Nightshades

by Tanith Lee

  But thank God Charles interrupted with a (perhaps faked) gargantuan sneeze. The father turned slowly, fire duly drawn. 'And you,' he said to the recovering Charles, 'our own money-lender, the wealthy gigolo of the book stalls. What have you to say for yourself?'

  Charles shrugged. 'What I always say for myself. And what you also have just said. I've a private income and you don't frighten me. You could put me out on the street tomorrow —'

  'I put none of my own tribe on to the street. They put themselves there. As for your books - what are they? You plagiarize and you steal, you botch and bungle -'

  'And livres pour into my hands,' said Charles.

  My God, I thought, at last the razor of the father's tongue was going into a block of cork. Naturally, the confounded devil knew it. This means of hurting pride no longer worked, it seemed, or at least without evidence. Talented, loved, an egoist and lucky, Charles was not a happy target. Unerringly, the father retraced his aim.

  'A pity,' he said, 'your sister has taken to reading your works. Filling her hairless skull with more pre-digested idiocy than is already in there. She puts her hat on her bald head and goes puttering off to the bookshop to discuss your successes. And so has fallen into the clutches of madwomen.'

  Strangely, Honorine was moved by this to murmur quickly, 'No, Father. No, you mustn't say they are -'

  'Mustn't! Mustn't I? You keep your mouth closed, my fat balding daughter. I say what I know. Your great friends are lunatics, and I'm considering whether or not I shall approach the police -'

  'Father!' The cry now was anguished.

  'What? You think they're friends of yours, hah? You, with a friend?

  How should you have friends, you overweighted slug? Do you think they're captivated by your prettiness and charm? Eh? It's my money they like the idea of, and your insane acquaintances from the bookshop are a fine example of a certain animal known as a charlatan.'

  'I won't go there ever again,' said Honorine.

  This startled me. Her voice was altered when she spoke. It had grown deeper, it was definite. By agreeing with him she had, albeit temporarily, removed the bludgeon from his grasp.

  At the time, the business of the 'charlatan madwomen' and the bookshop were only a facet of an astonishing whole. I paid no particular attention. Nor do I think much more needs to be said of the dinner. Dishes came in and were taken away, and those with the heart to eat (they were few) did so. There were many and various further sallies from the indefatigable Monsieur Laurent. None were aimed at me, though I was now primed and eager for them and, I imagine, slightly drunk. In my confusion, even as I sat there, I was already mentally composing a letter to Anette, telling her everything, word for word, of this unspeakable affair. (It is from the same letter, penned fresh and with the vivid recall of insomniac indignation at two the next morning, that I am able to quote fairly accurately what I have just set down.) I also wished him dead at least twenty times. I backed the big heavy body and the thick red face for an apoplexy, yet they looked more like ebullient good health.

  As soon as I could, without augmenting the casualties of that war-zone of a table by slamming out halfway through the meal, I left. I bade Charles a brisk adieu, and walked by myself beside the river until well past midnight, powerlessly on the boil. As I told Anette, my entertaining friend was out of favour now completely. I reckoned never to see him again, for it was not simple, after the fact, to forgive him this exposure to alien filial strife. I even in a wild moment suspected some joke at my expense.

  However, my having ignored two notes, and a subsequent attempted visit, he finally caught me up in the gardens of the Palais. There was an argument, at least on my side, but Charles was not to be fought

  with if he had no mind for it.

  'I can only apologize,' he said, 'in broken accents. What more can I say?'

  'Why in God's name did you make me a party to the bloody affair?'

  'Well, frankly, my friend, because - though you'll find it hard to credit

  - he is kinder to us when there is some stranger present.'

  I fell silent at that, moodily staring away between the green groves of trees. Now and then Anette and I had contrived a meeting here, and the gardens filled me always with a piercing sweet sadness that tended to override other emotions. I looked at Charles, who seemed genuinely contrite, and acknowledged there might be some logic in his statement. Although the idea of Monsieur Laurent un kind, if such was a version of his restraint, filled one with laughing horror.

  So, if you will, ends the first act.

  The second act commences with a scene or two going on offstage.

  There had been an improvement in my own fortunes, to wit, Anette's father's deeming it necessary, in the way of business, to travel to England. This brought an unexpected lustre to the summer. It also meant that I saw very little of Charles Laurent.

  Then one morning, strolling through the covered market near the cathedral, I literally bumped into Semery, and, after the usual exchanges, was invited to an apartment above a chandlers, on the left bank of the river.

  Here is the area of the Mountmoulin, the medieval hill of the windmill, the namesake of which is long since gone. One hears the place referred to frequently as being of a 'picturesque quaint squalor'.

  Certainly, the poor do live here, and the fallen angels of the bourgeoisie perch in the garrets and studios above the twisting cobbled lanes. The smell of cabbage soup and the good coffee even the poverty-stricken sometimes manage to get hold of hangs in the air, along with the marvellous inexpressible smell of the scarlet geraniums that explode over balconies and on walls above narrow stairways, and against a sky tangled with washing and pigeons.

  We got up into a suitable attic studio, and found a table already laid

  with cheese and bread and fruit and wine, and a fawn cat at play with an apple. A very pretty girl came from behind a curtain. She ran to kiss Semery and, her arms still round him, turned to beam at me in just the way women in love so often do when another man comes on the scene. Even in her loose blouse, I could tell she was carrying a child. Little doubt of the father, though her hand was ringless. I remembered, with a fleeting embarrassment, Semery's supposed request for money from his brother, or Monsieur Laurent. Here might be the excuse.

  There were pictures, naturally, everywhere - on the walls, on easels, stacked up, or even horizontal on the floor for the cat to sit on.

  'Courage,' said Semery, seeing me glance around, 'I won't try to sell anything to you. Not at all.' This in turn reflected Charles' avowal, on first inviting me to the gruesome dinner party, that they would not try to marry Honorine off to me. It was a little thing, but it made me conscious of some strange defensiveness inherent, and probably engendered in them by their disgusting father. 'But,' added Semery,

  'look if you like.' 'Of course he will like,' said the girl mischievously.

  'How nice the table is, Miou,' said Semery. 'Let's have some wine.'

  A very pleasant couple of hours ensued. Semery was acting at least as fine a companion as Charles; I was charmed by Miou, and by the cat, and the simple luncheon was appetizing. As for the art -1 am no critic, but suppose I have some slight knowledge. While not being in the first startling rank of original genius, Semery's work seemed bright with talent. It had enormous energy, was attractive, sometimes lush, yet never too easy. Particularly, I liked two or three unusual night scenes of the city, one astonishingly lit by a flight of birds escaping from some baskets and streaming over a lamp-strung bridge.

  'Yes,' he said, coming to my side, 'I call that one Honorine.' I was at a loss to reply. 'I don't mean to make you uncomfortable,' he said. 'But you've been bloodied, after all. You were there the last time I was.'

  'Hush, Semery,' said Miou, who was rocking the cat in an armchair, practising for her baby. 'Talking of him makes you sick and gives you migraine.'

  'True,' said Semery. He refilled our glasses with wine. 'But I can talk of H
onorine? Yes? No? But I must. That poor little sack of sadness.

  If there were any money, I'd take her in with me, though God knows she bores me to despair. Our dear father, you understand, has stamped and trampled all the life from her. She can no longer talk.

  She only answers questions. So you say to her, Would you care to do this? And you get in return, Oh yes, if you wish. And she drops things. And she stumbles when she walks even when there's nothing to stumble over. However,' he said, with a boy's fierceness, 'there was one service I think I did her. I first took her to the bookshop on the rue Danton. And so introduced her to the three witches.'

  Miou began to sing a street song, quietly but firmly disowning us.

  'That's the bookshop your father objected to? And the witches?'

  'Well, three old ladies, in particular one, very grey and thin, read the Tarot there in the back room. And sometimes, when the moon is full, work the planchette of a ouija board.'

  'And Honorine -'

  'Honorine attended a session or two. She wouldn't reveal the results, but you could tell she enjoyed every moment. When you saw her after, her cheeks would be flushed, her eyes had a light in them -

  Unfortunately that limping gargoyle who serves mon pere found out about it all and duly informed. Now Honorine's one poor pitiful pleasure is ended. Unless she can somehow evade the spies, and our confounded father -'

  'Sur la chatte, le chat,

  Et sur la reine le roi…'

  naughtily sang Miou to the cat-baby.

  'On the other hand,' Semery added, now with great nonchalance, 'I did visit the shop today and one of the eldritch sisters - good lord, I must paint them - no rush, they're each about three hundred years old and will outlive us all - well, Miou-who-has-stopped-singing-and-is-all-ears-and-eyes, well, one of them gave me a note to give to Honorine. Something the spirit guides had revealed which my sister apparently desired to know -' And from his jacket, Semery produced

  a piece of paper, unsealed, merely folded in the middle, which he held aloft, quizzically. 'I wonder what it can be?'

  'You shouldn't have brought it here,' said Miou. She crossed herself between fawn paws. 'Magic. Ghosts.'

  'Where else, then? Papa is out tomorrow afternoon and I can take it to the house. But I could hardly do so today, could I now? One foot on the threshold, and he'd have seized me in his jaws -'

  'Well,' said Miou. 'Put it away somewhere.'

  'Don't you think I should read it? Secret communications to my little sister…' He looked back at me. 'Actually, I did. Here, what do you make of this?'

  And he opened the paper and put it in my hand.

  I admit, I was curious. There seemed no harm in it, and I have always had a quiet disrespect for 'supernatural' things.

  On the paper from the mysterious bookshop were these words as follows:

  As we have told you, she is to be found as a minor character in some of the history books, and there has also been at least one novel written about her. The name is correct, Lucie Belmains. She did indeed die as a result of hanging herself. The date of her death is the morning of 8 April 1760.

  'Fascinating, isn't it?' said Semery. 'What does it mean? Who is Lucie Belmains?'

  Miou and the cat were already peering between our shoulders at the paper.

  'Lucie Belmains,' said Miou, 'was a minor aristocrat, very beautiful and very wicked. She would drink and ride a horse and swear better

  — or worse - than a man. She was the mistress of several princes and ducs. She once dressed as a bandit and waylaid the king on some road, and was his mistress, too, perhaps, till she became bored with all the riches he lavished on her.Then she fell in love with a man five years her junior. He loved her too, to distraction, and when he was killed in a duel over her, Lucie gave a great party, like a Roman empress, and in the morning she hanged herself like Antigone from a crimson cord.'

  Semery and I stood amazed until Miou stopped, breathless and in triumph.

  'It seems,' said Semery then, 'there is indeed one novel, and you have read it.'

  'Yes. When I was a little girl,' said Miou, all of seventeen now. 'I remember my sister and I read the book aloud to each other when we were supposed to be asleep. And how we giggled. And we dressed up in lace curtains and our mother's hats and raised glasses of water pretending they were champagne and said: I am Lucie and you are my slave! And fought like cats because neither of us would be a slave. And then one day Adele hung her doll up by the neck from a red ribbon and we had a funeral party. Maman found us and we were both beaten.'

  'Quite right. These are most corrupting activities for a future wife of France's leading painter, and the mother of his heir.' At which Miou smiled and laid her head on his shoulder. 'But even so,' said Semery, stroking her hair, 'what has all this got to do with Honorine?'

  I said, 'She's making a study of this woman, or the period?'

  'No. She has no interests any more.'

  Later, towards evening, we strolled along the river bank. The levelling rays of the sun flashed over the water. I had arranged to buy the picture of the escaping birds for Anette. I knew she would like it, as indeed she did - we have it still, and since Semery's name is now not unknown, it is worth rather a deal more than I paid for it. But there was some argument with Semery at the time, who thought I was patronizing him, or trying to pay for my luncheon. Thank God, all that had been settled, however, by the hour we emerged on the street, Miou in her light shawl and straw bonnet with cherries. When we reached the Pont Nouveau and I was about to cross over, Semery said to me, 'You see, that business with the paper - belle Lucie Belmains.

  Something about it worries me. Perhaps I shouldn't let Honorine have it. Would that be dishonourable?'

  'Yes.'

  'Or prudent?'

  'Maybe that too. But as you don't know -'

  'I think perhaps I do. The purpose of the witches' ouija has often to do

  with reincarnation - the passage of the soul through many lives and many bodies.'

  We had all paused in mutual revelation.

  'Do you mean your sister is being told she lived a previous life in which…'

  'In which she was beautiful and notorious, kings slobbered at her feet, and duels were organized for her favours.'

  We looked at the river, the womb and fount of the city, glittering with sun, all sequins, which on the dark days of winter seems like lead.

  'Well,' Semery said at last, 'why not? If it makes her happy for a moment. If it gives her something nice to think about. There's nothing now. What has she got? What can she hope to have? If she can say to herself, just one time in every day, once I was beautiful, once I was free, and crazy and lavish and adored, and loved.'

  I looked at him. His eyes were wet, and he was pale, as if at the onset of a headache. Impulsively I clasped his hand.

  'Why not?' I said. 'Yes, Semery, why not?'

  Miou let me kiss her blossomy cheek as a reward.

  I went over the bridge with the strangest feeling on me imaginable. I find no name for it even now. It seemed for a moment I had glimpsed the rickety fagade of all things and the boundless restless terrible truth beyond. But it faded, and I was glad of it.

  As the glorious summer drew to its close, intimations of winter and discontent appeared. The birds and golden leaves began to be displaced by emptiness in the trees of the Bois; Anette's father returned, foul-tempered, and shut his house like a castle under siege against all comers, particularly one.

  It was nearly three months since my chance meeting with Semery.

  We had met deliberately a couple of times since: I had even been invited to his wedding, the thought of which now made me rather melancholy. As for Charles Laurent, I was sitting at a café table one morning, curiously enough reading a review of his latest book - as usual a success - when I happened to look up and saw two women seating themselves a few tables away. I was struck at once by a sense

  of confu
sion, such as comes when one is accosted by an old acquaintance whose name one forgets. But it was not that a name had been forgotten, for frankly I was not familiar with either of these women. It must be, then, that they put me in mind of others with whom I was. Because of this, I studied them surreptitiously over my newspaper.

  The nearer woman, with her back to me now, was apparently a maid or companion, and a withered specimen at that. She seemed ill at ease, full of humble, insistent protestation. No, I did not know her at all. The other, who sat facing me, was not particularly remarkable.

  Not tall, quite slim, and plainly dressed, her fine brown hair had been cut daringly short and she was hatless. Two little silver earrings flickered attractively in her ear-lobes. That was all. Her skin was sallow, her features ordinary. Then the waiter came and I was struck again, this time by a quality of fearlessness, boldness, out of all proportion to what she did, which was merely to order a pot of chocolate. There was something gallant in this minor action, such as you sometimes find in invalids taking their first convalescent stroll, or the blind listening to music.

  Quite suddenly I realized who she was. It was the graceful bravery, though I had never seen her exhibit it previously, that gave her away.

  Honorine, of course.

  I resolved immediately I would not go over. I had no real wish to, heaven knows. Memories of her wounded social clumsiness did not inspire me. I could only be a ghastly reminder of a hideous event. Let her enjoy her chocolate in peace, while I stayed here, keeping stealthy watch from my covert of newspaper.

  So I kept watch, true to my profession, taking rapid mental notes the while. Surely, she was not as I recalled. It was small wonder I had not recognized her at once. She had lost a great deal of weight, yet here she sat eating gateau, drinking chocolate, with the accustomed appetite of a famished child. And there truly was about her a gracefulness, of gesture, of attitude. And a strange air of laughter, mischievous and essentially womanly, that despite myself began to entice me to her vicinity. In the end I gave in, rose, walked across and stood before her.