by F. R. Tallis
‘Monsieur Clément?’
It was the old woman. She had woken up. I rose, a flush of embarrassment warming my cheeks.
‘Yes, madame?’
‘Would you get me my blanket? It has dropped to the ground.’
Of course.’
I picked up the fallen mantle and laid it across her legs. When she said, ‘Thank you’, I thought I detected a certain coldness in her voice. If she had observed me gaping at her daughter-in-law, there was nothing I could do. I made some solicitous remarks and returned to my chair.
Raboulet stood and brushed some grass from his trousers. He lit a cigarette and, addressing no one in particular, said, ‘You know, I heard something quite extraordinary the other day. A fellow from Bonviller is supposed to have sold his wife. Apparently, he sold her along with all the furniture in his house for a hundred francs.’
‘Who told you that?’ asked Hélène.
‘Fleuriot,’ Raboulet replied. ‘He told me that the notary refused to register the sale but the people involved decided to carry on regardless. They signed a document before three witnesses in the marketplace.’ The old woman grumbled disapprovingly. ‘Now, that can’t be right, can it?’ Raboulet went on, ‘I mean to say, a man can’t just sell his wife, surely? What do you think, Monsieur Clément?’
‘Parties can agree to conditions without recourse to law, and often do. I recall there was a similar case reported in Rive-de-Gier, not so long ago.’
‘Who would have thought it?’ said Raboulet.
‘These peasants are brutes,’ said the old woman.
‘Let us hope,’ I said, ‘that in the fullness of time, compulsory schooling will have an improving effect.’
‘Education is all well and good, monsieur,’ snapped the old woman, ‘but it will not be enough. The peasantry suffer from a moral weakness. I have lived here all my life and know what they are like. Believe me. They are godless and intemperate.’
Oh, madame,’ said Raboulet, extending his arms and tacitly begging the old woman to reconsider her judgement. Her unforgiving expression did not soften and she turned her head away sharply.
Undaunted, Raboulet continued to inform us of the latest gossip: an argument involving the blacksmith, the appearance of gypsy caravans by the river. His chatter was mildly diverting and occasionally prompted some frivolous banter. Thankfully, the old woman fell asleep again, so we were spared more of her scolding piety. When Raboulet had exhausted his stock of stories, he strolled around the cherry tree a few times before positioning himself between two moss-covered statues of cherubs. He gazed out over the lawn and waved at the children, who stopped their game to return his signal.
‘I think I’ll join them,’ he said. ‘They look like they’re having fun.’
He picked up a straw hat and stepped out of the shade and into the fierce midday heat. He was dressed in a pale summer jacket and baggy trousers. His gait was shambolic, as if his limbs were connected to his body only by threads of cotton, and his rangy, uncoordinated step reminded me of a marionette. The children became boisterous at his approach, and I could hear Mademoiselle Drouart attempting to calm them down.
Hélène leaned back in her chair and considered her watercolour. She had only included the southern tower of the chateau, with its conical roof and ornate chimney stack; however, the building supplied a vertical line which divided the picture into pleasing and complementary parts. I said, ‘The fallen leaves are particularly well executed.’ Hélène was so modest that my praise baffled her. ‘No. Really, madame,’ I persevered, ‘I think it’s rather good.’
‘You are very kind, monsieur, but I am perfectly aware of my limitations.’ She paused and a line appeared on her brow. ‘Did you meet many artists when you lived in Paris, Monsieur Clément?’
‘Yes, a few, but none of renown: the closest I came to artistic genius was to stand in the same room as Gustave Doré. We were never introduced. He was pointed out to me – a distant figure standing next to the punch bowl – by one of my medical colleagues.’
‘You must find life at Chambault very slow, monsieur.’
‘Not at all.’
‘I worry that we will lose you one day: that you will get bored with us and our provincial ways and return to the city.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’
She looked at me in disbelief.
‘I am very happy here,’ I continued, eager to reassure her. ‘I adore the peace, the tranquillity.’ Directing my gaze to the noisy group on the other side of the lawn, she raised her eyebrows. I laughed. ‘They don’t disturb me when I’m in the library.’
‘How are your studies proceeding, monsieur?’
‘It is a privilege to have access to such a collection.’ My response was a subtle evasion and I was relieved that it passed without notice.
Suddenly, the children were racing towards us, pursued by their uncle. Mademoiselle Drouart was following behind, unhurried, striking a graceful pose with her parasol. ‘I won, I won,’ shouted Victor, as he passed between the two mossy cherubs and collapsed on the ground. I was aware that Annette had purposely decreased her speed so as to allow both of her brothers to beat her. This little act of charity was strangely touching. She had inherited her mother’s hair and eyes, and her face, although still that of an innocent, could communicate emotions of surprising depth and maturity. Raboulet arrived next, grinning and coughing after his exertions. He slumped down next to his wife, who looked at him with mock exasperation. Mademoiselle Drouart collected the children together and led them to an adjacent tree, where she began reading to them from a volume of fairy stories.
I closed my eyes and listened to the soft murmur of her voice, the humming of an inquisitive honeybee, and the gentle rustle of Hélène’s skirts. I must have dropped off, because when I opened my eyes again, Annette was standing in front of me, a bracelet of tiny flowers in her outstretched palm.
‘That is very pretty,’ I said.
‘I made it for you,’ she whispered.
‘Thank you.’ I replied. ‘It is too small for me to wear, so I shall keep it on my desk.’ The child gave me the bracelet and I placed it in my breast pocket, making sure not to break any of her carefully constructed links.
‘The demoiselles wear flowers.’
‘Who?’
‘The demoiselles. The fairies of the forest. Madame Boustagnier told me about them.’
‘Is that so?’
Raboulet stirred: ‘Ha! The doctor doesn’t believe in fairies, my dear. He is a man of science, which means that he doesn’t believe in anything that he cannot touch or see.’
‘But you can never see the demoiselles,’ said the child. ‘It is impossible. They disappear if anyone gets close.’
‘There you are, monsieur,’ said Raboulet. ‘Science’s problem in a nutshell. Although there is no evidence to suggest the existence of certain phenomena, belief in them will persist forever because they cannot be refuted.’ Raboulet liked to remind me that he had read one or two volumes of philosophy. ‘This is why,’ he continued, ‘science will never replace the idiocy of religion.’
Hélène swivelled round to make sure that Odile was still unconscious. Anxiety became relief and she waved a cautionary finger at her brother.
‘I could see she was asleep from here,’ said Raboulet.
‘Is that true, monsieur?’ asked Annette. ‘You do not believe in anything that cannot be seen or touched?’
‘No,’ I said, stroking a wisp of hair out of her eyes. ‘That is not true. Thank you for the bracelet.’
A light breeze, carrying with it the perfume of roses, made the boughs above our heads creak. Some leaves fell and their descent was accompanied by birdsong.
Earlier that summer, I had written a letter to Thérèse. I did not know her address, but had assumed, correctly, that Chinon was so small a town that an envelope carrying her name would not present the postal service with too great a challenge. I had been half expecting her to return the letter unope
ned, so I was mentally unprepared for her reply, which arrived only two days later. The script was jagged, forward leaning, and in some parts made almost illegible by trails of splattered ink. It was not necessary to read the words to gauge the strength of Thérèse’s emotion. She had apparently committed her thoughts to paper, without pause, and in a blind rage: ‘I never want to see you again. What you did to me was unforgivable and every day I suffer as a consequence. Perhaps it is only right that a woman who neglected her son and deceived her husband should be punished. Why do you persecute me so? Please, leave me alone. Please, go back to Paris.’ I would sit in the library, reading and rereading this letter. It was not her anger that I found so upsetting, but rather her pleading. News of my arrival in the Loire had reduced her to scrawling desperate entreaties: ‘I beg you to respect my wishes. Please, please be merciful.’ To think of her so frightened and wretched filled me with sadness.
Old buildings are said to make noises, but Chambault was remarkably quiet at night. I folded Thérèse’s letter and slipped it into a volume of alchemical writings. When the dogs started barking, I assumed that they had been disturbed by a mouse or a wild cat, but they did not stop, and after several minutes I too detected the sound of an approaching trap: whip cracks, the jangling of the bridle, the rattle of wheels on the village road. The courtyard gate was closed and the vehicle was obliged to stop outside. There were raised voices and someone rang the bell. Louis, one of the servants, called down from a window, a door slammed and there were hurried footsteps. I tidied my things and slotted the alchemy book back into its space on the shelf. The commotion grew louder and I decided to investigate. When I stepped into the antechamber, I was confronted with Du Bris, entering from the other side. He was in his dressing gown and clutched a rifle in his hands. Keeping pace with Du Bris was Louis, still in his nightshirt, and holding up an oil lamp. They were followed by Father Lestoumel, the curé, and a burly man from the village carrying a girl in his arms. Even from a distance I could see that her limbs were shaking.
‘Quick,’ I said. ‘This way, please.’
At the opposite end of the library was the door to my rooms. On entering the study, I lit some candles, ordered the man to lay the girl out on the divan and commenced my examination. Her head was rolling from side to side, she was uttering incoherent phrases and her face was lacquered with perspiration. Lank black hair was plastered across her forehead. I asked Louis to hold the lamp higher, and as he did so I saw that the girl’s skin had a bluish hue. There were blood stains down the front of her smock and her breathing and heart rate were rapid.
‘How long has she been like this?’ I asked.
‘Allow me to introduce Monsieur Doriac,’ said the curé, ‘the girl’s father.’ He invited the man to step forward. ‘Speak, Thomas. Answer the doctor’s question.’
‘She’s been poorly for weeks,’ said Doriac. He was a big, awkward fellow with lumpy features.
‘Indeed,’ I said, ‘but how long has she had this fever?’
‘Two days.’
‘When was the last time she had anything to drink?’
‘I don’t know. My wife’s been looking after her.’
‘Why didn’t you call Monsieur Jourdain?’
‘We did. He came on Tuesday and prescribed some pastilles. They didn’t help, so my wife . . .’ Doriac became uncomfortable and he did not finish his sentence.
The curé bowed and spoke confidentially into my ear, ‘I went to fetch Monsieur Jourdain earlier this evening, but unfortunately I found him indisposed.’ What he meant was that the reprobate had, yet again, drunk himself into a state of insensibility. ‘I’m sorry, monsieur, but there was nothing else I could do. I didn’t want to risk driving her all the way to Bleury-en-Plaine.’
I listened to the girl’s lungs and heard exactly what I dreaded: a horrible crackling as she drew breath. Du Bris must have observed my reaction. He clapped a hand on Doriac’s back and said, almost jovially, ‘Come, monsieur, let’s leave the doctor alone, we mustn’t distract him. How about a cognac? You look like you could do with one, and you, Father Lestoumel? Would you like to join us? No? Very well. Come, monsieur.’ Du Bris steered Doriac towards the library and beckoned Louis. It was obvious that he fully understood the gravity of the situation. I emptied some water into a bowl and tried to cool the child’s forehead with a damp flannel. I then prepared a solution of salicin. While I was dissolving the powder, I asked Father Lestoumel the child’s name, and he said that it was Agnès. Positioning myself so that I could raise her up a little, I held the glass to her lips. Her breath was fetid. ‘Agnès,’ I said, ‘listen to me. Keep your head still. You must drink. It is important that you drink.’ The poor creature was delirious. I tilted the glass but she didn’t swallow anything. The liquid came straight out of her mouth and cascaded down her front.
The curé caught my eye and said, ‘When Jourdain’s pastilles didn’t work, Doriac’s wife rode out to Saint-Jean to see Madame Touppin.’
‘Who?’
‘Madame Touppin. She is reputed to be a healer. In reality, she is nothing but an ignorant hag who sells charms and potions to the gullible and superstitious. She told Madame Doriac to slice a living white dove in two and to place the palpitating halves on the child’s chest.’ When the curé saw my expression, he added, ‘Yes, I know: you wouldn’t think it possible in this day and age, but I promise you, monsieur, it is true. Unfortunately, I didn’t hear of this obscenity until today, otherwise I would have acted earlier.’
‘Are you suggesting that the Doriacs actually . . .’
‘Followed Madame Touppin’s advice? Yes, and Madame Doriac was willing to wait indefinitely for the treatment to take effect. Naturally, as soon as I saw Agnès, I realized she was in need of urgent medical help, and set about persuading Monsieur Doriac to think again about Jourdain.’
‘Really, Father, it is not acceptable that a doctor should be so regularly – as you say – indisposed.’
‘Yes,’ said the curé, bowing his head. ‘You are quite right.’ But I could tell by the defeated croak of his voice that he had no appetite for further arguments with the village council.
Taking pity on him I said, ‘There is only so much that a priest can do.’ He sighed and showed his appreciation with a grateful smile.
‘Agnès,’ I persisted. ‘Drink. You are unwell and must take some medicine to get better. Please, Agnès, you must try.’
It was futile. When I removed the glass from her lips, it was half empty, and she had imbibed nothing. The stream of nonsense issuing from her mouth continued unabated. Her forehead was burning and I could feel the heat coming off her body in waves. The effect was like standing close to a stove. I set the glass aside and removed the girl’s smock, manipulating her arms and pulling the garment off over her head. The revelation of her naked flesh made the holy man cover his eyes. I soaked the flannel and began wiping away a layer of filth, and as I did so, her shivering became more violent. It seemed to me that her skin was a deeper blue than it had first appeared. The curé overcame his scruples and, after a minute or so, lowered his hand.
‘Are we too late?’ he asked.
The child looked pitiful. She was wasted and her ribs were clearly visible. Foamy sputum, flecked with clotted blood, oozed from her mouth. Wiping it away, I found it difficult to be anything other than frank: ‘I am not very hopeful.’
Father Lestoumel nodded. ‘Yes, I feared as much. Doriac will be devastated.’ He searched in the folds of his cassock and produced a small bottle of holy oil. ‘May I?’
I gave my consent and he began to administer the last rites. Rising, I crossed the floor and removed a hypodermic syringe from my bureau. It was my intention to deliver an anti-pyretic intravenously. If the child’s fever could be reduced, then there was a slim possibility she might pull through. I could hear Father Lestoumel praying as I busied myself with my bottles, but then something changed. It took me a few moments to identify what was different. Agnès had stopped m
umbling.
‘Monsieur Clément?’ The curé’s voice was timid, uncertain. I rushed back to the divan and grabbed the child’s wrist. There was no pulse. ‘Has she gone?’
‘Yes.’
The curé made a cross in the air and continued with his prayers.
Had I hesitated for the briefest interval, I would probably have done nothing, but instead I impulsively ran to the cupboard where the batteries were stored and removed one at random. Placing the mahogany box on the floor next to the divan, I raised the lid. The cells elevated and the elements were instantly plunged into a reservoir of dilute sulphuric acid. I made some adjustments to the coil and the device began to emit a soft buzz. Picking up the electrodes I held them over the child’s heart.
‘Monsieur,’ the curé stirred from his ritual. ‘What are you doing?’
Two glowing lines of liquid energy, like miniature bolts of lightning, bridged the gap between the electrodes and Agnès’s body. The curé gasped as the girl’s eyes opened and her chest heaved. A muscular spasm caused the child’s back to arch, and she maintained this position for a second or two, her stomach thrust upwards, before she became limp and fell back. The impact of her landing seemed to knock the air from her lungs, which escaped in the form of protracted, rattling sigh. A further charge had no effect, and when I raised the electrodes, I saw that they had left behind two burn marks. Although Agnès’s eyes had opened, and remained open, I was only too well acquainted with the glassy vacant stare of the dead – that chilling emptiness. She was beyond help now. With precise movements, I altered the position of the metal rod within the coil, pushed the electrodes into their cavities, and closed the lid. The buzzing ceased, creating a paradoxical, roaring silence.
‘She seemed to come back,’ said the curé, ‘I have never seen such a thing. I didn’t know that . . .’ his perplexity rendered him speechless. Nervously worrying the beads of his rosary, his gaze travelled slowly from the dead girl to the battery. ‘What is this machine?’