by F. R. Tallis
‘What happened to him?’ I asked.
‘Some barrels fell off a cart,’ whispered the curé. ‘His legs were crushed.’
The man struck the mattress with a clenched fist and called out, ‘Saints preserve us! The pain is unbearable!’
I opened my bag, took out a pair of scissors and cut away the sopping wet fabric of his trousers. The lacerations I exposed were ragged and deep – so deep, in fact, that one could see down to the bone. ‘Madame,’ I said to the woman. ‘I will need some warm water and towels.’ ‘Will I lose my legs?’ asked Ragot.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘I don’t think so. Providing the injured parts are kept clean.’
‘Thank the Lord,’ said Ragot, tracing a cross in the air above his chest.
I filled a syringe with morphine, pushed the needle into Ragot’s arm and, before the plunger was fully depressed, watched his jaw go slack and his eyes glaze over. When his wife returned with the water, I bathed Ragot’s wounds, dressed them with lint soaked in carbolic and finally wrapped both of his legs in bandages. Turning to address Madame Ragot, I asked her for some wine. She blushed and answered, ‘Forgive me. I’ll get you some.’
’It isn’t for me, madame,’ I said, anxious to correct her mistake. ‘I need wine to make a preparation for your husband, something for him to drink later – to ease the pain.’ She excused herself and came back with a bottle that had already been opened. I poured the dark liquid into a glass and added a teaspoon of morphine. ‘Give this to Monsieur Ragot when he wakes. By the time its effect wears off, I am sure Monsieur Jourdain will be able to assist.’ I glanced at the curé and he shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
As we were leaving, Madame Ragot thanked me and said she would remember me in her prayers. I replied, ‘You would do better, perhaps, to pray for the swift recovery of your husband.’ It was an ungracious remark and I instantly regretted it.
I untethered the horse and strode off towards the market square. The curé caught up with me and said, a little breathlessly, ‘Monsieur, I will make sure that you are fully compensated for your services. There is a small charity fund that I manage and . . .’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ I said brusquely.
‘But I insist,’ said the curé. ‘It is only right that you should be paid.’ He paused, before adding, ‘Especially so, given your other good offices.’
Oh? And what might they be?’
‘You have been seen up in the hills, monsieur.’
‘I enjoy the views.’
‘Entering the caves and carrying your bag.’
‘Who told you this?’
‘Fleuriot.’
‘Perhaps your informant was mistaken.’
On the whole, experience has taught me to trust his sources. Well? Is it true?’
‘Some of the children were very ill.’
‘I imagine some of the medicines you require are very expensive, and I would be happy to . . .’
Again I cut in: ‘With respect, Father, there are better ways of dispersing your funds – better causes than my remuneration.’
The curé raised a placatory hand. ‘You are very kind, monsieur.’
We walked on in silence, and a woman appeared at the end of the road. As she drew closer, I recognized her face. It was the same woman I had seen talking to Du Bris. She was young, pretty and dressed rather well for a villager. When she saw the curé she crossed to the opposite side of the road and, as we passed each other, she looked away, dramatically straining her slender neck and raising her chin in haughty defiance. I sensed Father Lestoumel bristling.
‘Who is that?’ I asked.
‘Mademoiselle Anceau.’ I could see that he was undecided as to whether he should say more. After a few moments, he glanced back and added, ‘She has something of a reputation.’ He underscored his disapproval by tutting loudly.
We reached the market square and I tied the mare to a post. I was about to bid Father Lestoumel adieu, when his face lit up and he exclaimed, ‘I know! Why don’t I show you the church.’ Before I could voice an objection, he added, ‘I am sure you will find the interior very interesting.’
He seemed eager to please, and I was conscious of the fact that during our time together my manner had been somewhat surly. I remembered the discourteous remark I had made earlier to Madame Ragot, felt ashamed, and suddenly found myself consenting to Father Lestoumel’s suggestion. The curé clapped his hands together and cried, ‘Excellent! Excellent!’
We marched across the square, entered the church, and Father Lestoumel began a summary of the building’s history. It was much as I had expected: a medieval structure built on earlier foundations, destruction by fire and subsequent restorations. Features were pointed out to me, such as the carvings on the baptismal font, some ornate candle-stands and a faded remnant of a twelfth-century fresco – none of which excited my curiosity. However, in due course we came to a stump of stone mounted on a pedestal. It was evidently a religious effigy, but almost all of its surface detail had been worn away. Only the petrified folds of a gown were now visible.
‘That looks very old,’ I said.
‘Not as old as you might think,’ replied Father Lestoumel. ‘It is a statue of Saint Clotilde at prayer and believed to possess healing powers. For over a century, villagers have been scraping the stone and mixing the powder in their food as a kind of medicine.’
‘Do you approve?’
‘It was reputed to have been a very fine piece of sculpture. No, I do not approve. I do not want the entire church to be scraped away and used as a cough remedy.’ His eyes sparkled and he ventured a wry smile. Crossing the transept, he continued: ‘Joan of Arc may have stopped here once. Or so they say. In actual fact, many of the local churches have been linked with her legend. She couldn’t have visited all of them!’
We came to a stained-glass window, the central lancet of which showed a priest reading from a large red book. This hefty volume, fitted with gold hasps, was held up by a demon that had evidently been forced into an attitude of servile compliance. Diagonal shafts of sunlight passed through the colourful illuminations, creating a submerged, watery effect, dappling the floor with patches of luminosity.
‘That gentleman,’ said Father Lestoumel, pointing up at the window, ‘was one of my predecessors. His name was Gilbert de Gandelus. When the Ursuline convent at Séry-des-Fontaines was plagued with demons in 1612 it was Gandelus who cast them out. His fame spread far and wide, and he was subsequently called upon to conduct exorcisms all over the country. I believe he was once summoned by the Bishop of Paris.’
I noticed that the demon did not have claws, but human hands, with long fingers and tapering nails.
The curé moved on, indicating a fifteenth-century likeness of the Virgin and the fragment of a Roman tomb embedded in one of the walls. We had completed a circular tour of the church and had arrived back at the font. The curé pushed the door open and we stepped out into the square. I thanked him for showing me the church and made some comments preparatory to our parting. Just as I was about to say goodbye, he said, ‘You are an intellectual, monsieur. Educated. Well read. And I am but a simple country priest. I daresay, you cannot conceive of any benefit arising from associating with a man like me.’ I was about to make a polite rebuttal, but he raised his finger and shook it. ‘No, monsieur. It is true – and I make no judgement. All that I ask is that, should you find yourself requiring assistance, you will at least remember that I am here. I am not foolish enough to believe that you will ever want my counsel. But I have much local knowledge and perhaps one day this may be of some use to you.’
‘Indeed.’
He smiled. ‘And do not fear, I will not try to convert you: you are a doctor, a man of science. Reason is your religion and I will respect that.’
‘You think me an atheist?’
‘Well? Aren’t you?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Far from it.’ I turned and walked away, leaving Father Lestoumel stand
ing outside the church with his frown deepening. The door of the inn was wide open so I went inside and sat at a table.
‘Will Monsieur Ragot keep his legs?’ asked Fleuriot.
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘He will.’
‘Good.’ Fleuriot poured me a beer and began a story about an amputee he had known as a child, who was so fast on his crutches that he could race against able-bodied men and beat them.
On returning to the chateau, I went to the library and found a work on witchcraft that contained an account of the Séry-des-Fontaines possessions. The mother superior had been the first to succumb. She had fallen to the ground, shouted blasphemies and lifted her petticoats without shame. Others followed her example, and within a few weeks the convent had descended into chaos. Nuns were running around the cloisters naked and the chapel was despoiled. Several attempts at exorcism failed and the Church authorities became desperate. It was at this point that Gandelus appeared. The demons were vanquished and order was quickly restored. Nothing is recorded of Gandelus’s life prior to the Séry-des-Fontaines possessions, and his sudden transformation from parish priest to ‘God’s hammer’ was identified by some as miraculous.
I shut the book and walked to my study. Sitting at my desk, I smoked until a paring of moon peeped through the window. I then crossed to the chest and tested the lid with the palm of my hand. It was warm. I spat out the words ‘Damn you!’ and went to bed.
The next day, I was once again invited to sit with the family beneath the cherry tree. Everyone was present except for Du Bris, who had gone shooting with Louis, and we could hear the intermittent crack of his gunshots coming from the woods. It was a humid afternoon and our indifferent conversation was punctuated by long silences. Victor was speaking. His words intruded upon my thoughts, but not enough for me to register their meaning. Even so, a note of shrill excitement jolted me out of my reverie. The boy was pointing and squealing, ‘Look at Annette! She has seen something!’
Annette was standing in the middle of the lawn, her head tilted back, looking up into the sky. She raised her hand, fingers pressed together, and shaded her eyes from the sun. Very slowly, shifting one foot, then the other, she began to rotate.
‘Can you see anything, Monsieur Clément?’ asked Hélène.
The sky was blue and cloudless.
‘No,’ I replied.
It was as if the child had become fascinated by something circling overhead.
‘Is she dancing?’ asked Victor.
‘I don’t think so,’ Mademoiselle Drouart replied.
Annette gathered momentum, extending her arms, revolving faster and faster, until her skirt fanned out and she began to resemble a ballerina performing a pirouette.
‘It is not right,’ said Odile. ‘A girl of her age!’
‘Annette!’ Hélène called out, ‘Stop it! You’ll get dizzy.’
‘Yes,’ shouted Victor. ‘You’ll make yourself sick.’
But Annette did not stop.
I jumped up from my chair and started off towards her, quickening my pace with each step. Her hair was whipping through the air, her feet barely touching the ground.
‘Annette?’ I said, ‘Annette? What is the matter?’
I reached out to grab her shoulders, and when I did so she became tense and toppled to the ground. She lay there for a few seconds, before her limbs started to jerk. The movements were violent and uncontrolled. I stuffed a handkerchief in her mouth and raised her head. When I looked up again, I saw Hélène, Raboulet, and Mademoiselle Drouart gathered around me, staring down at Annette with worried expressions.
‘Is it a seizure?’ said Hélène, kneeling down beside me.
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘I am sorry.’
Mademoiselle Drouart’s expression was transparent. I could see that she was thinking about the day when she had shown me Annette’s drawings, and I had told her that I was not unduly concerned about the child’s health. She was not judging me unkindly, but rather exhibiting surprise that I had been so badly mistaken.
‘Was it the spinning that brought it on?’ asked Raboulet.
I rested my hand on Annette’s forehead: That is a possibility.’
The jerking gradually subsided.
‘Shall I take her inside, monsieur?’ said Raboulet.
‘No,’ I responded. ‘Not just yet.’
Annette had bitten her lower lip and I removed some spots of blood from her chin with the handkerchief. As I was doing this, her eyes flicked open.
‘Monsieur Clément?’ She tried to get up but I did not permit her to move.
‘You have had a seizure, Annette. You must rest here for a few minutes.’
‘My head hurts.’
‘I know. I will give you something to relieve the pain.’
‘I saw a bird – a great bird flying in the sky.’
‘No, my darling,’ said Hélène. ‘It was something you imagined.’
‘With enormous wings,’ Annette continued, ‘going round and round.’
‘Hush now,’ said Hélène.
I stroked the child’s brow and she closed her eyes again. Mademoiselle Drouart returned to the cherry tree to tell the others what had happened, and in due course Raboulet picked Annette up and carried her to the chateau, accompanied by Hélène and myself. The poor child was changed into her nightclothes and put to bed, where she slept for most of the afternoon. I sat by her side, with Hélène.
At six thirty, Du Bris arrived.
‘Where have you been?’ asked Hélène.
‘I had to go into the village,’ he replied.
‘Again?’ Her voice was tart.
‘Yes.’ He turned to address me and said, ‘How is she, Monsieur Clément?’
‘As well as can be expected.’
‘My mother tells me that before she collapsed she was spinning like a top.’
‘It was most peculiar.’
‘Does it signify anything?’
My cheeks burned as I lied: ‘I don’t think so, and there is nothing unusual about her current condition. She is exhausted and has complained of headaches. That is all.’
‘She thought she could see something in the sky,’ Hélène interjected.
‘A bird,’ I said.
‘That is why she was spinning,’ Hélène continued.
Du Bris shrugged and came forward. He crooked his index finger and brushed the knuckle against his daughter’s lips. Her eyes opened and she smiled. Du Bris returned the smile and said, ‘Well? How are you?’
‘Tired,’ she replied.
‘Yes,’ he went on. ‘You would be.’
There was something curiously touching about this little exchange, the light of recognition in Annette’s eyes and the unsentimental affection of her father.
‘Do not look so worried,’ said Annette. ‘Monsieur Clément is looking after me, and nothing very bad can happen when he is here.’
It was at that point that I decided to leave Chambault. Annette’s faith in me, her innocent trust, was breaking my heart. Travel arrangements could be made by the end of the week and I might be gone within a fortnight. I stood up and said, ‘The crisis has passed and you will no doubt wish to be alone with your daughter. I will be in the library if I am required.’
‘Thank you,’ said Du Bris, inclining his head.
I spent the rest of the day reviewing my notes, particularly the material I had collected on protective charms. The Seal of Shabako caught my attention, an all-purpose amulet of very ancient provenance favoured by the inhabitants of Abydos. It was sometimes carved on Egyptian stone coffins and supposed to help the dead negotiate their perilous journey through the underworld. I took a square of parchment from the drawer of my table and, using a compass, drew a perfect circle, within which I then copied a precise arrangement of hieroglyphs. I repeated the procedure and placed both amulets in my pocket. When the opportunity arose, I would give one to Annette and tell her to keep it about her person at all times. It would be our little secret.
; Just before sunset, Madame Boustagnier had some chicken stew sent up to my study. It was fortified with the red wine of the estate, and the pale meat was saturated with its spicy bouquet. When I had finished eating, I smoked a cigar and walked around my apartment, making an itinerary. Transporting my possessions to Paris would be straightforward enough. But then what would I do? I saw my life stretching out ahead of me: a pitiful, lonely existence, wandering from place to place, unable to settle, always fearful of the demon exerting its wicked influence on those to whom I might become attached. There was much I would miss: Annette’s sweet smile, idle conversations with Hélène beneath the cherry tree, card games with Raboulet, and of course the library. I had always hoped that I would find the answer to my predicament somewhere in Roland Du Bris’s remarkable collection. But there were thousands of books, and, the longer I chose to stay, the more likely it was that Annette or some other member of the household would be placed in mortal danger.
It was past eleven when I heard someone crossing the library. There was a knock on the door, and when I opened it, I found Hélène standing before me, holding up a candle.
‘You are awake,’ she exclaimed. ‘Thank God!’
‘Is Annette all right?’
‘Forgive me. I did not mean to alarm you. Yes, Annette is well. We put a truckle bed in her room and one of the maids, Monique, is spending the night with her.’ Hélène stepped over the threshold. ‘I am sorry to trouble you at this late hour, monsieur, but last week you were kind enough to make me a sleeping draught – although I never drank it. I think I must have left it in the library when I took Annette back to her room.’ The skin around her eyes was swollen and I suspected that she might have been crying. ‘Again,’ she continued, ‘I am finding it difficult to sleep; perhaps I am worrying too much about Annette. The attack was horrible – one forgets.’