by F. R. Tallis
I stayed out until nightfall and, after returning to the inn, I slept in my wet clothes. The next morning I caught the diligence back to the village. My muscles ached and I shivered all the way. I paid a farmer to take me to the chateau in a trap, and on my arrival went straight to bed. Although the weather was now perfectly pleasant, the sheets felt like ice and my teeth chattered. Louis came to see if I wished to dine with the family, but I was feverish and by that time quite unwell. Raboulet came up after dinner to see if I needed anything, but I sent him away.
‘I have an infection,’ I said. ‘I should be left alone.’
‘But you must eat,’ Raboulet protested.
‘Get Madame Boustagnier to leave some bread and water outside my door. That will suffice for now. If I need more I will call Louis.’
I was burning and my mouth felt as if it had been packed with hot ashes. Even after taking salicin my temperature remained perilously high and my mind was invaded by vivid memories and epic nightmares. I saw myself handing Thérèse an enamel syringe and saying, ‘For you: a special gift.’ I saw a funeral cortège marching solemnly behind a white coffin carried by leering demons and I saw Thérèse trailing torn cerements, wandering vulnerably across the fiery expanses of hell. It is impossible for me to describe my misery. I wept and wept until I seemed to have no substance.
The illness lasted for two weeks, after which I began to feel a little stronger. One day, towards the end, I awoke to find Annette sitting next to my bed.
‘What are you doing here, child?’ I asked.
‘I came to see you,’ she replied.
‘Please. You must leave now or you will become unwell too. Does your mother know you are here?’
’No. She told me that I shouldn’t come.’
‘Then you had better go before she notices that you are missing.’
‘It isn’t right.’
‘What isn’t right?’
‘You being here, all on your own.’
‘I am perfectly happy.’
‘No. I don’t think so. I think you are sad.’ She pointed to a glass on my bedside cabinet. ‘I have made you a hot sugar and lemon drink. Madame Boustagnier said that it is good for chills.’ She stood and pressed her cool palm against my forehead. Imitating my attitude and manner she said, ‘Yes, a definite improvement.’
‘Clean your hands before you leave,’ I said with stern emphasis.
Annette walked over to my washstand and poured some water. Dipping her fingers in the bowl, she said, ‘Are you very ill, monsieur?’
‘No. Not very ill.’
‘Good. I prayed for you in the chapel. I prayed that you would not die.’
‘Thank you. That was most considerate.’
‘Why does God listen to some prayers and not to others?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps you should ask the curé.’
She considered this advice and then said, ‘Yes. Perhaps I should.’ After drying her hands she walked to the door. Her movement was so smooth it seemed to arise in the absence of any friction. ‘Don’t forget your drink, monsieur.’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘I won’t.’
She raised her hand, her expression coy.
‘Goodbye, Annette. And thank you.’
I listened to her steps receding and when she was gone, for the first time since my return from Chinon I was aware of the birds singing outside my window.
My recovery was slow. A month later I was still quite weak; however, my old routine was eventually re-established. I monitored Annette and Raboulet’s health, administered medicines, went riding by the river and read late into the night. But I was not the same man. I was altered. Something of my former self had died that day in Chinon: something essential, something that would never again be revived. A particular image suggested itself when I reflected on my inner desolation: my heart, shrivelled up like the head of a dead rose.
On the days when I was feeling more robust, I would go on lengthy excursions up into the hills where the cave-dwellers lived. They were poor farming folk who had created homes for themselves by digging into the soft tufa cliffs. Their infants were often sick and many would have died without my care. Why was I doing this? It is difficult to say. But if I had any reason at all, it was simply to spite God.
19
SEPTEMBER 1881
Mademoiselle Drouart had entered the antechamber and I saw her hesitating on the threshold of the library. She was about to knock on the door jamb when I called out, ‘Please, mademoiselle. Do come in.’
Her heavy heels sounded loudly on the floor as she marched towards me.
‘Good morning, monsieur.’
‘Good morning, Mademoiselle Drouart.’ I drew a chair out from under the table and the governess sat down. She was young and in possession of a flawless complexion, yet she was habitually serious and had a tendency to frown. Her chestnut hair was tied back and she wore a pair of spectacles that made her look like a spinster. She was carrying a portfolio. I took the seat opposite and noticed her stealing a quick glance at the book I had been reading.
‘I am sorry to disturb you, monsieur, but I need to tell you something. It concerns Annette.’ She placed the portfolio on the table, untied the ribbon and opened it out. ‘Yesterday, we drove down to the village in order to make some drawings of the church.’ Sorting through the loose papers, she selected a few for my consideration: pencil and charcoal sketches of Saint-Catherine’s steeple, executed in a free hand and rich in detail. Mademoiselle Drouart registered my tacit appreciation and added, ‘I think Annette must have inherited some of her mother’s talent.’
‘It would certainly seem that way, mademoiselle.’
‘She is quite accomplished,’ said the governess, ‘which is why I felt it necessary to speak with you.’ She offered no further clarification so I gestured for her to continue. ‘In our lessons, I have always stressed the importance of being true to the eye. Paint what you see. That is what I say, and that is exactly what Annette does. However, yesterday, she introduced something into her sketches that wasn’t really there. Now, if her brother or sister did this I would think nothing of it, but where Annette is concerned, I am mindful of her condition.’ Mademoiselle Drouart selected two more sketches from the portfolio and pushed them across the table. I saw what she meant immediately. The spire of Saint-Catherine rises out of a square tower, and leaning over the indented parapet was a figure in silhouette – a winged creature with horns projecting from its head. I did not respond and Mademoiselle Drouart, assuming I had not identified the aberration, added helpfully, ‘The gargoyle, monsieur. There is no such thing. Yet, it appears in all of the sketches Annette made while looking up at the steeple from the south side of the church.’ More pictures appeared in front of me, all showing the same winged figure. ‘There are two gargoyles at the rear of the church, but these are quite different from the one shown here. They are simple and stylized. Unembellished. Clearly, Annette has not confused them. When Annette used to have seizures, a few days before, she would sometimes refer to people and objects that I could not see. I wondered whether the gargoyle in these sketches represents something similar, something medically significant.’
I rubbed my chin and attempted to remain calm.
‘Did you talk to her about it?’
‘No. I wanted to seek your opinion first. I didn’t want to berate her for something over which she has no control.’
‘Very wise, mademoiselle.’
‘Nor have I said anything to Madame Du Bris. I did not wish to worry her unnecessarily.’
‘You are most considerate, mademoiselle.’ I searched one of the drawers and found a cigar. In order to conceal my trembling hand, I turned away as I lit it. ‘Annette is an imaginative child, mademoiselle, and even though she has not, to date, been inclined to introduce imaginary elements into her drawings, it is, I daresay, the most likely explanation. Her condition has been controlled for many months and I have not noticed anything that would lead me to conclude that she i
s about to have another seizure. Even so, one can never be too careful, and I am most grateful that you have brought these sketches to my attention.’ I drew on the cigar and continued, ‘I might give her an additional infusion tomorrow. Just to be on the safe side. It is in my nature to err on the side of caution.’
‘What should I do with these?’ The governess traced an arc in the air over Annette’s drawings.
‘Could I keep them?’
‘Certainly.’ Mademoiselle Drouart stood and, glancing at my book again, said, ‘Ah, Montaigne, he is such good company. I am very fond of his essay on the education of children.’ She took off her spectacles and, wiping the lenses clean with a starched handkerchief, quoted the great essayist: Only fools have made up their minds and are certain.’
‘Indeed,’ I replied. ‘In life, the correct course of action is rarely obvious.’
She placed her spectacles back on her nose, smiled and said, ‘Good day, monsieur.’
I bowed my head and remained in that position, looking down at my shoes. Outside, two birds started a fitful chirruping that became increasingly fluid until the library was filled with their song – a melodious duet of startling complexity.
After lunch, I saddled up one of the horses and rode to the village. Saint-Catherine’s spire came into view long before I reached the market square and I immediately began to feel anxious. I knew already that I would find nothing there to alleviate my fears, but I kept going, nevertheless. Having travelled so far, I was reluctant to abandon hope entirely. The main road, which passed through the centre of the village, was empty, and most of the houses had their shutters closed. I dismounted, and a cloud of white dust rose up as my feet hit the ground. I proceeded directly to the church, where I took one of Annette’s drawings from my pocket. Shading my eyes, I looked upwards, and compared her artwork with the original. There were no gargoyles leaning over the parapet, nor was there anything that might be mistaken for a gargoyle. I walked around the tower in order to view it from several different perspectives, but the architectural lines remained stubbornly simple. There wasn’t even the consolation of a mysterious shadow.
My legs felt weak and I made my way unsteadily across the square to the inn. The door had been left open and, when I stepped inside, it took a few seconds for my eyes to adapt. Fleuriot was washing glasses and his only customers were Pailloux and a young man with sharp features whom I did not recognize.
‘Good day, monsieur,’ said Fleuriot.
Pailloux turned around, revealing his red swollen nose and saluted me. His companion grinned.
I ordered an anisette and sat at the counter. As Fleuriot prepared my drink he said, ‘Have you seen the gypsies, monsieur?’
‘No.’
‘They’re back again: camped out by the river. If you go up the hill,’ he jabbed his thumb backwards, ’you can see their caravans. One of them came here this morning – big fellow, as brown as a berry – carrying an enormous pair of scissors. He went around all the houses asking the women if they’d sell him their hair.’
I must have looked puzzled because Pailloux called out, ‘Wigs, monsieur. The gypsies collect sackloads of hair and take it north. The wigmakers offer a good price.’
There then followed a conversation about irregular transactions, during which Pailloux claimed to have known a man who was once offered a diamond in exchange for his teeth by a dentist. The young man was suddenly distracted by something outside and, reaching over the table, he pinched Pailloux’s sleeve. With a discreet nod he directed the drunk to look through the window. My curiosity was aroused and I shifted position to get a better view. Du Bris was standing in front of the church, talking to a woman.
‘Oh, he’s a bold one,’ muttered Pailloux. ‘Look at him – in broad daylight too.’
‘That’s enough,’ said Fleuriot.
Pailloux shrugged, ‘What difference does it make?’ The young man continued to grin inanely. ‘It’s hardly a secret any more.’
I looked at Fleuriot inquisitively and he waved his hand in a manner to indicate that I should take no notice. The drunk went on. ‘Some men are never satisfied. It’s not as if his wife isn’t a beauty.’
‘Pailloux!’ Fleuriot’s voice had hardened.
‘What?’ asked the drunk.
‘Enough!’ Turning to address me, Fleuriot added, ‘I’m sorry, monsieur,’ and then quickly changed the subject. The atmosphere thereafter was somewhat strained.
I finished my anisette and when I walked out into the sunlight there was no sign of Du Bris. Both he and the woman he had been talking to were gone. Before leaving the village, I took one last look at the church, then mounted my horse and rode back to the chateau.
As I entered the courtyard Hélène Du Bris was coming out of the kitchen, carrying a basket full of fruit.
‘Ah Monsieur Clément!’ she exclaimed, ‘You have returned. Why don’t you come and join us? We’re sitting by the cherry tree.’
‘Thank you,’ I replied, ‘that is most kind.’
I left the horse with the stable boy, brushed my jacket and walked through the Garden of the Senses. Massive purple flowers shaped like the bells of trumpets blocked my path, and a swarm of pale blue butterflies flew in all directions as I pushed the blooms aside. The air smelled of citronella. I made my way through the fragrant jungle and stepped out onto the lawn. Raboulet was lying on the grass, reading a book, and his wife Sophie was marching up and down, trying to get their infant to sleep. Hélène was sitting at her easel, painting, and Annette was standing next to Odile, passing her slices of fruit. When I reached the cherry tree, greetings were exchanged, and Hélène offered me the vacant chair at her side.
‘Where are the boys?’ I asked.
‘With Mademoiselle Drouart. She has taken them up into the forest.’
I leaned forward to examine Hélène’s watercolour. The subject was one of the moss-covered cherubs spaced at regular intervals around the edge of the lawn. I glanced from her reproduction to the original and was impressed by how she had managed to duplicate the various shades of green.
‘You are a fine colourist,’ I said.
With typical modesty, she responded, ‘The light is very favourable today. Would you like some fruit?’
‘Thank you.’
Hélène addressed her daughter, ‘Annette: Monsieur Clément would like some fruit.’ Annette picked up a basket – the one I had seen Hélène carrying on my return from the village – and brought it to me. She tilted the rim, revealing an assortment of apples, grapes and pears. I took an apple and Annette returned to her grandmother.
The sun was low and bright. On the other side of the lawn a wild cat was stalking lizards.
‘One of the fountains has stopped working,’ said Hélène.
‘Has it?’ I responded.
‘Yes. Monsieur Boustagnier says that there must be an obstruction.’
‘Will he be able to undertake repairs?’
‘Not without digging up the Garden of Intelligence.’
Our conversation about the fountains became more general, and before long Hélène was enthusing about a new project. There was a field behind the Garden of Silence that was rather wasted – a large area of weeds and wild flowers. She was thinking of building a maze on it. ‘I have always been peculiarly fascinated by mazes,’ she said, emphasizing the cherub’s capricious disposition with a skilful touch of her brush. ‘Perhaps my father is to blame. He had a great love of Greek myths and when I was a child he often repeated the story of Theseus, the hero who ventured into the great labyrinth and killed the minotaur.’ ‘Yes, mazes are indeed fascinating,’ I mused. ‘They have about them a delightful air of mystery; however, I am inclined to believe that their universal appeal owes much to their symbolic significance.’ Hélène gestured for me to continue. ‘Consider how we negotiate a maze: we set off on a journey, not quite sure where we are going. We choose to go this way or that way, up here or down there. Some of our choices are good, others bad. Sometimes w
e progress towards our goal, but we are frequently frustrated or get lost. It seems to me that mazes are very much like life itself.’
Hélène turned to face me and I saw that my comments had unsettled her. She looked sad, distraught. ‘That is so very true, monsieur. We make decisions without knowing what lies before us and we are obliged to accept the consequences. There is no way out.’ Her eyes moistened. ‘Is it any wonder that . . .’ She stopped herself and seemed embarrassed.
To save her from further embarrassment, I gallantly pretended that I had just remembered something important: in fact, a trivial costing error on a pharmacist’s invoice. The ruse worked and Hélène’s customary good humour was restored; however, I could not help but connect her sudden emotion with Pailloux’s indiscreet remarks. The thought of her being wronged made me feel quite angry, but there was nothing to be done. It was not my place to intervene with respect to such a private matter.
Our conversation petered out and my thoughts returned to Annette. She seemed no different: still the same girl, the same innocent creature whose smile was perhaps the last thing in the world that could raise the ghost of my lost humanity. I watched her closely, saw her straighten Odile’s blanket without fuss, such that her little ministration went completely without notice – which of course was her intention. Once again, I succumbed to the seductive comforts of self-deception. ‘Yes’, I said to myself. One must not jump to conclusions. The drawing of the gargoyle might well be a pathological phenomenon, the result of a freak electrical discharge in the brain.’ But I was soon to be shaken out of my idiotic complacency.
Odile had been telling Annette stories from the Bible, most of which included examples of divine retribution on a grand scale: plagues, floods, the destruction of cities. Presumably, the old woman’s purpose was to instil in her granddaughter some of her own God-fearing piety. Odile’s noisome monologue was interrupted when she paused to take some refreshment. Annette lifted the fruit basket and Odile detached some lustrous grapes from an already half-eaten bunch. It was then that Annette said, ‘Could God create a stone so large and heavy that he could not lift it?’