The Witch of Painted Sorrows (The Daughters of La Lune)

by M. J. Rose

Wasting no time, the two rabbis began to pray, a mesmerizing chanting that, despite my efforts to withstand its pull, lulled me with its rhythms.

  I had read about mesmerism. Hypnotizing someone into a deep state of relaxation during which time they were susceptible to suggestions was popular as a medicinal treatment. I was certain that’s what the rabbis were doing to me, and I could not allow it. But no matter how hard I tried to block out the sound of their voices and concentrate on something else, I couldn’t. Their sacred lullaby was softening my resolve. I slipped into a state somewhere between sleep and restfulness and awareness all at the same time.

  As the prayers continued, a shaking and tingling took over my body, and then I experienced a bizarre sensation I can only describe as a sexual release, akin to what I’d experienced with Julien, but this was painful, where that had been pleasurable. Like magnets they were drawing this release from me, from between my legs, from inside my womb. It was ragged and ripped. I looked down and saw I was dripping blood into the water.

  Cousin Jacob had not lied. All this was happening without either of them touching me there. The power of their voices raised in prayer were doing it.

  I felt lighter, as if I were becoming less. As if I were becoming weaker. My senses dulled, too. The room lost some of its shimmer. The blue and green tiles were less intense. The scents faded. A sense of loss and immediate longing took hold of me.

  “I have her,” Cousin Jacob shouted in triumph, and fumbled, shoving the cork into the bottle.

  Zeller lessened his grip and placed an arm around my shoulders.

  My grandmother stood nervously at the edge of the pool. “She’s bleeding. What is going on? Is she all right? Sandrine, are you all right?”

  But I wasn’t. I was crying, and I couldn’t respond.

  “She is fine,” Rabbi Zeller answered for me.

  But I wasn’t. I wanted the colors and the smells and the power and the feelings back.

  “Something is wrong here,” Cousin Jacob complained as he struggled to fit the cork farther into the neck of the bottle.

  Zeller left my side to see what the trouble was.

  For the moment no one was focused on me. This was my chance. Despite my heavy, waterlogged dress, despite losing blood and feeling weak, I lunged forward, grabbed the cork, and wrenched it from Cousin Jacob’s hand. Instantly I felt a surge of energy. I knew the bleeding had stopped.

  I laughed with delight. They could not change me. Even with all their prayers, they could not separate us.

  “What’s happened?” my grandmother asked nervously.

  “Zeller, I’ve lost it,” Cousin Jacob lamented.

  “She pulled the cork,” Zeller said over and over.

  They were all talking on top of one another in a panicked response. I didn’t care what they were saying. I was myself again.

  Then . . . What was that? More chanting? I put my hands up to my ears to try and drown out the seductive sounds. As long as I didn’t listen, I would stay in control. I tried to climb up the steps, but both rabbis, anticipating my move, blocked me.

  Zeller positioned himself at my back, took hold of both my arms, pulled them behind me, and held on while Cousin Jacob pushed the bottle close to my chest.

  With one of them in front and the other behind me, the sound of their singsong prayer surrounded me, and despite all my efforts, for the second time, I fell victim to their ministrations, not strong enough to fight their devout entreaties. And once again, though this time with less elation and more trepidation, Cousin Jacob announced he had captured the spirit, and I was left feeling drained of my life force.

  “Thank God,” my grandmother uttered as Cousin Jacob very cautiously and carefully corked the bottle.

  Rabbi Zeller offered to help me out of the pool. I had so little energy left that I accepted his arm and emerged, my skirts dripping, my shoes squishing.

  Holding the glass bottle tightly, Cousin Jacob followed. I watched him as he stepped out of the pool, and I noticed that his hand holding the vessel was trembling. At first it was slight, but it became more and more exaggerated.

  “Help me, Zeller,” Cousin Jacob cried.

  Rabbi Zeller ran to his side and tried to take the bottle and help Cousin Jacob at the same time.

  “Arghh!” Zeller screamed.

  He’d burned his hands touching the container. As he let go, I could see his palms were scarlet.

  My grandmother and I watched as the bottle began to vibrate even more violently, dancing in Cousin Jacob’s hands. He pulled it closer to his chest, trying to protect it, but the effort appeared too great for him. He broke out in a sweat, beads of moisture forming on his forehead and dripping down his face. His skin turned ashen. He bit through his lip, and a trail of blood marked his chin.

  “Release the bottle, the pain will stop,” I shouted, not even wondering how I knew, but certain I was right.

  Cousin Jacob shook his head. His eyes bored into mine. “I cannot. For your soul’s sake, I cannot.”

  He was in terrible pain now. Tears streamed from his eyes.

  The glass glowed brighter, generating a red-tinged aura around the rabbi. Suddenly Cousin Jacob shrieked and let go as he grabbed his chest. From the expression on his face and the sound issuing from his lips, the pain must have been excruciating.

  The bottle fell to the tile floor and smashed inside its overlay. Fragments sent rays of the ruby light all around the room, bathing us in its bloody glow while we all watched, helpless, as Cousin Jacob clutched his chest, his heart.

  I should have felt remorse. But powers were surging through me again, reuniting with my senses. I saw not the body on the ground but the droplets of water shimmering like diamonds, the otherworldly light shimmering. I smelled not death but the resinous perfume of burning incense. I felt not fear but great strength.

  Chapter 19

  The night that Cousin Jacob died lasted longer than any I could remember.

  My grandmother and I had returned by carriage to the apartment on rue des Saints-Pères. We did not talk in the ride. Grand-mère wept quietly, steadily.

  I kept rubbing my wrists, which were red and raw from where the rabbis had tried to hold me. The pain kept me centered there in the carriage; I could focus on it because I could not process what had happened.

  A man, a holy man, my blood relation, had just had a heart attack and died. He had died in front of me while he was trying to help me. Could anything be more terrible to witness? To be part of? And yet somewhere inside of me, it was also a relief. How could that be?

  I felt terrible for my grandmother’s loss and at the same time was furious with her. I didn’t understand the conflicting feelings within myself and didn’t know how to reconcile them.

  As soon as we entered the apartment, she went to the salon, poured herself a large glass of cognac, and took a long sip. I’d followed her, and she turned to me then.

  “Do you know what you did?” she asked in a shaking voice.

  “I didn’t do anything. I couldn’t have.” I didn’t feel as sure as I sounded. Had I somehow been responsible in some way?

  “You fought him. What is inside of you fought him.”

  “You sound crazy,” I said. “There is nothing inside of me.” Even to me, my voice did not sound certain.

  She shook her head, as if refusing to believe what she was hearing, and in a quivering voice told me to be ready by ten in the morning, that I would be attending services with her. And then she told me to go to my room.

  In the Jewish religion, we don’t wait to bury our dead. The funeral is the day after the death unless that day is the Sabbath. The tragedy at the mikvah had occurred on a Thursday, so the funeral of Rabbi Jacob Richter would take place the next morning.

  I didn’t want to go back to the cemetery. I was scared of what I would see. I was apprehensive of how my gran
dmother would treat me. I didn’t want to miss a day of painting, but my grandmother was distraught, and I didn’t want to upset her even more. I cared about her and was worried for her. She was paler and more fragile than I had ever seen her. There was no way I could get out of attending services without causing a scene, and for Grand-mère’s sake I decided to just do what she’d asked.

  On Friday morning, dressed and ready in a black dress and small black hat, I waited for my grandmother in the front parlor.

  When she came in, she looked me over appraisingly. Like me she wore black, a lace-and-taffeta effort that revealed less of her ample bosom than usual, as was appropriate for the occasion. It was, in fact, the same dress she’d worn to the funeral we’d attended only two weeks before.

  “I think you should wear your other black hat. The larger one with the veil. And keep the veil down,” Grand-mère said.

  “I prefer this.”

  She shook her head. “Sandrine, it’s too provocative. You look like a flirt.”

  “You would know.”

  She retreated a bit, as if stung by a blow. “Please change the hat, and also please take off that necklace you insist on wearing all the time. It’s not appropriate.”

  My hand went to my throat to touch the ruby flower garland. I liked how it felt enclosing my neck, and I didn’t want to take it off. And yet part of me wanted to please her. I knew she was highly distressed, and I loved her.

  “I think this hat is fine.”

  She reached out, grabbed the hat, and pulled it off my head. The comb holding it down scratched my scalp. While I rubbed the scraped spot, my grandmother ripped my hat apart, threw it on the floor, and stomped on it till it was a misshapen mess.

  “Now,” she said, “please put on the larger hat with the veil.”

  Upstairs in my bedroom, I opened the armoire and pulled out the more sedate hat that my grandmother had requested I wear. Then, looking in the mirror, I attended to the damage she’d done to my hair. I could still feel the tenderness of my scalp when my brush touched it.

  I had just lifted the netted and plumed confection to my head when, in the mirror, I saw my grandmother at the door.

  “What is it?” I turned just in time to watch her slam the door shut. And before I could take a step, I heard the key turn in the lock.

  “Grand-mère?” Running to the door, I tried the knob even though I guessed that it wouldn’t turn. “What are you doing? Let me out,” I shouted through the wooden door that separated us.

  “I don’t think it’s wise for you to come with me after all. I am going to the funeral and then am going to meet with Zeller and the other rabbis about what to do next. The exorcism failed, but we can’t give up. You aren’t capable of protecting yourself, so I need to protect you. Sandrine, you are all I have left of your father. Even though he thought he was performing the ceremony according to strict Hebrew law, perhaps Cousin Jacob failed to follow some aspect of the procedure. We have to repeat it. I have to find the right men to try again.”

  “There is nothing to exorcise. You are wrong about me.” I pounded on the door, my rage growing with every strike. “You can’t keep me locked up like some child!”

  “Not like a child, Sandrine. Children are not inherently evil. But the spirit that is possessing you is and always has been.”

  I heard her skirts rustling as she walked away from the door, leaving me locked in my bedroom.

  Rushing to the window, I unlatched it, grasped the frame, and yanked the window open. I would jump. Then I looked down. I couldn’t. We were too high. Shouting for help was pointless, too. My room faced the inner courtyard, and the only people who could hear me were the maid and the cook inside our apartment. But ­perhaps . . . Was it possible? Would my voice carry?

  “I need help,” I shouted. “I am being held against my will!” My voice echoed off of our own four walls. Even if someone on the street heard my cries, they wouldn’t have any clue where they emanated from.

  I ran to my locked door and hollered for the housekeeper till my voice was hoarse. She never came. Of course she wouldn’t. My grandmother had obviously given her instructions to stay away from my room. And besides, Grand-mère had most probably taken the key.

  I collapsed onto my bed. Trapped like an animal. And why? I had not done anything. Cousin Jacob had been sick. That he chose that moment to succumb to his illness was no more my fault than the appearance of the stars at night.

  For about a half hour I lay atop the coverlet and felt sorry for myself and fury at my grandmother. I would not be jailed like this. I would take revenge. When she returned, I would leave her, and she’d be sorry. She herself had said I was all that was left. Her only immediate family.

  I wouldn’t have to bother with a hotel or finding any other place to live. I’d move into the bell tower. I’d get Julien to block it off when he turned the rest of the Maison de la Lune into a museum. He could build me a secret entrance. No one would ever discover me there. Or perhaps I could entice or convince him to break off his engagement and we could live there together. Charlotte and Julien had been affianced before he met me, before he knew that someone could touch his soul. Surely he could not marry her now that we had met.

  I was growing bored sitting in the simple room, concocting fantasies about the future.

  There was nothing to watch out the windows, and the room offered little distraction. Oh, it was lovely enough, with pale yellow curtains that puddled on the mustard-and-lavender rug and even paler yellow walls trimmed with lavender molding. There were half a dozen prints of various purple flowers framed in gold and hanging on the walls.

  Unlike the opulent and fantastical rooms in La Lune, this bedroom was certainly not decorated by my grandmother, but rather by whomever she was renting from. Grand-mère’s style was nowhere to be seen.

  I already had read the one book in the room, the one I’d brought from home, The Picture of Dorian Gray. There were dozens of novels downstairs in the library, but they were out of my reach now. I picked up the Oscar Wilde novel and started to reread it:

  The studio was filled with the rich odor of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.

  After three chapters, I couldn’t keep reading. My father’s annotations were like little stabs, and I closed the slim volume. I tried to sleep but was too worked up.

  I needed to do something or I might go mad. That’s when I thought of my paints. I pulled the box out from under the bed. Just touching the fine wooden case that I’d bought from Sennelier began to soothe me.

  Opening it, I caressed the brushes. Moreau had drummed it into us that we must be rigorous in cleaning our supplies. He said if we showed them respect they would be more willing to do our bidding. My brushes were pristine. My tubes of color were squeezed only from the bottom up. My palette was wiped clean every night.

  The siren call of the brushes and the paints was undeniable. I longed for the state of bliss that always settled on me as I swirled the silken colors into one another and dabbed them on the canvas.

  I knew I would be fine if I could just paint the hours away, but I had no canvas with me. I looked around the room. Was there anything I could use? No, nothing.

  Except . . .

  I undressed, since I was used to painting either in my masculine garb in public or wearing nothing but my shift over my naked body when I was in the bell tower. Corsets and stays and petticoats hampered my movements.

  Stripped down, I threw on my silk robe, not even bothering to fasten it. Next I removed all the prints from the walls so that I had large, empty surfaces. Then I prepared my palette. Holding it in my right hand, I picked up a brush in my left.

  With so much space, my mind was as unencumbered as my body, and I began to paint. I wasn
’t conscious of making up the story I painted. Rather the story seemed to be whispering to me, begging me to give it life. To commit it to form and figure, color and shadow.

  The mural told a saga worthy of an opera, but it was not written by some Italian master. It was a drama worthy of being enacted on the stage but was not a play penned by Molière. No, this was the true and actual story of the making of La Lune. The tale of how my ancestor came to be who she was.

  In the first panel, she was a young courtesan entertaining a string of lovers. Lounging on an opulent scarlet velvet daybed, she looked not at the men awaiting her attention but out at me with a challenging expression. We shared fiery reddish-brown hair and almond-shaped topaz eyes. Her mouth was more petulant than mine, and her full lips a darker cranberry.

  Like a ripe piece of fruit, she looked ready for the picking.

  Outside the door to her bedroom were three older men dressed in bejeweled silks and satins and a fourth, a younger man, dressed in simpler clothes.

  In the next four scenes, each man presented her with a gift: the first, six strands of fat pearls; the next, an overflowing casket of gold chains; and the third, an ebony box brimming with diamonds, one having fallen at her feet, glinting in the candlelight.

  In the last scene in this sequence the younger man knelt at her feet, holding out a bunch of paintbrushes, like flowers. Her hand was reaching out, about to accept his offering.

  This was the man she had chosen. On his jacket was the clue to his identity: a pair of intertwined Cs embroidered in gold on brown velvet. This was Cherubino Cellini, the great Italian painter whose work hung in museums all over the world, who had met La Lune and asked her to be his muse.

  Everything about his face and body and the way he carried himself was sensual. I remembered the feelings I had as I painted his coarse black curls and his bony nose and the scars on his face and hands, and I felt surges of desire that made me want to put down my brushes and touch myself.

  I fought the urges and continued painting instead, illustrating the tale of the young woman who accepted Cherubino Cellini, not because he was the wealthiest of those who came to call but because he offered her the one thing the others could not: Access to the world that she wished to belong to. The world forbidden to women. The world of artists.