The Forbidden

by F. R. Tallis

  ‘An electrical device.’

  My voice sounded alien, strained and distant. Perhaps it was the peculiarity of my delivery that made Father Lestoumel transfer his attention from the machine to me, and his strong pastoral instincts made him reach out to rest a solicitous hand on my shoulder. I should have acknowledged the gesture, but instead, I stood up and returned to the cupboard from where, among my pharmacological preparations, I took a bottle of rum. I didn’t trouble to offer the curé a glass. Sitting down at the table, I rubbed the bristle on my chin and stared across the room at the corpse.

  ‘You are a good man,’ said the curé, ‘and good men are always welcome in my church.’ Emboldened by some inner sense of conviction, he added, ‘There is nothing that God cannot or will not forgive.’ He could be remarkably perceptive for a country priest.

  I finished the rum and said: ‘Shall I tell Doriac, or will you do it?’

  16

  I was preparing an infusion of passionflower and skullcap when a rap on the door was followed by a tentative enquiry.

  ‘Monsieur?’

  I called out, ‘Come in,’ and Raboulet entered. His hair was mussed and a crumpled linen jacket hung loosely off his shoulders. He hadn’t attached a collar to his shirt and he had neglected to shave. I indicated that he should sit, and he slumped down on a chair, extending his legs and placing his hands behind his head.

  ‘Shame about the girl,’ he said. ‘I just heard; Hélène told me. Was it pneumonia?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Poor child, why on earth did they drag her all the way out here?’

  ‘Monsieur Jourdain was indisposed.’

  Raboulet nodded. ‘I slept through the whole thing.’

  ‘There wasn’t anything you could have done.’

  ‘Like a baby. I thought you’d reduced my bromide.’

  ‘I have. But even small doses have a sedative effect.’ I stirred some honey into the infusion and passed him the glass. ‘How have you been feeling?’

  ‘Not too bad.’

  ‘No unusual experiences . . . sensations?’ The young man shook his head. ‘Good.’

  ‘I was thinking of taking a boat out, later today. No one wants to come with me. I was wondering . . .’

  ‘You can’t row on your own.’

  ‘But I’ve been doing so well.’ He took a sip. ‘How about you, monsieur? Can I tempt you out onto the river?’

  ‘Not today, thank you.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Forgive me. You must be tired.’

  Raboulet stood up and crossed over to the window. Beyond the formal gardens, a carpet of wildflowers stretched off into the distance; aspen quivered on the horizon.

  ‘I get so bored,’ said Raboulet. ‘There’s so little to do.’

  I felt sorry for him. ‘Perhaps you’ll be able to get away from here one day.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’ His voice was eager.

  ‘I can’t make any promises, but if things continue to improve . . . who knows?’

  He finished his infusion and we sat and talked for a while. We smoked some cigarettes and played a game of bezique. When I declared two hundred and fifty I still had two aces. For several weeks, I had been letting Raboulet win, and judged that it was probably about time for him to lose again. Raboulet grinned and vowed to take his revenge. I was to expect, so he declared with counterfeit theatrical anger, ‘a humiliating defeat’. As I put the cards away, he asked, ‘What do you keep in there, Clément?’ I looked up and saw that he was gesturing towards my wooden chest.

  ‘Delicate scientific instruments,’ I replied, ‘and new preparations that I have yet to test.’

  He responded reflectively. ‘Yes, of course.’ The tone of his voice carried an underlying implication of self-reproach, as if he was thinking: how stupid of me to ask such a question, a doctor can’t leave expensive equipment and dangerous substances lying around the place. Oh well,’ he added, rising from the chair and glancing at my table clock, ‘I suppose I’d better leave you to your books and potions. Will you be dining with us this evening?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘If you do decide to join us, don’t forget the cards, eh?’

  My mind was still clouded with memories of Agnès Doriac. After the curé’s departure, I had stayed up for most of the night, drinking the remainder of my rum. Had I been less distracted, I might have responded more warily, but I let Raboulet leave, without asking any questions, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

  I spent the rest of the morning in the library. Madame Boustagnier, ever solicitous, brought me some soup and bread at midday. Just after two o’clock, the bell rang, and Louis came to inform me that Monsieur Doriac had returned. He wanted to speak with me.

  ‘Shall I tell him that you are otherwise engaged, monsieur?’

  ‘No!’ I snapped. ‘I’m perfectly happy to see him.’

  ‘Very good, monsieur. He is waiting in the courtyard.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He wouldn’t come in, monsieur.’

  ‘Did you ask him?’

  ‘It was his preference to remain outside.’

  I put on my jacket and made my way downstairs. The dogs were barking and I was annoyed that nobody had taken the trouble to calm them down. Doriac was standing by the well, holding a wide-brimmed hat in one hand and a basket in the other. He started towards me, his upper body swaying as he lumbered across the cobbles. Damp patches were visible beneath his arms.

  ‘Monsieur Doriac. Please, why don’t you come in?’ He looked down at his clogs. They were coated with white dust and he was clearly concerned that he would bring dirt into the chateau. ‘You can clean your clogs in the kitchen.’

  He shook his head. ‘No. I can’t stay.’ He extended his hand and offered me the basket. I took it from him and peering inside, saw that it was full of straw and eggs. ‘Thank you for trying to save my daughter. Father Lestoumel told me you tried very hard. I know it isn’t much, but it’s all that I have.’

  I didn’t want to deny him or his family their supper, but I had to accept his gift; to do otherwise would have been churlish, or even worse, insulting.

  Thank you, monsieur,’ I said, inclining my head. ‘You are most kind. Agnès was very sick. I am so sorry.’ Doriac took a step backwards. Now that he had accomplished his task, he seemed anxious to leave. I looked about the courtyard and, noticing that it was empty, asked, ‘Where is your trap, monsieur?’

  ‘I don’t have a trap.’

  ‘You had one last night.’

  ‘The curé . . .’ Doriac’s explanation did not proceed beyond naming the person who had obviously obtained the vehicle.

  ‘You walked?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All the way?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You must be exhausted. Please, allow me to drive you back to the village.’

  ‘No,’ Doriac replied assertively. ‘I can walk.’

  I thanked him again for the eggs and he put his hat on. He looked up into the blueness of the sky, turned, and began his long walk home. The large wooden gates had been left open and he was able to leave through the archway that usually admitted carriages. I watched him pass the little fountain and take a pathway that veered off to the left. He didn’t look back and proceeded slowly, head bowed, his ponderous tread suggesting the grim determination of an ox. When Doriac had disappeared from view, I went to the kitchen, where I found Madame Boustagnier chopping vegetables. I gave her the eggs, informed her that it was my intention to dine alone, and requested an omelette.

  ‘Where did you get these, monsieur?’

  ‘They were given to me by Doriac.’ She looked at me quizzically. ‘The man who came here last night with the curé.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ she replied. ‘The girl’s father.’ Her face became anguished and she made the sign of the cross with fluid dexterity. ‘God rest her soul.’

  ‘The omelette must be made with these eggs,’ I said, ‘And these eggs only.’
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br />   ‘What? All of them, monsieur?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘All of them.’

  She reached into the basket, lifted one out, and inspected its speckled surface with interest.

  ‘It’s cracked.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me, Madame Boustagnier. Monsieur Doriac came on foot, carrying that basket all the way from the village.’

  ‘I’ll remember him in my prayers.’

  I shrugged. ‘If you think it will help.’

  Cradling the cracked egg in her rough pink hands, she placed it back in the basket with affecting tenderness.

  I had just finished giving Annette her infusions when her mother appeared in the doorway. Hélène was wearing a black dress and a silver necklace, her hair was tied back and two garnet teardrops hung from her earlobes.

  ‘Are you finished with Annette, monsieur?’

  ‘Yes, madame.’

  ‘And is she well?’

  ‘Very well.’

  The child addressed her mother: ‘Monsieur Clément put only one spoonful of honey in my medicine.’

  ‘Oh, why was that?’ asked Hélène.

  ‘He said that I am sweet enough already.’

  ‘Monsieur,’ Hélène said in mild reprimand, ‘you will give Annette an inflated opinion of herself!’ I was somewhat embarrassed by the child’s disclosure, and made some light-hearted remark before pretending to rearrange my bottles. I could hear Hélène’s skirts sweeping the floor as she crossed to the window. ‘Monsieur,’ she continued, her voice a little strained, ‘My mother-in-law has asked Father Lestoumel to say a Mass for the repose of Agnès Doriac’s soul, and she was anxious that you should be informed. The service will be held tomorrow afternoon, in the chapel.’

  ‘Please thank Madame Du Bris for her kind invitation; however, I must decline.’

  Hélène nodded.

  ‘Monsieur Clément?’ I turned and saw that Annette was standing beside my wooden chest.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What do you keep in here?’ She dragged her hand over the lid, creating a channel through the dust.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘It is so very large.’ She caressed the padlock and insinuated her finger into the keyhole.

  ‘Dangerous substances,’ I said. ‘Chemicals.’

  The child seemed satisfied with my answer.

  ‘Come, Annette,’ said her mother, ‘you have an English lesson with Mademoiselle Drouart and we mustn’t keep her waiting.’ Annette moved, but her hand seemed to linger on the lid, delaying her departure, for a brief moment before she succeeded in pulling away.

  Hélène regained my attention. ‘Will you be dining with us tonight, monsieur?’

  ‘No. I intend to retire early.’

  ‘As you wish, monsieur.’

  I stood at the doorway, watching Hélène and Annette as they walked through the library. Even then, as my thoughts raced, I could not stop myself from admiring Hélène’s figure and her graceful carriage. When they had reached the astronomical globes, I called out, ‘Annette.’ Mother and daughter stopped and turned to face me. ‘Annette, would you come here, please.’ I beckoned, and the girl returned. Lowering my voice, I asked, ‘Annette, have you been talking to your uncle Tristan about what’s in my chest?’ She shook her head. ‘Perhaps you were playing some sort of guessing game?’ Again she shook her head. I smiled and added, Oh, I forgot to give you this.’ I produced a boiled sweet from my waistcoat. ‘Thank you, monsieur,’ she said, before running back to her mother.

  When Hélène saw what I had given Annette, she cried, ‘You spoil her!’

  I made a gesture, communicating my helpless affection for the child. Mother and daughter performed a pleasing synchronous revolution and marched into the shadowy antechamber. I needed to think and decided to go outside for a stroll.

  Chambault did not possess a single large garden, but a number of relatively small gardens, all exquisite examples of the horticulturalist’s art: intimate, scented spaces in which to sit and meditate or find solace in beauty. I crossed the courtyard and walked out into the Garden of the Senses, a system of concentric perennial beds rippling out from a central fountain, and from there entered directly into the Garden of Healing – a favourite haven of mine, planted with medicinal herbs. Sitting on a bench beneath a willow tree, I inhaled the calming fragrances. The sun was setting and the pale turrets of the chateau turned pink in the pastel light. I did not move until the sky had darkened and some precocious stars had appeared above one of the conical roofs.

  On my return, I informed Madame Boustagnier that I was ready to dine, and a tray was brought to my rooms: an omelette, some bread, a dish of strawberries and a bottle of fruit brandy. As I ate, I was troubled by a peculiar sense of having stumbled across some important fact, but I was unable to say what it was, exactly. This feeling seemed to be connected, in an obscure way, with Doriac’s eggs. When I had finished eating, I took off my collar and waistcoat and lay on the divan. For over an hour, I smoked and stared at the chest, trying to persuade myself that the curiosity expressed by both Raboulet and Annette concerning the contents was nothing more than a bizarre coincidence.

  Raising myself up, I went over to the table and lit another candle. It was then that I noticed something different. I went down on my knees, and saw a line on the floor, just to the left of the chest. On closer inspection, I realized that the line was created by an edge of dust. The cause was obvious: dust had collected around the chest, and the chest had been moved approximately four centimetres to the right. There were no scratches on the floorboards. The chest was a very heavy object, made from solid oak, trimmed with brass, and lined with lead: the underside was reinforced with iron plates. When I arrived at Chambault, six powerful men were needed to carry it up the stairs. Although the chest had been displaced by a relatively small distance, this could not have been the result of an accidental knock, and nobody in the chateau was strong enough to push it. I was overcome by a feeling of dark foreboding – cold, obstinate dread.

  For several hours I paced around the room, before going down on my knees yet again to examine the line of dust. No matter how many times I looked at it, I was obliged to reach the same conclusion. The chest had moved. I retired to my bed, but did not fall asleep for several hours. When finally I drifted off, I dreamed of Madame Boustagnier in the kitchen: a residue of memory from the previous day. She was inspecting one of Doriac’s eggs, just as she had in real life. Once again, I heard her say, ‘It’s cracked.’ Her voice sounded so loudly that I awoke. The meaning of the dream was all too apparent. Now I understood the cause of that insistent nagging feeling, of having encountered some important but unidentifiable piece of information. I imagined the pitch-black interior of the chest – a flaw in the glass, a hairline crack, spreading. My heart was beating wildly in my ears. I would have to open the chest to assess the damage, for that was the only explanation. It hadn’t been opened in over a year, and the prospect of doing so filled me with horror.

  17

  I came upon Odile Du Bris just as she was leaving the chapel. A veil covered her face and a wrinkled hand clutched Louis’ forearm for support. On hearing my approach, she looked up and said, ‘Ah, Monsieur Clément. Do you have a moment?’ She dismissed Louis with an imperious gesture and permitted me to escort her back inside. The space we entered was roughly circular and dominated by an ancient plaster altarpiece. The relief figures and ornamentation were crudely executed and painted in faded reds and gold. In front of the altar was a small table, entirely covered in blue brocade, on which rested an open prayer book. The deep, rounded depressions in the well-worn hassock showed where two protruding kneecaps were frequently accommodated.

  Odile Du Bris lowered herself onto a chair and indicated that I should close the door. I performed the task and stood before her, my hands clasped behind my back. She looked me up and down and then said, ‘Did Hélène invite you to the service, monsieur?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied.

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nbsp; ‘You did not come.’

  ‘No.’

  She took a deep breath and expressed her disapproval with a lengthy sigh. Then, lifting her veil, she fixed me with a cold stare.

  ‘How is my granddaughter?’

  ‘Very well, madame.’

  Odile’s expression softened slightly and she fussed with her lace shawl. ‘I worry about her.’

  ‘There is no need to be unduly concerned.’

  ‘She doesn’t act her age,’ Odile sneered. ‘She doesn’t comport herself as a young woman should.’

  ‘Madame, she is only—’

  ‘She talks nonsense about fairies and goes about as if she is in a dream. It is not right, monsieur.’

  ‘Annette is very imaginative – a thoughtful child. It is her nature.’

  ‘Thoughtful, monsieur? There is a difference between thinking and wool-gathering.’ I did not want to argue with the old woman. When she spoke again, her voice was less confident and trembled slightly with emotion. ‘You must make Annette better, monsieur. You must.’ Her eyes moistened and she pretended to adjust her veil. When she had completed the manoeuvre she allowed the gauze to drop in front of her face. She was a proud woman and it was all too easy to forget her age and infirmity. I took a step forward and rested my hand on hers for a fleeting moment, just enough to communicate that I was aware of her distress, and then withdrew. Odile nodded and assumed her stiff attitude. When she spoke again, there was metal in her voice. ‘I never approved of the marriage. But my son is headstrong. Had his father been alive . . .’ She straightened her back, and drew obvious satisfaction from some imaginary scenario. A half-smile appeared and then faded as reality reasserted itself on her senses. There’s something in their blood,’ she added with contempt.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘The Raboulets. Look at Annette’s uncle.’ She shook her head. ‘And there were others. Old Raboulet was just the same.’