“No? That is a grave situation. We all require such a person. How long do you plan to remain in Paris?”
“I… I am not certain.”
“Should you decide to remain any length of time, I would be happy to meet with you for an examination of conscience, absolution, and penance.”
My smile felt stiff and forced. “How kind of you.”
His eyes lingered a moment. They had a certain feverish energy. He turned to Marguerite. “The study, as usual, madame?”
She nodded, then glanced at me. “I suppose you will be going out to see the sights?”
“No. I shall wait until after lunch.”
She tried to smile. “Good.” She hesitated, then reached out and gave my wrist a quick squeeze.
Docre’s eyes were still fixed on me. “A pleasure indeed. You are, I can tell, a woman of spirit, of wit, as well as being a treasure trove of precepts.” He let her go first, then followed, pausing only briefly to give me a parting smile. They were an odd pair, she so tall in her spectacular green dress with its billowing silken skirts and puffy sleeves, he a short slight figure in his black soutane.
I stared rather grimly at the doorway.
“He is a holy man,” Jeanne said, “a bright light shining in these dark times.”
She was standing by a nearby chair where she had been doing some embroidery work. I stared at her closely. “Do you think so?”
“I know it. If anyone can help madame in her time of trial, it is him.” Her chin bobbed emphatically, and then she sat again and took up her needles. She stared at the clock on the mantel. “Generally I go in after they have been together about half an hour and pray with them. Perhaps you would like to join us as well.”
“I think not.” The words had slipped out spontaneously.
She looked surprised. “As you wish, madame.” A slight flush colored her cheeks. I reflected how hopelessly young and innocent she appeared, with her perfect pink and white complexion, her blond hair and delicate features. What could she know of terrible crimes or guilt?
I sat back down on the sofa, then picked up a copy of The Lancet I had brought with me. I tried to keep up with the journal, but I was hopelessly behind. I hesitated between an article on “A Spreading Variety of Nerve Dullness” and another on “Chlorobrom in Seasickness,” and finally chose the former because it might be, of all things, less dull! It took me only a page or two to realize that my hopes were not to be realized. I stifled a yawn with my hand, then briefly closed my eyes. I had not slept well the night before in the unfamiliar bed without Henry near me.
I dozed briefly, then opened my eyes when I heard Jeanne rise from her chair. She smiled at me, then set down the circular hoop and left the room. I glanced at the clock, then drew in my breath resolutely and began a second try, this time with the chlorobrom article. I was finally immersed in it when I heard someone clearing his throat. Monsieur l’Abbé stood just past the doorway, a black prayer book clasped in his fine slender white hands. He nodded, staring at me as if we were old acquaintances.
“I have left Madame Hardy and Jeanne to their prayers. I must be going.”
“Good day then, Monsieur l’Abbé.”
“But first… it deeply troubles me that you have no spiritual advisor. When was the last time you made the sacrament of Confession?”
“I… It has been a while.”
“How long exactly?”
“As I said—a while.”
His expression was grave. “I see. Might I suggest… Do you know Saint-Sulpice?”
“Yes, of course. I have lived in Paris before.”
“But I suspect you have not climbed to the top of its towers and seen its hidden sights. I should be free tomorrow around four in the afternoon. You could confess yourself, and then I might show you the secret parts of the church.”
I stared at him in disbelief. I wanted to simply exclaim no, but I realized that Holmes and Violet would leap at a chance like this. I stared more closely. I wasn’t exactly afraid of him. I was certainly bigger and stronger than he! Clearly I could prevent him from physically abusing me. All the same, there was something disturbing about him.
“Will you come, madame la docteur?”
“I shall… I shall consider it. If I have time…”
“Make the time—it is very important. One should not go unconfessed for long periods of time, not when God is willing to offer us his forgiveness. After all, we are all sinners.”
I smiled. “Indeed we are.”
“À demain, then.”
“Au revoir, Monsieur l’Abbé.”
Once he was gone, I sighed deeply. I should have just told him no. I would have to discuss this with Holmes and Violet. I knew what Henry would think. Oh, I did not want to upset him all over again! I tried to resume my reading, but I could not concentrate. Jeanne came back into the room, curtsied, then sat and took up her embroidery again. I was still thinking about Docre’s offer.
Surely it could not be as I somehow suspected—he was a priest, after all!—and yet his behavior was not like that of any other priest I had met. Henry often told me how beautiful I was, but I had never been quite convinced. Not that it greatly mattered to me—I was no longer a big awkward girl pining after men. All the same, as a simple fact, could the abbé possibly be attracted to a woman so much larger than him? It seemed very unlikely in someone so aristocratic and haughty, completely against society’s dictates. But was that perhaps part of my appeal? I felt my face suddenly heat, even as I laughed. This is absurd, I thought.
I stood up abruptly and started for the doorway. “I shall just look in on your mistress,” I said to Jeanne.
I walked down the hall to the study door and grasped the knob. I could hear quite clearly a muted sobbing from within. I hesitated, wondering if she wanted to be left alone, then realized that she had already been left alone for far too long. I pulled open the door. Marguerite was kneeling on a prie-dieu before the window, her face buried in her arms which rested on the velvet cushioned top. She was weeping and hadn’t even heard the door open.
“Marguerite?” Her crying stopped abruptly, but she did not raise her head. “Oh my dear, what is it? What is wrong?” I went over and set my hand on her shoulder.
She slowly rose upward, drawing in her breath. Tears smeared her face below her dark desolate eyes. Obviously unwilling to try to speak, she shook her head.
“Can I help you? Tell me.”
She was trying to control her breathing. “No one can help me.”
I frowned. “Obviously not a priest.”
“Oh, he is trying. Truly I am grateful for his aid. It is only…” An odd grimace pulled at her face, twisting and transforming it, but she quickly regained control. She tried to smile, and her lips trembled.
“You should send for your husband. Let me send for him.”
Her eyes were suddenly stubborn. “No.”
“This is foolishness! You cannot face whatever this is alone. You have said you love one another. That is why people marry—so they can help one another in the dark times. I know… I could face anything with my husband—anything!—but alone I am nothing.”
She tipped her head sideways. “Your husband?”
I realized my mistake too late, but I was not going to deliberately lie to her, not now. “Yes.”
“But I thought you were not married. I thought a doctor could not marry.”
I laughed. “Why ever would you think such a thing?”
“You are older, and it is a very demanding profession. And you said nothing.”
“You did not ask. And celibacy is definitely not required of women physicians.”
“But where is your husband?”
I bit briefly at my lower lip. “He is… away on business, all tied up, so to speak. I am hoping he can join me soon.”
She stared up at me for the longest time. “He would be welcome to stay here, too.”
I laughed softly and squeezed her shoulder. “You are very kind. Come now. I think yo
u have prayed long enough.” I helped her stand, and she staggered slightly. “What is it?”
“Nothing. I feel faint sometimes when I get up too quickly.”
“Has anything in particular upset you?” She would not answer. “Was it because of him?—because of Monsieur l’Abbé?”
“No, not him, exactly. It was…” She grew paler. “It was my penance.”
“Your penance? It is that difficult? One million Hail Marys, I suppose.”
That made her smile briefly. “If only it were that simple.”
“One million Hail Marys would take a long time to say. We could calculate it. I suspect it might take several months.” That made her smile again. “Why don’t we get our coats, and I shall take you out to lunch before I begin my sightseeing.”
“Oh, but we are dining out this evening with Madame Grace before the opera.”
“So much the better! There is no rule that one cannot dine out twice in one day. Come along now. I think some air will do you good.” I had grasped her arm just above the elbow.
She nodded. She look relieved.
I hesitated, still holding her arm. “And promise me… at least think about sending for your husband.”
She shrugged. “If only I could.”
* * *
We dined that night at a small restaurant not far from the Palais Garnier, the opera house. Violet, Marguerite and I were all wearing our finery. Violet had on a spectacular burgundy silk I recalled from a long-ago dinner in London, while Marguerite wore green again, and I, the electric-blue gown Henry so loved.
As we launched into our plats principaux, our main courses, I happened to notice our bare arms. We had, of course, removed our gloves for dinner. Our arms reflected the differences in our general physiques. Mine were the sturdiest and most muscular of the lot; also the fairest, my skin nearly white; my wrists were thick and the span of my knuckles broad. Violet had much more slender arms, rather wiry, all the muscles and the bone of the elbow distinct. Marguerite’s arms lay somewhere between the two of us. They were strong-looking, but thinner than mine and gracefully shaped, the fingers of her hands longer and somewhat delicate. Her skin was the darkest, a pale sort of café au lait. I reflected that had Henry been present, he would have enjoyed looking at the three of us! Knowing his faithful heart, I did not begrudge him the simple pleasure of staring at other women.
Marguerite had begun the meal rather pale and withdrawn, but the food and the wine had the desired effect. She grew more relaxed, more animated. I could easily see how her husband must have been smitten. In her late forties, she was still a lovely woman, a real Gallic beauty with her dark brown eyes and bound-up hair. A spectacular emerald necklace lay on her breast, matching earrings at her earlobes. Every so often the jewels caught the candlelight and made the green sparkle.
Violet was at her best. She was no longer the thin agitated woman that I had known before the catastrophe in England. Even back then, something of her ironic sense of humor had always survived; now I was aware just how amusing and charming she could be. She and I had always enjoyed joking with one another. Between us, we actually had Marguerite smiling a few times! Nothing was, of course, said of satanic curses or the Four. We discussed the French versus the English, a topic of general interest, and I, because of my dual heritage, was considered the ultimate expert and arbitrator.
As we finished our main courses, the subject changed to music, and soon to the opera in particular. Henry and I occasionally went to the opera, generally at Sherlock’s urging, but Marguerite and Violet were clearly passionate enthusiasts. They discussed some of the more memorable productions and singers of the last few seasons at both Covent Garden and the Palais Garnier.
The waiter placed a dish of crème brûlée before me, and with great relish I took up my spoon and drove the front edge through the sugary crust. The first taste, crunchy along with smooth and sweet, was always the best. “What is your favorite opera?” I asked Marguerite.
She had also ordered crème brûlée, and she paused, spoon in hand. “It is difficult to choose. I think it would be between Verdi’s La traviata and Gounod’s Faust.”
Violet shook her head. “The two female extremes—a courtesan who reforms and an innocent maiden led astray, both of whom die tragically in the last act. I’m afraid I find both operas overly sentimental. Then, too, for a consumptive, Verdi’s Violetta can certainly reach the high notes in that last act!”
“Come now,” I said, “you are hardly being fair. Since when has verisimilitude been required for opera? And what would opera be without sentiment?”
“I suppose you are right, Michelle. Gounod rather outdoes himself at the end of Faust. That must be the only opera where the heroine, so to speak, ascends into heaven carried by angels. I recall a famous production where they had Marguerite on a hidden wire and actually hoisted her upward at the end. Somehow it was almost comical.”
Marguerite was frowning. “I always find the ending most moving. It never fails to bring tears to my eyes.”
Violet set her hand gently on Marguerite’s forearm. “Forgive me—playing the cynic is a sort of habit for me. I must admit that despite that, the end of Faust often draws me in as well. The female choir and the organ can be quite overwhelming.”
I swallowed another mouthful of crème brûlée. “Were you named after the character in Faust?” I asked Marguerite.
She shook her head. “Mama never went to the opera. She just liked the name. It is a common one nowadays for girls in France.” Her lips formed a faintly bitter smile. “I have little in common with my namesake.”
“I think Marguerite and Violetta are more alike than first appears,” I said. “Violetta begins as a frivolous courtesan, while Marguerite is an innocent country girl. But Violetta’s love for Alfredo transforms her, and although Marguerite is corrupted by Faust, by the end both women have redeemed themselves.”
A sardonic smile pulled at Violet’s mouth. “It would indeed be nice if angels could come down from the sky and carry us off into heaven.”
Marguerite nodded emphatically. “Yes—it would. The end is my favorite part. For once the Devil loses, and Marguerite is saved. God has pity on her and forgives her sins.”
“I hate to say it…” Violet hesitated.
“That is not like you,” I said. “Go ahead—out with it.”
“Well, the Devil—Mephistopheles—is my favorite character in Faust. He is so very French, so Gallic and charming. I have a bias toward bass-baritones. I much prefer them over tenors, and it takes a native French speaker like Marcel Journet to do the role justice. The Italians generally butcher the part.”
“Yes,” Marguerite said, “that is certainly true. They sing with a terrible accent. All the same, I find the scene in the church when Marguerite tries to pray and Mephistopheles mocks her very disturbing. He is not the galant then, but a true devil.” Her face had paled slightly. “Of course, it is only… the theater. The Devil does not have an actual body.”
“What?” Violet asked.
“No goatee, mustache, horns and tail?”
“No. People have both a body and a soul, a spirit part akin to God, but angels and demons are pure spirit, like God Himself.”
Violet nodded. “Ah, yes. That topic was covered in the theology book we studied.”
Marguerite gave her a curious look. “Theology book? You are Catholic, then, Madame Grace?”
“Yes, a recent convert.”
Marguerite raised her spoon, hesitated, then set it down. “I only wish the Devil were more like the one in the opera: if he had a body, one we could see… then you would know when he is here. As it is… his spirit is only a presence, something we can feel but not see. And who knows where that presence begins and ends?”
“He is not God, though,” I said sternly. “He is not omnipresent— not everywhere at once.”
Marguerite took a swallow of wine. “I hope not.”
Violet had sat back and folded her arms; she had ski
pped dessert. “I was very disappointed to learn that angels do not have functioning wings like the ones in all the paintings. One wonders how they flit about. Do they just need to think it, and presto, they are somewhere else?”
I laughed. “One cannot think about any of these things too closely! You will lose yourself in a maze. Our brains and our senses are so limited. You simply have to believe in a power beyond us, something bigger and greater. In the end… perhaps it is heresy, but we tell ourselves stories to help ourselves to understand God better. We should not be too literal-minded.”
Violet stared thoughtfully at me. “We have arrived at the same point, Michelle. I have stumbled upon a certain faith, but for me, it means I cannot accept all of Catholic theology as hard facts, but only as approximations, as stories, even as fables. I am not even certain that the Devil exists. Perhaps he is only a projection outward of all that is evil within the collective human soul, giving it form and substance.”
I shrugged. “This has grown rather serious for an after-dinner conversation.”
Marguerite still looked grave. “Oh, I believe in him. I believe in the Devil.”
Violet and I exchanged a look. “Violet,” I said, “you have not told us what your favorite opera is.”
“It is a problem for me, because I prefer spunky heroines, and there are so few. I am rather fond of Lucia di Lammermoor. At least Lucia can rouse herself to stab Arturo, the bridegroom forced upon her by her brother. I also enjoy her mad scene, especially when they use the glass harmonica rather than the flute.”
“Do you like Lucia?” I asked Marguerite.
“Not particularly.”
“Actually, you would never guess one of my favorite operas,” Violet said.
“If we would never guess, then you must tell us.”
“It is Rossini’s Cinderella.”
I laughed. “You must be joking!”
“Perhaps it is a case of opposites attracting. Cinderella is the embodiment of goodness and doesn’t have a spiteful bone in her body. I like the opera because, for once, goodness—la bontà— triumphs at the end. She marries her prince and forgives even her wretched stepsisters and stepfather. I like all the florid singing in the opera, too. Rossini’s comedies are like an Italian version of Gilbert and Sullivan.”
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Devil and the Four Page 17
