by F. R. Tallis
‘Where have you put the crystal?’ he asked.
I pointed at a chest of drawers. He nodded and his expression became pained.
I said, ‘Father Ranvier’s end was so unexpected. I am concerned that he meant to do something more. I worry that the ritual was not finished.’
Bazile chewed his lower lip. ‘I cannot say for certain, but as far as I know, there was nothing else to be done.’
‘Was there anything in Father Ranvier’s bag to suggest otherwise? Items that he had not made use of?’
‘Additional candles, a book of prayers,’ Bazile replied. ‘Nothing significant.’
I was mildly reassured. Even so, a general state of anxiety persisted. I wanted to know more about what had happened during the exorcism, particularly when I had been unconscious, but Bazile would not be drawn. He simply paraphrased Father Ranvier. ‘Lies. All lies and wicked deception. You do not need to know such things.’ He was clearly relieved when I allowed him to change the subject.
That evening, I devoted my thoughts entirely to Thérèse. I was undecided as to whether I should give her a full account of my remarkable history. She was open-minded, inquisitive and fascinated by the supernatural, yet I imagined that even she, on hearing such a fantastic narrative, might doubt the storyteller’s sanity. Moreover, such an account would necessarily be incomplete. How could I explain what had happened to Courbertin? Although I was not, strictly speaking, responsible for his death, I had wanted to be rid of him and suspected that my ill-will had played a significant part in his demise. Remembering Courbertin filled me with grief, for he had been a kind, generous man.
I yearned to see Thérèse again, ached to see her face, touch her cheeks and kiss her lips. I conjured consoling images: Thérèse rising in the morning, laying out her towel and stooping to pick up a sponge, droplets glistening on her wet thighs and sunlight in the tangled mass of her hair. I wanted to cradle her in my arms, stroke her brow and hear her contented sighs. Another life suggested itself: a country practice, my new wife tending roses in the garden and little Philippe paddling on the shore of a wide blue sea.
When Thérèse’s second letter arrived I could hardly believe what she had written. She was very sorry, but after much soul-searching, she had come to the conclusion that our relationship must end. We had not made each other happy. Now that Courbertin was dead, Philippe must be her priority.
I remembered the last time we were together, her body covered in cuts and bruises, and supposed that her decision must be connected with my acts of violence. Immediately, I went to my bureau and scrawled a frantic reply. I pleaded, grovelled, begged her to reconsider, confessed my faults and promised to change. But her position became entrenched and it soon became apparent that she was very angry with me. She blamed me for her ‘moral decline’ and declared, using forceful language, that she now meant to recover her ‘dignity’ – something that, for obvious reasons, could not be achieved if our ‘association’ continued. I resolved to see her that instant, to tell her the truth, to tell her everything; however, as I was running down the street, coat-tails flapping in the rain, common sense prevailed. How would presenting myself on her landing, drenched and raving like a maniac about demons help my situation? I stopped running, turned round and walked back to my apartment, where I composed another hopeless letter.
The following Monday I resumed my duties at the Salpêtrière. Charcot was delighted to see me back on the wards again and made some polite enquiries about my health. I told him that I had caught a chill and that my old respiratory problem had returned. He made some sympathetic remarks, patted me on the back and departed, dispersing papal benedictions with one hand while twirling his cane in the other.
I could not stop thinking about Thérèse. I missed her terribly. Indeed, I missed her so much that my mind began to play tricks on me. One morning I awoke and saw her standing at the end of my bed. She was wearing a dress of black silk and crimson lace and her eyes were abnormally large and bright, like emeralds set in white marble. Even though I realized she wasn’t really there, her name escaped from my lips and I reached out my hand. The hallucination faded and joy was replaced by misery. I took to loitering outside her apartment, and after several weeks of agonizing indecision, I finally entered the building. I climbed the stairs and knocked on her door, which was opened, not by a maid, but by a man who looked vaguely familiar. It was the gentleman who I had seen at Courbertin’s funeral, the one who had been wearing a long cape. I introduced myself and asked to see Madame Courbertin. The man shook his head. ‘I am afraid she is not receiving visitors today.’ He then shut the door in my face. Thereafter, all my subsequent letters were returned unopened.
A few months later, gripped by the same impulse, I walked to Thérèse’s apartment again. I informed the concierge that I had come to see Madame Courbertin.
‘She doesn’t live here any more,’ he replied, stubbing out a cigarette. ‘She’s moved away.’
‘Where?’
‘She said something about going back home to live with her parents. Her husband died, you know. Dreadful shame.’
‘And where do her parents live?’
The concierge shrugged. ‘How should I know?’
Everything around me seemed to go dark.
‘Are you all right, monsieur?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, touching the wall to steady myself. Thank you.’ I left the building, muttering, ‘I have lost her.’ But then I remembered that Courbertin and Thérèse had come from the same town. Over the next few days I made some discreet enquiries at the hospital and established without much difficulty that Courbertin was a native of Chinon. I nurtured a fragile hope that, with the passing of time, Thérèse might forgive me. This prospect, however unlikely, became the single most important reason for my continued existence.
The season changed. I busied myself at the hospital and worked hard. Charcot took me aside and informed me that my valuable contribution to the hysteria project had been ‘officially’ noted. Occasionally, I met with Bazile, but we were no longer at ease in each other’s company. Life seemed dull and empty. Most evenings were spent alone, reading works of hermetic philosophy and ritual magic, but none of them contained what I was looking for.
On the Boulevard Saint-Michel is a shop that stocks plain, hard-wearing furniture. I had been meaning to go there for some time. When the opportunity finally presented itself, I stepped into a warm interior that smelled strongly of beeswax and sawdust. Down in the basement, I discovered several chests, one of which was made from solid oak. I asked the proprietor if it could be reinforced.
There is no need, monsieur,’ he replied, rapping the wood with his knuckle. ‘It is virtually indestructible.’ Ignoring his objection, I told him of my requirements. He listened heedfully and then said, ‘Lead? Iron plates? But you won’t be able to move it, monsieur. It’ll be too heavy.’ I dismissed his remark and negotiated a price. He was still shaking his head when our business was concluded. As I was preparing to leave the proprietor asked, ‘What do you intend to keep in it?’
‘Family heirlooms,’ I replied.
‘They must be of great value.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Well, rest assured, monsieur: they will never be stolen. It would be easier to rob a bank!’
One day, I was speaking to Valdestin and he asked me if I knew of anyone who might be interested in an unusual appointment. A friend of his, a neurologist named Trudelle, had agreed to become ‘house physician’ to a wealthy Touraine family. Unfortunately, only weeks before he was due to leave Paris, he had met a factory owner’s daughter, fallen in love and decided that his interests were best served by remaining in the capital. The family were very disappointed and Trudelle, overcome with guilt, felt obliged to help them find a replacement.
‘Well?’ said Valdestin. ‘Do you know anybody who would be interested in such a position?’
‘Yes.’ I said. ‘Me.’
‘Have you gone mad? Charcot always rewards ind
ustry, and, given the way you have been working lately, he will almost certainly recommend your advancement next year.’
‘could do with a change.’
‘Clément! Don’t be absurd!’
‘Tell me: where can I find Trudelle?’
Valdestin said that I was being foolish, but I was insistent, and in the end he handed me one of Trudelle’s cards. I think I had already made up my mind to get away from Paris. The same restlessness that had preceded my sudden departure for Saint-Sébastien had taken hold of me and I had been simply waiting for the right opportunity to present itself.
I visited the Du Bris family at their hotel, a fine establishment situated near the opera house. Gaston Du Bris was a big man, ruggedly handsome with longish hair and a pock-marked face. His wife, Hélène, was pretty and courteous. They had with them the eldest of their three children, Annette, whose delicate features and winning naivety made her appear somewhat younger than her twelve years, and Hélène’s brother, Tristan Raboulet – a man in his mid-twenties whose dress and casual manners were perhaps a little too informal given the occasion. Both Annette and her uncle suffered from epilepsy and their seizures were becoming more frequent. I examined the two patients, discussed their symptoms, and enquired as to what treatments they had so far received. Their local doctor and a so-called ‘specialist’ at the hospital in Tours had prescribed largely inert substances. I was broadly in agreement with Trudelle, whose prescribing habits were at least more current. Nevertheless, he had neglected to consider the full range of options and I advised accordingly.
‘With respect,’ I said to Du Bris. ‘I am not sure that you need to employ a house physician. Perhaps you should see first how your daughter and Monsieur Raboulet respond to the new medications?’
Before Du Bris could answer, his wife said, ‘No.’ She wrapped her arms protectively around Annette. The seizures are so terrible. Only last week I thought . . .’ She shook her head and her eyes moistened.
‘It is always very upsetting,’ I said with sympathy, to see those whom we love in distress. But the seizures are likely to be less frequent and certainly less severe.’
‘Even so’, said Hélène. She glanced at her husband – a silent appeal for support.
Du Bris nodded and said, ‘Monsieur, you seem to be suggesting that we can expect to see an improvement, but the new medications are not a cure. Have I understood you correctly?’
‘Indeed.’
Then I agree with my wife. Having a doctor – a colleague of Charcot, no less – accommodated at Chambault would be very desirable.’
Hélène breathed a sigh of relief.
We discussed certain practical matters and an arrangement was made for me to visit their estate in due course. As I was leaving, Raboulet sidled up to me and said, ‘Monsieur Clément, would you be so kind as to recommend a good play?’ He looked excessively disappointed when I was unable to. So much so, that I felt obliged to tell him about a concert I planned to attend that very evening: piano pieces performed by a Russian virtuoso. He promptly scribbled the details on the cuff of his shirt, seemingly indifferent to his brother-in-law’s disapproval.
I had not expected to see Raboulet at the concert, he seemed too feckless and disorganized; however, during the interval, we met in the foyer and he enthused about the music. ‘Thank you, monsieur. A thrilling programme. I am so glad I came.’ He was a talkative fellow and I learned that he had a wife called Sophie, and a baby daughter called Elektra after the protagonist of his favourite Greek tragedy. ‘I can’t think why you would want to leave Paris for the country, monsieur,’ he said, making flamboyant gestures. There really is nothing to do. You don’t get heavenly concerts like this in the village! Still, if you’re mad enough to forgo such pleasures then I will be overjoyed. You have no idea how much I crave educated conversation.’
The following week I travelled to Chambault. It was an extraordinarily beautiful chateau, surrounded by exquisite gardens. On my arrival, Annette handed me a little watercolour of a gentleman in a frock coat carrying a black bag.
‘For you,’ she said.
It was surprisingly accomplished and I recognized myself immediately.
‘Thank you, Annette. The likeness is astonishing.’
‘Please come and live with us,’ she said, her brow tensing. ‘Please come and make me and Uncle Tristan better.’ Her appeal was so direct, so earnest, that I was quite moved.
I was introduced to Annette’s brothers, Victor and Octave, and Du Bris’s mother, Odile – a formidable old woman whose presence was quite oppressive. Hélène hovered in the background, quietly observant and slightly agitated. She was clearly anxious that I should find everything to my satisfaction. Du Bris showed me the suite of rooms that would be mine if I chose to accept the appointment. They were spacious and adjoined a massive library. As we were walking through, I stopped to read the titles and discovered that many of the books were about esoteric subjects.
‘Are you a student of the occult?’ I asked.
Du Bris laughed out loud. ‘Me, good heavens, no! I’m afraid I’m not much of a reading man. Riding, shooting – yes; but not reading!’
‘Then whose—’
‘Almost all of the books you see here once belonged to Roland Du Bris – my great-great-great . . .’he stopped to calculate the precise relationship, but gave up and said instead, ‘An ancestor who lived here hundreds of years ago.’ He seemed impatient to proceed. ‘Come, monsieur. You must see the dining room. We have a tapestry on the wall that once belonged to the first King Louis.’
That night I stayed in Tours, meaning to get the early train back to Paris the following day. In the hotel parlour, I discovered a map of the area. I traced the course of the river Loire, from Tours to Candes-Saint-Martin, and then moved my finger from left to right until it came to rest on Chinon. ‘Not far,’ I thought to myself, ‘not far at all.’ Before retiring, I asked the porter for some paper and wrote a letter to Du Bris accepting his terms.
I was ready to leave Paris before the onset of winter. I said goodbye to Bazile and later that same afternoon walked to the cathedral. The sun was setting and the stone of the western facade was ablaze with red-gold light. Looking up at the central portal I saw devils and demons, endless permutations of human suffering: an eviscerated sinner trailing his insides, another tumbling headfirst into a boiling cauldron and an erring bishop with the clawed feet of a succubus digging into his shoulders. I saw cascades of intertwined bodies, naked and vulnerable, descending into torment, leering grotesques, prodigies, instruments of torture. Among all of this obscene cruelty one scene in particular stood out: a woman, upside down, with toads and serpents biting her breasts, a hook in her belly, about to have her loins devoured by lascivious demons. I remembered the exorcism, Bazile’s stunned voice, ‘It spoke of your friend Madame Courbertin . . .’ I wanted to pray for her, but the words stuck in my throat. How could a perfect, all-knowing and all-powerful God permit the existence of hell? I had not found an answer to this question and doubted that I ever would.
My first winter at Chambault was mild. Both of my patients responded well to the medication that I had prescribed and further improvements were achieved with regular herbal infusions. Raboulet had only two seizures between Christmas and Easter, while Annette had only one. The family were extremely appreciative and I was treated more like a guest than an employee. I had plenty of free time, most of which I spent in the library, and when I wasn’t reading, I went out riding by the river. Once or twice, I was tempted to take the road to Chinon, but I managed to resist. Life at Chambault was delightful. The estate was a little Eden and I had slithered in like a serpent.
PART THREE
Redemption
15
SUMMER 1881
Chambault
The sun had climbed to its highest point and the white facade of the chateau shone with a radiance of exceptional purity. We had gathered at the edge of the lawn beneath the boughs of a wild cherry tree. Hélène
Du Bris was seated at my side, paintbrush in hand, carefully introducing stipples of vermillion onto the green wash of her watercolour. Raboulet was lying on his back, vacantly gazing up through the overhanging branches, and behind him, sitting on the grass with her back against the trunk, was his wife, Sophie, their sleeping infant cradled in her arms. Odile Du Bris had covered her legs with a woollen blanket and was also asleep; I could hear her stertorous breathing. Mademoiselle Drouart, the governess, had organized a game for the children, and Victor, Annette and Octave were chasing up and down the steps which led to the ice house, their voices shrill with excitement. As usual, Du Bris was absent.
Earlier, the cook – Madame Boustagnier – had brought us a basket of freshly baked bread, goat’s cheese and apricots. Only a few hollow crusts remained. She had also packed two bottles of wine from the cellar. The red from the estate – distinctive and spicy – had acted on my brain like a potent soporific and my limbs felt swollen and heavy. A butterfly settled on Hélène’s easel. Its transparent wings trembled and opened to reveal markings of exquisite delicacy, a network of dark lines against a background of vivid orange. Hélène turned to see if I was looking, and when our eyes met, she smiled and said, ‘Do you know what it is, monsieur?’
‘No,’ I replied, ‘I’m afraid I don’t.’
‘So very beautiful . . .’
‘Indeed, madame, and probably quite rare.’
Hélène continued painting, and perhaps because of the wine, I found myself incautiously staring at her. She was wearing a close-fitting gown of blue silk, cut to show the suppleness of her figure. Her arms emerged from short sleeves trimmed with white lace, and I noticed that her skin had darkened during the course of the summer to a sensuous olive. Her hair was piled up loosely on top of her head and held in place by a set of ivory combs. The nape of her neck was visible through a faintly glowing haze of blonde down.