingers of flame reached out and seized Casimir, rushing up his legs, his body, licking over his face. She watched in horror as he leapt up, a human candle, screaming and screaming and screaming as the fire engulfed him. He stared back at her from the center of that agony—and then he was running toward her, his hands outstretched.

  “Don’t let him touch you!” Michel cried.

  Theo sensed the miasma of fumes hovering all around her, thicker now than when she first poured the gasoline. She leapt to her feet and raced through the door. Matthieu stood in the hall, watching the horrific end unfold. Theo grabbed his hand, pulled him with her, running down the hall and through the wine cellar, past the gruesome dangling body of Corbeau. Another shot sounded behind her as she ran with Matthieu out the door and up the steps to the demolished kitchen. At the top she turned, waiting for any glimpse of fire below, waiting for the evil spirit of Gilles de Rais to seek her out. No light showed except the dim flicker of candlelight through the open door. They were safe. But what of Michel? Casimir’s first shot had wounded him. Had Michel ended Casimir’s agony with the second? Had Casimir somehow managed to kill him?

  Matthieu pressed against her, trembling as she was still trembling. She held him close, needing the same comfort he did, needing to feel him alive. He looked up at her. “Is your name Jeanne, mademoiselle, like Jeanne d’Arc? Did she speak to you?”

  “No, my name is just Theo. And if she spoke to me, it was to tell me to save you.”

  “You did not burn,” Matthieu whispered. “It is a miracle.”

  “No. It is not the gasoline that ignites, it’s the fumes. I was lucky,” she told him.

  “A miracle,” he said again. Theo thought it was too, whatever the scientific explanation. She was alive. But she must go back down. “You stay here, Matthieu. I must go see if Inspecteur Devaux is hurt.”

  “No need.” They both swiveled round to stare down the stairs. Michel stood at the bottom, his face white with strain. “He’s dead.”

  “You shot him?” Matthieu asked.

  Michel gave a sharp nod.

  Theo drew a long breath. “I’m glad you ended his suffering.”

  “Mercy is better than vengeance.” His gaze was dark, and his voice sounded as uncertain as she felt. She went down the stairs to him, looked at the bloodstained hand pressed to his side. “Rib,” he said.

  “There’s the carriage,” Theo said. “I can drive us back to town.”

  He nodded, then set himself to climb the stairs, refusing her help. There was a working pump by the abandoned cottage, so Theo began to wash the gasoline off herself and Matthieu. Suddenly she had the image of Casimir standing here, washing away his victims’ blood. How many children had perished here?

  She led Matthieu off as soon as she felt they would not burst into flames at the slightest friction. He helped her put the carriage horse back in his traces. Gingerly, Michel got into the carriage. Matthieu beside her, she drove slowly down to the bottom of the hill where the river Oise flowed by, water gleaming in the sun.

  Impulsively, Theo stopped so she and Matthieu could wash again. And again….

  The cold water swept away more of the petrol, more of the stench of death.

  But the memories were burned into them forever.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Let us go, then, my poor heart. Let us go,

  my old accomplice.Repair and paint anew

  all your triumphal arcs. Burn bitter incense

  On your pinchbeck altars. Scatter

  with flowers the cliff's gaping brink.

  Let us go then, my poor heart.

  Let us go, my old accomplice.

  ~ Paul Verlaine

  THEO walked up the rue Lepic toward home, her damp hair drying in the bright June afternoon. The compulsion to wash hadn’t waned. She’d been to the baths once or twice a day for a week, scrubbing with vinegar, with ground coffee, with whatever remedy anyone could suggest. The clothes she had thrown away. The stench of death and dying was gone from her skin but not from her mind. Rotting corpses. Burning flesh. Gasoline. The smell clung to her hair and she almost hacked it off—then thought of Jeanne d’Arc and her shorn hair. Theo kept hers long and returned to the vinegar. Lifting some strands to her nose now, she sniffed only dampness and sunshine and felt a swell of relief.

  A week….

  A week, and still Averill had not come to see her. Had he not forgiven her? Did he think she despised him? She had told herself to wait until he was ready to speak to her. A week was not so terribly long, not after what they had all endured. Averill was grieving—and he had other worries. His sister was still hidden away in some asylum.

  Michel had let her tell Averill of Casimir’s death. He heard her out, every hideous detail. He did not wish to be spared. But then he wanted to be alone. In mourning for a dream. But as she left he reached out his hand and clasped hers. “I still love you,” he whispered. A voice from the bottom of a well.

  “I love you too,” she’d answered, but she’d felt only wretchedness.

  After his release, his mother had come to thank her, trembling and almost incoherent with joy. Francine had been with her, tense and ac
idic. Had she hoped Casimir would propose? Was her lost chance at being a baroness more important than her misconception of who he was? A misconception they had all shared. Theo remembered how strangely perfect Casimir had seemed. Too perfect—because he was always playing a part. Not knowing what tales her uncle might spin, Theo had written her father so he would have an honest, if expurgated, version of what had happened. Yesterday, a telegram came, pleading with her to travel with him in Italy. It lay on her table, unanswered.

  Theo approached the door of her home, for home it still was. Matthieu’s mother had mixed feelings, her heartfelt gratitude for Theo’s rescue tainted with blame for her knowing such a monster. At first Madame Masson wanted Casimir’s guilt shouted from the rooftops. Then Michel warned that the newspaper reporters would descend upon her and Matthieu like jackals. The story had been covered up by the Paris police with the help of the locals. Corbeau took the blame and few knew the full truth. The Revenants did and disbanded. None of them wanted to be associated with a killer.

  Casimir had been the true revenant, possessed by Gilles de Rais. Possessed by the idea, perhaps by the spirit, as Yeats had suggested.

  Theo paused as she entered the courtyard, closed her eyes and breathed deeply. It had rained earlier. The fragrance of the pink tea roses mingled with the rich aromas of bark and soil, the glimmering greens of leaves and damp grass. The air smelled sweetly alive, idyllic, peaceful. She inhaled again, the sweet, living scents keeping the ugly memories at bay for a few more seconds. When she opened her eyes again, she saw Averill rise from where he’d been sitting beneath the shadow of the rose tree—reading while he waited, for he carried a book in his hand.

  She walked forward, going to meet him under the cool shade of the overhanging branches. Close to, he looked exhausted, a rim of the bruise still faintly visible on his throat, his eyes hollowed. But he smelled lovely, the scent of warm woods and lavender. Yet now that he was here, her emotions were an awkward tangle and she did not know what to say. She glanced down at the book. “Baudelaire.”