She laughed. “This is not a competition! It is music, after all, not chess or croquet.”
Marguerite looked faintly puzzled. “This is not a joke? Do you both actually play the violin?”
Michelle leaned over and touched her forearm. “They both play very well indeed.”
Alphonse pulled off his napkin and set it on the table, then folded his arms. “I can vouch for her. I like to listen to her practice. I did not know the violin before I came to live here. It is a wonderful thing.”
Gertrude nodded enthusiastically. “She plays even better now than she did back in London.”
Violet smiled and set her long slender hand on Holmes’s wrist. He was smiling faintly, but something in his eyes changed. “So will you play for us?” she asked.
“I suggest we share the stage, and ladies must go first.”
She laughed. “You know, of course, what we must play.” He gave her a puzzled look. “Bach’s First Partita.” He gave a slight nod. It was the first thing they had heard the other play, and I knew it was a favorite of them both. “Very well—to the sitting room, then, which shall act as our auditorium!”
There were contented sighs or yawns as we rose and stretched briefly, then made our way into the next room. I collapsed into the corner of the sofa, and Michelle sank down beside me and grasped my hand. I smiled at her. “It is good to see you at last, stranger,” I said. Marguerite had sat at the other end of the sofa, and she smiled wistfully at us.
Michelle touched my cheek with her fingers. “You know I shall make it up to you.”
Violet came into the room with her violin in one hand, the bow in the other. Holmes was standing next to the fireplace. “I suggest,” she said, “that we alternate movements as we play.” She looked around at us all. “There are eight parts in the partita, four dance movements, and each has its so-called double, a faster variant.”
Holmes frowned slightly. “A Bach partita is meant to be played through in its entirety, not divided up piecemeal.”
“Yes, but this is not the Royal Albert Hall. No one will be reviewing us for The Times. That way our audience will hear each section twice in a row. It will be more familiar the second time, and they will also be able to hear the contrast in our playing.”
“Yes, with my inferior version always coming second! Very well, but surely the movement and its double must be played together. They are, after all, related, a sort of theme and variation.”
“Agreed. And are you certain you would not like to go first?”
He swept his long fingers about in a graceful arc, part of a mock bow. “Courtesy demands that the ladies take precedence.”
“Very well. I should warn you all, the partita takes about half an hour, so with two of us, it will last an hour. However, if it becomes tiresome, simply let us know, and the ordeal will cease. Is everyone comfortable?”
Holmes raised one hand. “And by the way, unless you wish us to stop entirely, no applause, catcalls, or distracting comments between movements. We must maintain our concentration.”
Violet gave an emphatic nod. “Well put.” She raised the violin, played a short melody, then adjusted the tuning pegs. This went on until she played a long sustained note. “What do you think?” she asked Holmes.
“Excellently tuned, madam.”
She had a handkerchief under the violin, and she tucked both under her chin. She slowly drew in her breath, raised the bow and closed her eyes, then drew the bow along the string. Her feet were planted firmly apart, and she swayed slightly from side to side in time with the music. The tone was warm, full and resonant in the small sitting room; the long line of Bach’s music rose and fell like some soaring bird doing heavenly acrobatics. No energy was wasted on gratuitous movement; she was quite relaxed. Her eyes remained closed. Every so often her black brows would come slightly together, a brief hint of a frown which came and went, and occasionally a sort of pleased smile stirred her lips. Her dress was of a plain purple muslin, a rather austere cut that suited her playing. Her white face and hands stood out against the purple and against the black of her bound-up hair. You could sense that her entire body went into the music, that she played with more than her fingers, hands and arms. Holmes watched her, his face stern, but his gray eyes showed admiration and wonder.
The music itself was extraordinary. I could not read music or follow musical forms or variations in any intellectual manner. All the same, Bach’s music was its own sort of language which spoke to the beauties and mysteries of life. At that level, it was irresistible. Occasionally I felt I understood, but that came and went—and always there was motion, that long line of profound melody sweeping ever forward. She paused briefly at the end of the first part, took a long slow breath, then began the double section. Again the music poured forth, the tempo faster than before.
Only after the last note had died away did she open her eyes. She drew in her breath again, then lowered the violin and the bow. Unable to exactly follow his own strictures, Holmes mouthed the silent word “bravo,” then took the instrument from her and settled it under his own jaw. It was immediately apparent how much longer and leaner his face was than hers—and his tall lanky body, as well. He had a good half-foot on her. He raised the bow, frowned rather fiercely, then relaxed and began to play.
If playing was a sort of dance, you could see they both knew the moves, but each had their own unique style. His was not quite so relaxed as hers, and his motions were broader. At times there was almost a ferocity in his eyes, but the music was best when he was calmer. He played better as the piece went on. Once or twice he did briefly close his eyes. He seemed to be seeking something, searching for it in the music, something you could never quite find but the quest itself was the satisfaction. He played perhaps a trifle faster than her. One thing was certain: anyone who actually heard him play Bach like this could never subscribe to Watson’s flawed portrayal of him as all brain with no heart or passion! The second section, the double, was a bit slower than hers, but very clean and precise.
When he finished, Michelle and I exchanged a look. We had heard them play before, but never quite like this. Clearly they inspired one another. It became more and more obvious as our concert progressed—that, and the obvious fact that they were playing to one another, nearly oblivious to the rest of us. If the music was a language, they were speaking it. Occasionally as he listened to her, Holmes would give his head a brief shake in disbelief and admiration. Violet, in turn, folded her arms and stared at him in rapt attention as he played. None of us looked bored, none of us said anything, and we hardly moved during the brief intervals while the violin was transferred.
Violet played her second double at an unbelievable speed, the bow rising and falling, the slender fingers of her left hand dancing along the string. Even if it had not produced such beautiful music, it would have been a phenomenal physical feat in and of itself. When he took the violin from her, Holmes shook his head, perhaps resigned to the fact he could never play that fast himself, and indeed, when his turn came, it was slower, but still at a breakneck speed, the line of the music itself somehow a bit more precarious, on edge. He looked greatly relieved when he finished, and she smiled as she took the violin.
They played on, and yellow-white shafts of light streamed from the two large windows, motes of dust swimming along to the music. I closed my eyes to listen more intently. Again, I had the feeling I could almost understand the language of Bach. Occasionally two or even three voices spoke at the same time; how amazing that a single violin could produce multiple melodies all at once. The minutes and seconds swept along with the notes, part of some vast universal music. But it was hard not to watch Violet and Holmes, hard to ignore two such artists completely and totally caught up in their work. Violet finished at last, a crescendo ending in a final downward swoop of the bow on a long low note.
Holmes eased out a long sigh, obviously trying to keep silent, then touched his hands together, the long fingers outspread, as he gave a slight bow
in her direction. He took the violin and played his own rendition of the last movement and its double. It was curious that they could play the same notes on the same instrument, but it was different, the music reflecting each person’s own spiritual and physical dimension, as well as the odd quirk of chance which made the notes come out a certain way at a certain point in time. When Holmes finished at last, he lowered the bow and the violin, then wiped at his forehead with the back of his left hand, smiling even as he finally allowed himself an audible sigh. The silence of the room was something we all savored.
“Bravo,” Violet murmured at last. “Bravo.”
“Bravo indeed!” Michelle exclaimed, and we all began to clap.
Holmes hesitated an instant, then took Violet’s hand. They both bowed deeply from the waist. Violet appeared simply radiant, whiles Holmes looked slightly exhausted but exuberant. They bowed again. No one clapped harder than Marguerite. At last we all stood up. Holmes took Violet’s hand with both of his and pressed it tightly to his chest, his eyes staring down at her. A crooked smile pulled at her lips. If I had had any lingering doubts whether they still loved one another, they were certainly resolved.
Everyone had stood up except Marguerite. She had pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. Michelle went over and put her hand on her shoulder. Marguerite’s dark eyes stared up at her, glistening faintly. “Are you all right?” Michelle asked.
“Oh yes. I have never heard such music.” Her face was pale alongside her burgundy silk dress. “I have been to the symphony, of course, but never so close as this. I did not know such music was even possible.” She stood at last, wiped again at her eyes and thrust the handkerchief back into a pocket.
Violet stepped closer. “Did you like it?”
“Oh yes! You… you made me forget everything for an hour. It was so lovely. I hope…” Her eyes had a familiar desolation. “I hope I can hear you both play again.”
Violet smiled and gave her hand a squeeze. “I promise you shall.”
Chapter Twelve
A cold hard rain fell on Saturday afternoon. By evening, it had ended, but the sky was a flat dark iron-gray, with only a faint pink or yellow showing from the city lights. We took a carriage to a nearby street and walked to our object. Sumners had explained that it had been an Ursuline convent until the Revolution, when it was abandoned and stripped of all its religious trappings. An eccentric old man had bought the buildings some twenty years ago and offered its chapel for Black Masses. Apparently this was a favorite spot in Paris for such ceremonies, one truly consecrated, over time, to Satan.
For once, Sumners had dispensed with his soutane, even as Holmes and I had set aside our frock coats. We three men all wore dark suits and black overcoats, while Holmes and I also had on bowler hats. However, Sumners still sported an incongruous black hat, often worn by French clergy, one with a wide brim which curved up slightly on either side. The hat emphasized the mass of graying bobbed and curling hair about his plump face. Violet also wore a black coat, along with a black veil loosely draped around her head; in the chapel she could lower it to hide her face so Docre would not recognize her.
The only one of us in particularly good spirits was Sumners. “How long it has been since I have attended a Black Mass!” he had exclaimed cheerfully.
Holmes and Violet were grim. I was terribly uneasy, worried sick about Michelle. I had tried—futilely, I knew in advance—to talk her out of going with Marguerite, but she was adamant that Marguerite could not go alone. Holmes had told us he planned to take along his revolver, and I had told him that at the first sign of trouble—at the first sign the two women were threatened in any way—he must shoot first and ask questions later. He had sternly said he would do so.
I had said something of my fears in the carriage, and Sumners tried, in a curious sort of way, to reassure me. “The majority of the participants are inevitably women, you know, just as with the regular Mass, and most are harmless hysterics of one variety or another. The few men are generally older or infirm.”
But I was worried more about Docre than the congregation—even though, as Michelle had repeatedly and rather comically stated, she could probably best him in a fair fight. We left the main street and went down a dark narrow alleyway. At the end was a high stone wall, the leaves of some greenery rustling softly on the other side. Sumners stopped before a door with a metal grating and rang a bell. A few seconds later bright yellow-white light from a lantern shone through the bars. “Oui?” said a woman’s voice.
“We are here for the ceremony,” Sumners said in French.
“The password?”
“Astarté.”
“Entrez, messieurs.” The door swung open, revealing a stooped old crone in tattered black holding the lantern. “Do you know the way?”
“Yes,” Sumners said.
She retreated to a sort of tent nearby which served as her lodge and which would protect her from the rain. We followed a flagstone path through a small garden with ornate palms rising on either side, then went up three steps. Sumners pulled open one of the massive oaken doors, and we stepped into a vestibule illuminated only by the flickering candles of two small red lamps. Sumners opened another door, and we entered a dark cavernous chamber.
The noxious smell was the first thing you noticed—something close, warm, humid, burnt and acrid which assailed the nostrils. Looking about, I saw two braziers which gave off a foul dark smoke. “What a stench,” I murmured.
“Satanic incense,” Sumners said.
“Fittingly enough,” Violet said. “It is certainly not heavenly.”
“What on earth makes such a smell?” I asked.
“Asphalt from the street, leaves of henbane, dried nightshade and myrrh are a few of the preferred ingredients,” said Sumners.
The big room had old beams overhead, its walls cracked and dingy, the windows hidden by heavy curtains. The pink glass pendants of brass chandeliers cast a feeble light. At the far end was an altar. An altar boy in white was lighting tall black candles. Behind the altar was an elaborate golden tabernacle, and over it, what must be a painting and a crucifix. Both were hidden by heavy canvas coverings. Chairs of every variety were lined up in informal rows, with a few divans near the doorway. We made our way down an aisle toward the altar.
Sumners had been right: most of the participants were women, both young and old. Some were obviously deranged, their eyes wild, their smiles lunatic and inappropriate. In a corner was an old man in a frock coat with an enormous graying goatee and mustache worthy of Louis-Napoleon. A few other men were scattered about, none of them young. Holmes guided Violet into the third row, and Sumners and I turned to follow him. She had wrapped her veil about the lower part of her face.
I sat down in an overstuffed chair which appeared comfortable, but turned out to have a loose spring which stuck into my lower back. I squirmed about. The altar boy finished lighting the black candles, then turned and smiled at us. I smiled back reflexively, but it faded as I realized this was no boy at all, but only a small, stooped old man, his wrinkled face covered with some garish makeup. With a nod, he passed us.
Sumners must have noticed my expression. “Everything is an inversion with the Black Mass. Instead of innocent boys as altar servers, we have debauched old sodomites.”
“But he is wearing white,” I said.
“Part of the masquerade to fool Madame Hardy. At some point he will cast off his garment, and the blasphemous objects behind the altar will also be revealed.”
Violet spoke very softly, her voice almost a moan. “How filthy.”
Holmes said nothing, but he looked forbidding indeed, and angry.
“This air in here is so dreadful,” I said, “so stifling. I can hardly breathe.”
I hoped we would not have to wait long. All about us were the low whispers and soft voices of the women, as well as an occasional strange-sounding laugh. At last, a murmur swept through the congregation, and people stood. Docre had appeared
at the back of the church, and he was slowly advancing, his hands clasped before him, the two altar servers in white at his side. He wore a bulky white robe belted with a rope. Next came Marguerite, and behind her, Michelle.
A wave of fear began in my belly, washed through my chest, even as I clenched my teeth. This was all insanity—complete insanity! If I had any sense, I would take Michelle and drag her out of here immediately. Holmes’s eyes were fixed on me, and he gave a slight nod. His hand was in his pocket, no doubt clasping the revolver handle. As they passed us, I could see that Marguerite was terrified. Michelle, on the other hand, gave me a defiant smile. Not for the first time, I wished she were slightly less courageous.
Docre stopped before the altar and turned to face the congregation. His youthful aristocratic beauty, the aquiline nose and fine cheekbones, the black curly hair, seemed curiously out of place, especially alongside his two grotesque aged acolytes. He raised his white graceful gentleman’s hands.
“Welcome, brothers and sisters! We are gathered tonight to welcome a new member into our fold, a lost soul who has been found.” He gestured toward Marguerite, who turned and looked uneasily about the room. She could not bring herself to smile. He set his hand on her shoulder, and she flinched. His smile was slightly lunatic, his eyes wild. I wondered if he had taken some drug or if this was only the euphoria of madness.
“You must forget all that you think you know if you are to be saved—in fact, to be saved, you must be damned! You must cast aside the old and embrace the new. You must forget the crucified fool and embrace our true Master!” There were cries of approval, and Marguerite took half a step backward.
“Oh no, no,” she murmured, shaking her head.
Docre and the altar boys quickly removed and threw aside their white robes. The two old men were wearing red cassocks. Docre wore a grotesque chasuble of fiery red with the figure of a black billy goat showing his horns—and, I realized suddenly, he wore nothing else save a pair of red silken slippers! I could see his bare legs, arms and flank under the chasuble. He gave an exultant laugh, which made Marguerite step back to Michelle who put her arm around her. One of the men gave Docre a hat, which he quickly put on, also bright red, with two long red cloth horns like those of a bull. Were the situation not so grave, I would have wanted to laugh—he looked frankly absurd, like some clown or burlesque figure from the commedia dell’arte rather than a priest.
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Devil and the Four Page 25
