by F. R. Tallis
‘It is quite truc, madame, that there are certain constitutional vulnerabilities that can be passed down from generation to generation. But if a condition can be managed, then individuals so afflicted can expect to live a full and happy life.’
Odile snorted. ‘Annette will not be a child forever. What hope is there for the girl when she reaches maturity? She’s not far off it! How many suitors can we expect?’ Odile pushed out her chin defiantly. ‘A good match with a local family is out of the question. Even if we send her to Paris, enquiries will be made and, I can assure you, people talk. If she could only be more sensible, more womanly, at least then there might be a chance.’
‘Your granddaughter is kind and has many endearing qualities. There is nothing deficient in her make-up. Indeed, in many respects, I think she exhibits sensitivity and intelligence in advance of her years.’
Odile tutted and looked away. ‘Monsieur. Would you be kind enough to call Louis?’
A filigree candelabrum had been placed on the altar next to some pots of dried lavender. The air was laden with scent and the light that passed through the stained-glass windows created pools of amber on the flag stones. I had been dismissed.
I passed from the Garden of Healing into the Garden of Intelligence, a delightful assortment of yellow and blue blossoms surrounded by pergolas of rose and hummingbird vine. The path led me to an uneven staircase which I climbed until the Garden of Silence came into view: a rectangular lawn, contained by low box hedges, with a Roman urn standing on a pedestal at its centre. Beyond the terraces which dropped away at my feet, the corbelled turrets of the chateau emitted a warm glow in the early light, as if the sun’s rays were being refracted through honey. I inhaled the morning air, which was cool and fragrant with lilac and the white chocolate undertow of clematis. A pallid wafer moon floated above the chimney stacks, more like a recollection, a thing imagined, than another world.
As I walked around the Garden of Silence, I felt strangely cleansed and began to feel more hopeful. There was no need to act rashly. Perhaps it was a temporary phenomenon. I should be patient and review the situation pending further developments; if there were none, it would be wise to leave the chest alone. The death of the Doriac girl had probably upset me more than I had realized. Attempting an electrical resuscitation had been ill-judged. Undertaking the procedure was bound to bring back bad memories. I should have left the battery in the cupboard and allowed the girl to die naturally. The whole episode had unsettled me.
On returning to my rooms, I enjoyed a breakfast of freshly baked rolls, fruit conserve and a brackish, aromatic coffee of exceptional strength. The walk had sharpened my appetite and I ate with relish. I spent the remainder of the morning in the library reading Montaigne, most notably, his essay titled ‘How our Mind Tangles itself Up’.
It occurred to me that I had spent most of the year either cooped up in the library or riding around the estate. Perhaps it would be appropriate for me to spend some time away from Chambault? Raboulet and Annette had not had any seizures in over six months and I broached the subject with Du Bris.
‘How long will you be absent?’ he asked.
‘A week or so,’ I replied.
He turned his palms outwards and smiled. ‘That seems perfectly reasonable. Where are you going?’
I heard myself reply: ‘Chinon.’
18
Louis drove me to the village and it was there that I caught the diligence. The journey was not arduous and I glimpsed Chinon for the first time in the late afternoon. It was an impressive sight, ramparts and towers on a low ridge, the pale stone blushing as clouds passed in front of the sun. The approach road was well maintained and the vehicle made very good progress. Within minutes of crossing the river Vienne I was standing in the market square.
It was relatively easy to find an inn. I was shown a room which, although not spacious, was comfortably appointed and, after a short rest, I ordered some bread and cheese. This I ate outside, beneath a canopy of bright red flowers. I then went for a stroll.
The crooked medieval streets were mostly deserted. Apart from an old woman sitting in a doorway and a mangy stray dog, I saw no other living creature. I turned off the main thoroughfare and ascended a steep cobbled path that rose higher and higher until it reached the town’s lofty fortress. From this vantage point the view was quite spectacular. I gazed south, over a patchwork of rooftops and timbered gables, beyond the river, where fields and vineyards rolled away to the shimmering horizon.
‘She is down there’, I thought to myself. ‘Somewhere.’
The impulse that had made me travel to Chinon was obscure. I wasn’t wholly sure what I was doing there. Of course, there were superficial justifications – reconnaissance, information-gathering, testing my nerve – all of them quite ridiculous. In reality, I wanted to find Thérèse and tell her how much I loved her. I wanted to take her in my arms, feel her warmth and touch my lips against her hair. I hoped that when she looked into my eyes she would see the torment, anguish and remorse, recognize my plight and take pity on me. Even though I could no longer believe in an all-knowing, all-powerful God of love, I was still prepared to believe in love itself. In a universe without certainties, love had become my rock, my pole star, my still centre. Love was all that I had left.
Over the next few days – I cannot remember how many – I wandered the streets, anxious, expectant, my heart racing whenever I saw a woman in the distance. One evening, and one evening only, I drank myself into a stupor. When I awoke the following morning I went to the post office, but a headache prevented me from making the relevant enquiries. Instead, I sat in a cafe, where I overheard two men talking about market day. Later, I asked the waiter on which day of the week market day fell, and he replied, ‘Thursday.’
In a town the size of Chinon, all of the inhabitants would be out on market day, buying provisions, gossiping, meeting friends. She would be there: a tall, well-dressed woman, conspicuous among the hoi polloi, moving from stall to stall, graceful, poised. The image persisted in my mind like a premonition.
I slept badly on Wednesday night and when I awoke on Thursday morning I felt agitated and fearful. Breakfast was served in my room but I hardly touched it. I went to the market square early and watched the stallholders laying out their produce and wares. People began to arrive, money changed hands and acquaintances gathered together in small noisy groups. I circulated around the square, studying the merchandise: wicker baskets, glazed pottery, brightly painted plates, goat’s cheese, cured meats, quince jelly, pickled samphire, almonds and prunes stuffed with marzipan. A gypsy was trying to sell a piebald horse. One of the stalls was covered with a chaotic jumble of household items and I caught sight of myself in an oval shaving mirror. I looked unkempt, even disreputable. How would Thérèse react if she saw me like this? I straightened my hat and tried to look calm and dignified.
A mass of dark cloud was building overhead and the temperature began to drop. I had been patrolling the market for over an hour and was about to give up, when the crowd parted and I saw a gentleman dressed in a brown jacket and trousers. His skin was tanned and he sported a large bushy moustache. He was holding the hand of a child. Although the boy had grown, I recognized Philippe immediately. For a moment, I froze, but then I stepped forward and, making a show of glad surprise exclaimed, ‘Philippe. Good heavens! Philippe, my dear little friend! Do you remember me?’ The boy’s expression remained blank, so I continued, ‘Surely you remember me!’ I then offered the old gentleman my hand, which he shook with unexpected firmness.
‘Monsieur Arnoult. And you are?’
‘Monsieur Clément.’ I paused to see if the name meant anything to him, then added, ‘I was a colleague of Philippe’s father.’
‘A doctor?’
‘I worked with Henri at the Salpêtrière. Dear Henri; he is sorely missed.’ I narrowed my eyes and looked from Arnoult to the boy, and back again. ‘You must be Philippe’s grandfather – on his mother’s side?’
‘Yes,’ Arnoult replied. ‘That is correct.’
‘And how is Madame Courbertin?’ I asked, attempting to sound natural, but my voice came out strained and hoarse.
Arnoult winced and stroked Philippe’s hair. ‘Not very well, I’m afraid.’
‘Nothing serious, I hope.’
‘Unfortunately, she is very ill.’
‘Very ill?’ I repeated. ‘What is she suffering from? I do not wish to pry, monsieur. I only ask in order to establish if I might be of service.’
Arnoult turned Philippe towards a knot of gabbling women. ‘Go and help your grandmother.’ The boy ran off and the old man readied himself to answer my question. ‘She had a condition, a stomach complaint, and took morphine to control the pain. Unfortunately, she was not very good at regulating her medicine and often took more than was good for her. Our doctor, Monsieur Perrot, tried to get her to reduce the amount she was taking, but this proved very difficult. She had temper tantrums, bad dreams and screamed like a mad woman in the night. The boy was terrified.’ Arnoult shook his head. ‘We couldn’t go on like that. It was impossible. My daughter resumed her habit and became weaker and weaker. Her heart is not strong.’
There was a rumble of thunder and it started to rain. The people around us began to scatter.
‘I am sorry,’ I whispered.
‘You knew her well?’
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Henri was very good to me.’
‘What was your name again?’
‘Clément. Paul Clément.’ It still meant nothing to him.
Philippe was standing next to his grandmother. She indicated her intention to find somewhere to shelter by placing a hand over her head.
‘Excuse me, monsieur,’ said Arnoult, ‘I must go.’ He advanced a few steps and then stopped. Looking back, he said, ‘We live by the river.’ He recited an address. ‘If your business detains you in Chinon . . .’
‘Thank you. I would very much like to see her again.’
‘Then come this afternoon,’ said Arnoult. ‘I would appreciate a second opinion.’
Arnoult pressed his hat down to ensure that it would stay on and hurried off in pursuit of his wife and grandson.
At one o’clock I walked to the embankment and followed the river until I came to a house that was set back from the road. It was a substantial property with peeling paintwork and faded green shutters. I rang the bell and the door was opened by Arnoult, who invited me in and introduced me to his wife. Madame Arnoult was a handsome woman with strong, regular features. Her smile was an exact copy of Thérèse’s.
‘How is she?’ I asked.
‘Not good,’ Arnoult replied. ‘Her condition has deteriorated. We called Monsieur Perrot when we got back from the market. He is with her now.’
I ascended a staircase and was shown into a musty bedroom. When I saw Thérèse, my legs gave way and I would have fallen to the floor had not the old man grabbed my arm. ‘Monsieur?’
‘I’m all right,’ I said, ‘I’m sorry.’
He released his grip. The woman lying beneath the eiderdown was hardly recognizable as my beloved Thérèse. Shadows gathered where I expected to see her eyes, and her angular jaw bone defined the precise limit of her chin. Her skull was too present, too eager for exposure. She was wasting away.
Arnoult drew my attention to a middle-aged gentleman standing by the window. ‘Monsieur Perrot,’ he said. I nodded, moved to the bedside and sat on a wooden chair. Lifting Thérèse’s limp hand, I noticed that her fingers were blue. I was vaguely aware of Arnoult continuing: ‘Monsieur Clément was a colleague of Henri, they worked together at the Salpêtrière.’
‘Thérese,’ I whispered. ‘Thérese. It’s Paul. Can you hear me?’
Perrot came forward. ‘She lost consciousness an hour ago.’
Arnoult spoke again. ‘Monsieur Perrot? Monsieur Clément? Something to drink?’
‘An anisette,’ said Perrot, ‘mixed with water.’
‘And you, Monsieur Clément?’
I looked up. ‘Nothing for me, thank you.’
Arnoult left the room and Perrot asked me if I had been informed of Thérèse’s medical history.
‘Her father mentioned morphine,’ I replied.
Perrot lowered his voice. ‘She had a long-standing addiction. The old man thinks that it all started with a stomach complaint.’ He shook his head. ‘I did everything I could to get her off it, but without success. She has been very ill for several months now. Very ill.’ He tapped a stuttering rhythm over his heart and looked at me knowingly. ‘She saw a cardiologist in Tours. He wasn’t very optimistic.’
Thérese coughed and emitted a low groan. Her lips were cracked and a white residue had collected in the corners of her mouth.
‘Do the family know?’ I asked.
‘I think Arnoult understands. I’m not sure whether his wife does.’ Perrot removed his stethoscope. ‘Were you close?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, turning away to conceal my grief. ‘We mixed in the same circles – in Paris.’
‘Poor Philippe,’ Perrot continued. ‘First his father, then his mother. Dreadful.’
Arnoult returned and handed Perrot his anisette. The doctor drank it while making some bland remarks, before picking up his leather bag. ‘Well, I must be on my way. Madame Musard has a fever and I promised to see her again.’ Looking over at Thérèse, he added, ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can. Stay where you are, Arnoult, I’ll see myself out.’ We listened to Perrot descending the stairs and the front door opening and closing.
‘What do you think?’ asked Arnoult. ‘Is there any hope?’ I couldn’t answer him. My throat was too tight. Arnoult sighed and said, ‘I thought as much.’ He sat on the opposite side of the bed and bowed his head. After a few minutes, he stirred and said, ‘Why Chinon, monsieur? What brings you to our town?’
I told him a little of my circumstances and said that I was taking a short holiday. He then asked me some questions about my life in Paris and I exaggerated how well I had known Henri. Arnoult’s questions were innocent enough, but he clearly found it curious that his daughter had never mentioned me. I found the pretence tiring and wanted Arnoult to leave. I wanted to be alone with Thérèse.
It was an overcast day, and by mid-afternoon the room was quite dark. Arnoult lit some candles and then dozed off. He was relieved by his wife, who took his place. She asked me the very same questions and I repeated identical falsehoods. Perrot returned at eight o’clock and undertook another examination. He offered me his stethoscope and I was obliged to listen to the irregular beat of Thérèse’s heart.
I remembered our apartment in Saint-Germain: the shadow of my hand on her back, her rasping as my fingers closed. Was this my fault too?
When Perrot left the room I could not restrain myself any longer. I wrapped my arms around Thérèse’s neck and sobbed into her lank hair, ‘I’m so sorry – so very, very sorry.’ She felt flimsy, insubstantial, and I feared that if I handled her too roughly her ribs might snap. Withdrawing a little, I kissed her forehead and then her lips. ‘Please forgive me,’ I pleaded.
There were footsteps on the landing. I quickly found my handkerchief and wiped away my tears, but this clumsy attempt to hide my emotion proved futile. My voice was thick and my eyes were still prickling. Arnoult’s expression was sympathetic, but I also detected a hint of suspicion.
‘Would you like something to eat?’ he asked.
‘It is kind of you to offer,’ I replied. ‘But no, thank you. Perhaps I should go now. I do not wish to intrude.’
Madame Arnoult arrived with Philippe. She guided the sad-looking boy around the bed and said, ‘Say goodnight to your mother, child.’ Philippe planted a kiss on Thérese’s cheek and recited a touching prayer – an entreaty to the Blessed Virgin.
As he was leaving I stopped him and made him stand squarely in front of me. ’Philippe, your mother is very ill, and she has not been well for a long time. Illness changes people. But we will remember her how she
was, when she was healthy and happy. She loves you, Philippe. She told me so on many occasions. She loves you more than anything – anything in this world.’ I let him go and his grandmother took his hand. At the door, he paused, and said, ‘Goodnight, monsieur.’ But there was no warmth in his voice.
When Philippe and his grandmother had departed I sat in silence with Arnoult until the sky turned black. The old man drew the curtains and I said, ‘May I come tomorrow?’
‘If you wish,’ he replied.
The following morning Thérèse was no longer at peace. She was in an agitated state, plucking the eiderdown and mumbling. Occasionally, her eyes would open, but she registered nothing. Her fingers were freezing and I rubbed them incessantly to keep them warm.
Perrot appeared just before noon.
‘She’s uncomfortable,’ he said. ‘I think she needs sedation.’ He gave me the opportunity to object, but he was her physician and I did not want to interfere.
Hours passed. I went for a walk and returned when it started to rain. Madame Arnoult had prepared a meal for her husband and Philippe. I did not join them, knowing that while they ate together I could be alone once more with Thérèse.
She was lying very still and her breathing was shallow. Quite suddenly, her eyes opened and she seemed to focus on me. I clasped her hand. ‘Thérèse,’ I cried. ‘It’s me, Paul. Do you see me? Oh, Thérèse, my darling, how I love you: how I love you!’ I saw the light of recognition flare in her eyes. Then surprise turned to fear. She was terrified. Beneath my thumb, I felt the last movement of blood in her veins. Her eyes remained open, but she was dead.
I sat on the embankment indifferent to the downpour. The surface of the water became choppy as an unseasonably cold wind gained strength. I remembered the demon’s prediction: Thérèse would die and it would have the pleasure of tasting her blood in hell.
Father Ranvier and Bazile had insisted that this vile taunt signified nothing, but they had clearly underestimated the demon’s power.