by M. J. Rose
In addition to us and Dujols, the well-known avant-garde composer Debussy was present. He’d brought the opera singer Emma Calvé, who, while Dujols had been setting up, had talked incessantly of the château in the Aveyron region that she’d just purchased. The sixth person was a friend of hers.
“We should have had this event at my château,” she said. “There’s far more likelihood of summoning spirits there since it was built by the magician and alchemist Nicolas Flamel.”
I wondered if Julien’s black mood, which only intensified as the evening got started, was aggravated by someone from Charlotte’s world being present. Did Calvé know Julien’s fiancée? Was he worried that she might tell the young woman she’d run into him at a séance? Would that disturb Charlotte? My head ached with all these questions.
What happened next is not quite clear, even now.
Dujols began the event by giving instructions that we each were to put one finger on the top of the glass cup and not break contact with it no matter what happened.
He explained he would call the spirit forth and then ask her, or him, certain questions that pertained to my dilemma, which no one but he and Julien knew anything about. The secrecy was important, he said, so that the authenticity of the communication could be preserved.
“If a spirit does communicate, he or she will use us as conduits and push the cup around the cloth, spelling out an answer. I will record the letters since sometimes they move too fast to figure out in the moment. But first, I’d like us to take hands.”
We took one another’s hands. Dujols was seated to my right. His hand was dry, his pulse even. But Julien’s hand was moist with perspiration. I glanced at him, but he wouldn’t make eye contact. I thought he looked pale.
“Julien?” I whispered, trying to get his attention. “Are you all right?”
He nodded but didn’t say anything.
“And now we begin,” said Dujols, preventing me from asking Julien anything else. “Everyone please close your eyes and concentrate on welcoming the spirit into our midst.”
A surge of excitement mixed with anticipation pulsed through me. Maybe now I was finally going to find out what had been going on for the last few weeks. Discover if the spirit of La Lune really had survived and truly was connected to me in some way.
“Yes, yes, fingers on the glass, please, ladies and gentlemen,” Dujols said.
We all placed our forefingers on the small crystal tumbler. Mine trembled.
Dujols waited a moment and then asked: “Are you with us, dear spirit?”
The glass sped off to the corner of the cloth where OUI was spelled out on the board.
Who was moving it? Not I, certainly. I was sure it was not Julien. Who here had any reason to prove a spirit was visiting? This séance was not being held for a price. This was a favor Dujols was granting me in exchange for me promising to show him the grimoire I’d found in the bell tower.
“Mademoiselle Verlaine would like to know what it is you need from her,” Dujols asked.
There was a hesitation, and I wondered if the previous answer had been an accident of the wind. Or one of the members of the assembly was playing a trick on us.
And then the cup spelled out one word.
Nothing.
“Then is there something you need to tell her?”
The cup moved and spelled out Julien’s name. Beside me, his body tensed.
“You are here for Julien?
Yes.
“What is it you want to tell Julien?”
The board spelled out: My death not accident.
I heard Julien gasp.
Then there was a moment’s pause, and the cup continued.
Forgive yourself.
A pause.
She loosened wheels . . .
A pause
. . . for money.
Julien stood and pushed himself away from the table with such force that his chair fell backward.
“Enough of this.” He looked around at our faces as if he was searching for someone to accuse. His green eyes were clouded, his features set in an anguished expression. After a second he turned and ran to the door, unlocked it, pulled it open with great force, and rushed out into the street.
I ran after him, hurrying to keep up. He was on a tear and going faster than I could. He reached the corner but didn’t stop. From the opposite direction a carriage was coming, but he didn’t seem to see it. I screamed out: “Julien, stop!” For some reason he didn’t stop but just went barreling into the street straight into the oncoming horse and carriage.
He was going to be trampled, and I was not going to be able to get to him in time. I shouted again, but he kept going. Why wasn’t he stopping? It was almost as if he were throwing himself in front of the carriage on purpose. As if he wanted something terrible to happen to him.
There is no question about what happened next, though it seemed impossible then and impossible now as I recall this.
Everything became very quiet. The street noises abated. I sensed rather than heard a whoosh of words, almost like a breeze was speaking to me in a manner different than how we humans normally communicate. The air itself told me Julien would be all right. That I needn’t panic. As I was being given that strange but comforting communiqué, just as the collision appeared inevitable, a wind came up out of nowhere, for it was not a rough-weathered night, picked up Julien—yes, picked him up like a mother lifting a babe—and blew him backward. He sailed two or three feet in the air, just enough to remove him from the path of the oncoming carriage, and landed in a heap on the sidewalk.
I ran to him.
He’d straightened himself out and was sitting on the curb, watching the carriage as it continued on down the street as if nothing strange had occurred at all. But it had. I had seen it.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes,” but he clearly wasn’t. His eyes were troubled, and his face was drawn.
“Julien, what just happened?”
“I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
“But just now, it looked as if someone threw you backward.”
“Someone? There was no one here. I understood almost too late what was happening and jumped backward.”
I stared at him. That was not what had happened. Did he believe it or just want me to believe it? I was about to question him further, but he was standing, brushing himself off, speaking to me.
“It’s getting late. Let me walk you home.”
“What went on at Dujols’s? Why did you run out like that?” I asked.
“I told you I didn’t want to go. All that mumbo jumbo makes me nervous. I don’t believe it. Dujols probably was moving that glass himself.”
“Why would he do that?”
“To impress you so that you’ll give him what he wants.”
“You mean the grimoire?”
“Yes, the grimoire and anything else he can get you to share with him.”
“Julien, what was the spirit talking about when he or she said that about it not being your fault—”
Julien interrupted. “It wasn’t a spirit; it was Dujols.”
“Fine. What accident did he reference?”
“Nothing that matters anymore.”
Julien’s whole demeanor was different. He’d retreated. Around him was an aura darker than the night sky. When he started walking again, I had to hurry to keep up.
“Something is bothering you. I’d like to know what it is.”
“All right. Today of all days is the anniversary of my father’s death.”
“I’m sorry. So sorry. Do you think that was the accident the spirit referred to?”
“Yes, and I was responsible. I was responsible for my father’s death . . .” He had slowed down. His voice had softened. I could see his face, and the expression he wore was crus
hing. I couldn’t bear to hear the pain in his voice. And the longing. And the love.
“The accident was my fault. We were in the carriage. I had the reins—” He broke off.
“And it haunts you.”
“Of course, wouldn’t it haunt you, too, if you were responsible for someone you loved dying?” His voice was bitter.
“The spirit said it wasn’t an accident.”
“Dujols said. Believe me, I know what transpired. I was driving the carriage. We were arguing. I wanted to come to Paris and study architecture. He wanted me to stay in Nancy and work with him and his brother in the family firm. I loved my father. I loved making furniture, but . . .”
“You know that was your father tonight. He was telling you it wasn’t your fault.”
“Losing him was more pain than I’d ever known. I can’t even entertain what you are suggesting. My sister put us through all this already. Organizing séances, visiting charlatans who claimed to see visions in crystal balls . . . My brother and I had to stop her.”
“But what if it isn’t nonsense? What if it was your father’s spirit tonight? He said it wasn’t your fault. Was there someone who benefitted? Who was the ‘she’ he referred to who loosened the wheels?”
Julien started walking faster again, as if he were racing to the answer. “The only ‘she’ would have been my stepmother.” He shook his head. “My brother and sister and I hated her. She was obsessed with money, with having the best dresses, the finest china, the biggest house . . .”
“Did she love your father?”
He stopped midstep. Turned to me. He was thinking, hard.
“Yes . . .”
“Did she inherit money upon his death?”
“Yes, there was a will that he’d made when we were young that he’d never changed. It left everything to his wife when his wife was my mother. He never actually named her in the document, just referenced his wife.”
“And your stepmother, what happened to her after your father died?
“Nothing unusual. She continued taking care of my brother and sister. I moved to Paris to study with Cingal.”
“Did she remarry?”
“About two years after my father’s death.”
“Is it possible she’d had the man she married as a lover when she was with your father? That they plotted the accident? That she didn’t love your father as much as you all thought?”
“I don’t know . . . I suppose so . . .”
He spoke slowly as he put it together in his mind. “You know . . . I did just remember something. I wasn’t supposed to be in the carriage with him that afternoon. He was going to meet with a client at the factory. At the last minute I asked him if I could get a ride into the city. I seem to remember my stepmother tried to get me to stay home with her and help her do something, and my father telling her it was fine . . . that I could come.”
“You never wondered about that?”
“I was just seventeen years old . . . None of us ever suspected it was anything but an accident . . . I’d been badly hurt . . . Everything about the incident was a blur.”
“Except your guilt. And these years later you still haven’t forgiven yourself.”
Julien had pulled out his watch fob and was fingering the ring that hung on the chain. I’d seen him do this many times but had never questioned him about it.
“What is that?”
He showed me. In the moonlight, I examined the heavy gold ring with the initials inscribed.
“ ‘AJD’?”
“My father, Alain Jerome Duplessi.”
I undid the chain and pulled off the ring. Then I took Julien’s right hand and put it on his finger.
“That’s where it belongs. He’d want you to wear his ring. He’d be proud.”
For a moment Julien didn’t speak.
“Thank you,” he said in a gruff voice as he tried to swallow his emotion.
We walked on for half a block in silence.
“I still don’t believe any so-called spirit sent me messages. Don’t you see that this was some kind of sham to impress you so that you would give Dujols the grimoire.”
Before I could argue, he continued.
“The accident was well reported in the newspapers. So, I’m sure, was her remarriage. Dujols could have done some research, put it all together, and come up with a theory. He is a publisher after all.”
“Perhaps,” I said. But I didn’t think it was a set up.
From what my grandmother had explained about the legend of La Lune, I was beginning to understand. Somehow Julien’s guilt had been keeping him from trusting his emotions. La Lune needed Julien to be free of guilt so that he would be able to love someone again fully . . . love me, I thought. That was what she was waiting for, wasn’t it?
But would loving me be enough? What exactly did she require?—because there were still other obstacles. Charlotte here in Paris. My husband in New York. I shivered and pulled my coat tighter around me. La Lune had just hauled Julien out of the path of danger. Certainly, if she could do that, she could do the opposite, too.
Chapter 26
For the next few days, when I wasn’t at school or at the Louvre copying paintings or at Moreau’s atelier, I played detective and followed Julien.
When we were together, I’d ask about his plans, meetings, and appointments so whenever possible I could observe him with Charlotte. I needed to know more about her and about them together.
I spied on them. I watched them. Oh, how I hated the sight of her blond curls next to his dark ones. How I hated the way she put her hand on his arm when they sat in restaurants, as if she owned him. And that flirtatious way she looked up at him from under her lashes. Every action waiting for a reaction, every tease waiting for a response.
He showed all the signs of a man in love. He was attentive and responsive. He laughed with her and was affectionate. When she whispered in his ear, he smiled.
I had never been jealous when my husband interacted with other women at dinner parties or the theater or when we visited with friends. Never taken more than a cursory interest when he paid attention to a female other than myself.
But I had never loved my husband. And I did love Julien. Not just with my mind but also with my lips, my fingers, my skin. When he was not with me at the mansion, I was painting him from memory in my studio or imagining being with him. Julien was my fever. The idea of him burned inside of me. When I went a day without him, I felt actual pain, like the hunger pangs you can suffer when you’ve gone too long without food. While this kind of feeling was new and marvelous, it was also terrifying to be in its grip.
Wednesday evening, Julien and I were together for le cinq à sept, an accepted time when all over Paris, husbands saw their mistresses, wives their paramours, lovers delighted in one another and guilt took the evening off. Hedonism was an indulgence that didn’t require complicated justifications, remorse, or blame. There was the institution of marriage, and there were one’s sensual needs. When the two weren’t compatible, society accepted the alternatives. One didn’t reveal one’s affairs to a wife, so I didn’t expect Charlotte knew about Julien’s dalliances, but according to the custom of the day, if she did know, she would try to turn the other cheek.
I had been painting at the Louvre that afternoon, and when I returned, I found Julien waiting for me. He’d brought a fragrant Bordeaux, a creamy soft wheel of Saint André, a little wooden crate of figs, and a fresh baguette. We drank and feasted on the food and then on each other. Afterward, while we lay in between the fine cotton sheets in the Persian bedroom, I asked him what he was doing that evening.
“Why do you ask me if you know the answer is going to make you pout?” he asked.
“I don’t pout.” I waved my hand as if dismissing the issue like a piece of dust.
“You do pout, darling, you do.” He lean
ed down and kissed me. “I can’t just call off my engagement with Charlotte. And we couldn’t marry even if I was free. You’re not divorced yet. We need time to figure out how to do what we want to do.”
“Yes, yes, I know, you’re right.” I forced a smile. “So tomorrow?” I asked as he got dressed. “I don’t have class. Would you like to go to the Bois de Boulogne for luncheon?”
“I would, but I am having lunch with a potential client at the Eiffel Tower. The gentleman, a businessman from Germany and a great patron of the opera, is going to build a new department store in the 5th arrondissement. He’s in the process of choosing an architect, and Charlotte has arranged the meeting. It could be my largest commission to date.”
“How wonderful,” I said, and truly meant it, already envisioning the marvelous sinewy, curling, twisting building that Julien was capable of designing.
Thursday turned out to be the kind of day that I thought showed off Paris in the best light. Others waxed euphoric over sunshine, but for me the magic of the city shone brightest when the skies were moody and melodramatic. That afternoon, charcoal clouds threatened rain, and the air had a slightly metallic scent that added an edge of excitement to the atmosphere. As if a storm was not all that the city was waiting for.
As always, there was a crowd at la Tour Eiffel. Only open for four years, the iron latticework structure drew tourists and Parisians alike. It was a constant source of discussion—people debated whether the metal sculpture fascinated or repelled. No one was neutral.
Because of how jammed the tower might be, I had arrived early so I could be there when they arrived and not miss them. After waiting twenty minutes or so, I saw Julien alight from a cab, help Charlotte out, and then lend a hand to a portly gentleman who sported a twisting mustache and extremely tall top hat.
Hiding in the shadows among the crowd, dressed in my masculine garb, I watched as the trio made their way to the elevator.
