The Forbidden

by F. R. Tallis

  I was not impressed by any of Bazile’s arguments. They seemed facile, slippery, specious, an uneasy attempt to gloss over the glaring inconsistencies and stark contradictions that lay at the very heart of his religious convictions.

  What had I been hoping for? The prospect of redemption? To be persuaded that I could still alter my destiny? As our dialogue continued, the rifts inside me widened, and despair was replaced by a feeling of desolation.

  ‘I do not understand how you are able to sustain your faith,’ I said to Bazile. ‘It is beyond me.’ The tone of my voice was contemptuous. I might as well have called him an imbecile.

  The atmosphere in the room became tense and uncomfortable. Bazile affected indifference, but it was obvious that I had offended him, and our subsequent efforts to revive the conversation stalled.

  ‘It is a curious thing,’ said Bazile, yawning, ‘but for some time now, whenever we have been together, I have become very tired: unnaturally so.’ He turned his eyes on me. There was something disturbing about the probing intensity of his gaze. ‘Intellectual rigour!’ he added with a wry smile. ‘Perhaps I’m not used to it any more. Madame Bazile is a devoted wife and an excellent cook, but relatively untroubled by the great mysteries.’

  ‘I think I had better go,’ I said, rising abruptly.

  ‘If you wish,’ Bazile replied.

  ‘Please thank Madame Bazile for an excellent meal. The pork was exceptional.’

  Bazile took his own coat as well as mine from a peg on the wall and we descended the bell tower together. Outside, the pavements were glassy with rain. Before I made my departure, we shook hands, albeit rather stiffly.

  ‘Goodbye,’ said Bazile.

  I nodded, put on my hat and marched across the square. When I reached the other side, I turned to look back and fancied that I could still see the bell-ringer standing beneath the mighty colonnade, a barely discernable figure in the shadows. I quickened my step and headed off into the night, giving scant consideration to my route or destination.

  My black mood worsened and I began to feel totally divorced from my surroundings. I did not see the shopfronts, cafes and advertisements. The city made no impression on my senses. I was in the world, but set apart from it, estranged, alienated and alone. Grief and bitterness curdled in my stomach. Everything seemed futile, a divine joke, a preordained pantomime without meaning or tangible purpose.

  I had died, travelled to hell and returned, possessed by a demon: a predatory evil that had discovered pathways of easy influence along the soft grain of my many flaws and weaknesses, my arrogance, lechery and self-pity. I had been a willing accomplice to murder, lending the demon my shortcomings and deficiencies so that it might perform its heinous deed. And, inevitably, I would be its accomplice again, my debased love providing it with the means and opportunity to destroy Thérèse. I recalled her scarred flesh, her languid movements, the emptiness in her eyes, and realized that her descent into depravity must also be counted as one of the demon’s accomplishments. It had reached into her mind and cultivated latent proclivities to ensure our mutual ruin.

  A demon has many goals – to corrupt, to defile, to propagate suffering – but all of these are secondary to its principal goal, which is to take souls to hell. Well, my demon had already achieved this end. I was not, at that moment, in the hell of fire and brimstone but in another hell, a far worse hell, the hell of my own guilt and desperation.

  An angry voice: ‘Get out of the way!’ A carriage was coming towards me, lamps glaring. ‘Monsieur!’ I dodged the vehicle but was drenched with spray when its wheels rolled through a puddle. The driver swore and shook his fist.

  I was standing on the Pont Neuf.

  How could I justify my continued existence? If I lived, the demon would surely prevail and Thérèse would die. I climbed onto the low wall and looked down into the black water. My death had brought the demon into the world, and my death might also be the means to expel it. I was already damned, so what did it matter if I took my own life? At least Thérèse would survive, and in the end all choices are sanctioned by God!

  I launched myself into the void and was surprised when, instead of falling forwards, I fell backwards. Someone had grabbed my coat, and I found myself lying on the pavement, gazing up at low, faintly glowing cloud. Bazile’s face appeared. ‘If you kill yourself,’ he growled, ‘it will become more powerful than you can possibly imagine.’

  11

  I can remember little of what transpired immediately after, a general impression of passing through familiar streets, rain, Bazile at my side, occasionally grasping my elbow to make me turn left or right, fragments of speech – ‘poor fellow’, ‘be strong’, ‘you are no longer alone’ – and finally, Saint-Sulpice coming into view, flat and unreal as if painted on a curtain at the opera. It seemed that one minute I was on the bridge and the next seated in Bazile’s parlour nursing a bowl of steaming tea.

  ‘How did you know?’ I asked.

  ‘There were indications,’ replied the bell-ringer. ‘Certain signs.’ He struck a match and lit his pipe. ‘However, your evident discomfort drinking the cider this evening confirmed my suspicions. I had added holy water.’ Bazile gestured in such a way as to suggest that he was unhappy about having deceived me. ‘The small quantity you drank revived your conscience, gave you the strength to put up a fight; however, a demon is a subtle adversary, and even the best intentions can be subverted to serve its aims.’

  ‘I was trying to . . . thwart it.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Bazile, ‘but self-slaughter is a sin, a sin born of despair. A demon feeds on misery, nourishes itself on negative emotions. Tonight, had you succeeded in ending your life, not only would you have insulted your Maker, but you would have also empowered the very evil you sought to frustrate! No longer obliged to cause suffering by exploiting the frailties of its host, the demon would have been liberated, free to do its mischief without constraint.’ Bazile produced a small cross attached to a thread-like chain. ‘Put this on. Now, my friend, you must tell me everything.’

  I made my confession. I told him of my time on Saint-Sébastien, how I had witnessed the murder of Aristide, and how I had carelessly sworn to tell no one, and how I had broken my oath. I told him what had really happened on the night of the experiment, and how I had journeyed to hell and witnessed unspeakable horrors. I told him how I had been resuscitated and how I had awakened a changed man: sensitive to sunlight and the smell of blood, alert at nights and tired during the day, my fingernails grown thick and sharp. I told him about the demoniac and the little Venus, my affair with Thérèse, the brothel in the Marais, the death of Courbertin and the image of the demon in the window. And when I was done, I broke down and wept.

  ‘These tears are precious,’ said Bazile. ‘For many months, your soul has struggled to resist spiteful tyranny, your natural emotions smothered by a suffocating malevolence and now, at last, your humanity is restored.’

  ‘What am I to do?’ I asked, pathetically.

  ‘We will consult with Father Ranvier.’

  ‘Who?’ The name sounded vaguely familiar.

  ‘My old mentor,’ replied Bazile.

  ‘But I am expected at the hospital.’

  ‘I will send word of your indisposition.’

  ‘Will he be able to help, this priest?’

  ‘I am sure he will.’ Bazile rose from his seat. ‘Would you like some more tea?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said placing my head in my hands. ‘Thank you.’

  I heard Bazile leave the room and sounds coming from the kitchen. As I waited, the cross hanging from my neck seemed to grow heavier and heavier until I was experiencing considerable discomfort. I slipped my fingers beneath the chain and lifted the tiny links off my skin, but as I did so, my nails caught the clasp and released the fastening. The cross and chain dropped onto the table top. I immediately felt relieved and straightened my spine, but only temporarily, because relief was quickly superseded by panic. The walls seemed too near, the
temperature too hot; I felt trapped, entombed, and it became difficult to breathe. All that I could think of was getting outside, where I could fill my lungs with the cool night air. I crept over to the door, opened it and immediately set off down the stairs. Darkness prevented me from making a quick escape and I had not got very far when I heard Bazile calling my name and chasing after me. His hand landed on my shoulder and he spun me around, ‘Paul!’ I detected some shadowy movements and once again I felt the weight of the cross and the bite of the chain. ‘Where are you going?’

  I felt dazed, bemused. ‘I don’t know . . . It’s stifling up there.’

  ‘Why did you remove the cross?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘You must have.’

  ‘It was an accident.’

  Bazile took my arm and said, ‘Come now. The tea is made.’ We ascended the stairs in silence and as soon as we were back in the parlour, Bazile locked the door and removed the key. ‘I’m sorry, Paul. But I would not forgive myself if anything happened to you. Dawn is nearly upon us. Please, sit down and drink your tea.’ He excused himself and I heard him speaking to his wife. When he reappeared, he pointed at the window, which was grey with the first light of the new day. ’The sun is up,’ he said with a kindly smile. ‘We must go.’

  After leaving Saint-Sulpice, we went directly to my apartment in order to collect the little Venus. ‘Father Ranvier will be most interested in this figure, I am sure,’ said Bazile. I wasn’t very hungry, but my companion insisted that we stop at a cafe and I managed to eat a few rolls. The bells of Saint-Sulpice rang out and I threw a questioning glance at Bazile. ‘Madame Bazile,’ he said, smiling. ’And very skilled she is too!’ Rising from his chair, he dropped some coins into an ashtray and indicated that it was time for us to depart.

  The cathedral is this way,’ I said.

  ‘We are not going to the cathedral.’

  I was surprised, given that Bazile had described his mentor as a scholarly priest of Notre Dame. ‘Where does Father Ranvier live?’

  ‘Lately, in the Hôtel Saint-Jean-de-Latran.’ Bazile paused, and I could see that he was considering whether or not to elaborate. ‘I regret to say that Father Ranvier has never been properly appreciated by the Church. The Bishop considers some of Father Ranvier’s views,’ again Bazile paused before adding, ‘unorthodox. Perhaps I should be more respectful, especially where a bishop is concerned, but in my opinion, Father Ranvier has been denied the privileges he deserves.’

  When we arrived at the Hôtel, the vestibule was empty and we went straight up to the second floor.

  ‘Shouldn’t you have sent a note?’ I asked. ‘It is still very early.’

  ‘Given what has transpired,’ said Bazile, ‘I am sure that Father Ranvier will forgive us for neglecting formalities. Besides, I know the hours he keeps. He rises at four thirty every morning and has done so for years.’

  We came to a scuffed door and Bazile knocked three times. After a short interval a frail voice called out, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Édouard.’

  The door opened and standing before us was a venerable gentleman whose seamed face was surrounded by a tangled mass of wisps and curls, made all the more striking on account of their whiteness. He squinted at us through oval spectacles with watery grey eyes so pale that they were almost colourless. It was difficult to estimate his precise age, but I fancied he must be at least eighty. Embracing my companion, he cried, ‘Édouard, Édouard.’ Then, taking a step backwards, he acknowledged my presence with a shy inclination of his head.

  ‘My friend, Monsieur Clément,’ said Bazile.

  ‘The nerve doctor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Please come in.’ The room we entered was spacious and resembled a library. Tall bookcases lined the walls and the air smelled of wax, dust and leather. ‘Fetch more chairs,’ said the priest. Bazile did as he was instructed and we all sat around a table, the surface of which was covered in statuettes of the Virgin, star charts and astronomical calculating devices. ‘So,’ said the priest to Bazile, ‘what brings you here at this early hour?’

  ‘Monsieur Clément,’ said Bazile, ‘is greatly in need of your assistance.’

  ‘Really?’ said the priest, exchanging the spectacles he was wearing for another pair.

  Once again, I was obliged to tell my story. It was, perhaps, a little easier on this second occasion and, as I spoke, the priest listened intently. His expression was sympathetic and the creases around his eyes deepened when distress or embarrassment made me falter. When I reached my conclusion, the priest exhaled and whispered, ‘Astonishing!’

  ‘The figure,’ said Bazile. ‘Show Father Ranvier the figure.’

  I took the little Venus from my pocket and handed it to the priest. He produced a magnifying glass and, closing one eye, peered through the lens.

  ‘Do you know what it is?’ asked Bazile.

  ‘Yes,’ said the priest.

  ‘It looks very old.’ I interjected.

  ‘It is very old. Third century BC, or thereabouts, and almost certainly the work of the Parish, the Celtic tribe who occupied the Île de la Cité before the Romans came.’

  ‘You don’t think it could be a copy, a replica?’

  ‘No.’ The priest turned the figure over. ‘What we have here is a sacramental object, probably used to propitiate Cernunos, the horned god – their god of the underworld.’ He put the magnifying glass down and continued, addressing his remarks to me rather than Bazile. ‘Unlike other Celtic tribes, the Parish rarely produced representations of animals and warriors. They were much more likely to make effigies of women and . . .’his lips twisted before he completed the sentence, ‘demons.’ The priest picked up the figure and handed it back to me. ‘Nearly two hundred years ago, workmen digging beneath the choir of the cathedral unearthed four stone altars, now presumed to have been part of an ancient temple. The face of Cernunos is carved on one of these altars, and an individual unfamiliar with the old gods would probably say that it is the face of the devil.’

  I felt confused and unsure of what the old priest was implying. He must have detected my confusion, because he leaned forward and his expression softened. ‘It will all become clear, monsieur, I promise.’ Then, touching his fingertips together, he continued: Our city has an exceptionally bloody history. No other capital in Europe has witnessed so much violence and cruelty. It is as though there is something bad here, a pernicious influence that makes men turn against each other. And, invariably, when they turn against each other they also turn against the cathedral. For hundreds of years, the mob has congregated in front of Notre-Dame, brandishing weapons and flaming torches. United by a common savage instinct, they have repeatedly attempted to raze the cathedral to the ground. In 1793 they put nooses around the twenty-eight kings and pulled them off the facade, roaring with delight as each one fell. The statues were then decapitated, smashed and thrown into the Seine. Between 1830 and 1848, Paris was barricaded almost thirty times by its rebellious workers and, every time, the cathedral was attacked. And you will recall, no doubt, the most recent uprising, when the cathedral was set on fire and the archbishop executed. Why should this be?’ The old priest sighed. ‘Why is Paris such a violent city, and why is it that the mob nearly always directs its ire at the cathedral?’

  I recognized that these questions were rhetorical and remained silent.

  ‘Many of our churches are built on sites already associated with worship, such as holy wells, shrines and sacred caves. Those who have studied Hermetic philosophy suggest that these sites are, in fact, spirit portals, locations where the partition between this world and other worlds is weak or ruptured. At Notre-Dame, the partition is at its weakest between our world and the underworld, and by the underworld, I mean Sheol – Tartarus – hell. That is why the Parisii worshipped a horned god. They had knowledge of demons and sought to propitiate them through human sacrifice, usually a young female. In subsequent generations, men whom we would now describe as magici
ans succeeded in repairing the breach, thus preventing demons from gaining entry into our world. However, the partition is imperfect, and the malevolent powers that inhabit the underworld can still extend tendrils of influence, inciting violence and inducing the rabble to attack the blessed stones that now protect the portal. For reasons that I cannot explain, when you conducted your extraordinary experiment, your soul was able to pass through the partition and, of course, when your soul returned, it was no longer alone – but accompanied.’

  It was evident from Bazile’s neutral expression that he was familiar with Father Ranvier’s startling cosmology. I, on the other hand, had enormous difficulty assimilating what I was being told. Although I was prepared to accept the reality of my own demonic possession, what I was now being asked to believe was strange beyond imagining. Yet there was something very persuasive about this priest, who spoke with calm confidence and whose scholarship did not rely on ponderous citations or frequent lapses into Latin and Greek.

  ‘Please,’ said Father Ranvier, ‘may I see your hands?’

  I held them out and he lowered his head to inspect my fingernails. They had not been trimmed since the previous day and had already grown long and sharp.

  ‘You will recall,’ said Father Ranvier, ‘that the most celebrated chimera of Notre-Dame, the winged demon, also possesses very long fingernails.’ Ranvier glanced at Bazile. ‘You see? Poor Méryon understood the significance of this. Demons have a predilection for blood. They modify the physiology of their hosts to make them better instruments for the satisfaction of their need. That is why Méryon titled his etching of the winged demon “The Strix”. Poor, poor man. Baudelaire thought he was possessed. I fear the poet may have been right.’

  The fatigue that typically came over me during daylight hours was hindering my ability to concentrate. Father Ranvier and Bazile continued talking, but I was not always able to follow their exchanges. They spoke about a thirteenth-century treatise on diabolical manifestations, and then Marcel, a bishop of Paris reputed to have battled with vampires in the fifth century. When their conversation returned to my situation, Bazile said, ‘Well, Father? Do you think you can help Monsieur Clément?’