“You must eat, monsieur,” Melusine Devarre said firmly. “I know how men live when they cook for themselves. Like this one”—she cocked her head at her husband, who sat with his hands folded on the table before him, looking vaguely pleased—“when I met him. A bit of bread and soup, perhaps twice a day, as he ran to and from the hospital. It was criminal.”
Boudrie accepted a wedge of Brie, another of Gruyere, and half an apple. It was true that this was the first meal worthy of the name he had eaten in days.
They had talked mostly of the village, avoiding by tacit consent any topic like religion, though he suspected that Melusine, at least, had been raised in the Church. He was content, even relieved, to let the evening flow by without being reminded each moment that he was a priest. He turned to Devarre. “When you married, you were in medical school?”
“An intern.” Devarre shook his head at the memory. “Eighteen hours a day in the hospital, often thirty hours at a stretch. Auto accidents, delivering babies—” He smiled at his wife. “I had no time to think of food. Or romance, for that matter. I was married to my profession.”
“If I might ask, then,” Boudrie said, hoping his voice betrayed no trace of jealousy, “how did this happy union come about?”
Her eyes were calm, almost stern. “First I saw him, then I met him, and then”—she seemed about to smile, but did not—“I waited.” Devarre was gazing at her in simple adoration. A striking woman, Boudrie thought: dusky skin, and features leaning toward the Moorish—almost harsh, but pleasingly strong. Even her limp served mysteriously to accent her presence. He suspected that she had done a good deal more during her courtship than wait. For an instant he imagined her as Celeste, and twenty years of a lost life—what might have been—opened like a void before him. Automatically he offered a silent prayer of contrition and groped for his wine glass. Devarre, seeing, said, “Time for a liqueur.”
“I’ll bring coffee in a minute,” said his wife.
The two men rose and went to the small, comfortably furnished parlor, with a fire laid and ready to light—the first of the year, Boudrie thought, the end of summer. Devarre motioned him to a chair and knelt with a match. When the flames were crackling, he opened a cupboard and read labels aloud: “Grand Marnier, Calvados, Napoleon, Remy Martin, Armagnac—”
Boudrie cleared his throat. A minute later, each of them was settled in a fat leather chair, with a glass on the table at his elbow. Boudrie felt himself falling into a near trance, listening to the faint clatter of dishes. With the fire, the brandy, the sounds of the woman in the next room, he wondered if such contentment would be bearable.
But, through the lethargy, something stirred unpleasantly far back in his mind. His forehead wrinkled, as much in irritation at being disturbed as with the attempt to recall. Then he had it. His frown deepened, and peace slipped quickly away. First there had been young Taillou’s odd confession; now this other thing, whispered at twilight as Marie Riboux was leaving the church. He was certain she had not been lying, but there was no telling how much her husband might have exaggerated in his drunkenness. Boudrie could hardly ask Riboux himself. Although every other man in the village had doubtless heard the story by now, only a woman would tell such a thing to the priest. Riboux would beat her if he knew. Boudrie’s gaze flicked to Devarre, who also appeared immersed in thought. It would be a good thing to get off his chest; it was not a matter that violated the confessional, and he knew he could count on the doctor’s discretion. Still, thirty years of keeping secrets was not an easy habit to push aside.
Devarre looked up and said, “You haven’t been to the Perrin house again?”
A little ashamedly, Boudrie shook his head. “And you?”
“No.” Devarre looked away again. His lips were tight, as if he were trying to keep something from passing them.
“But you have news?”
Devarre drank, then rose and paced, his face almost angry with concentration. Finally he said, “Not about Mile. Perrin—directly, at least. But something very curious happened last night. It’s stepping past the bounds of my profession to discuss it, really, with anyone but another physician—or the police, if it should come to that.”
“It could be said that priests are the policemen of the soul.”
Devarre smiled, but the tense look came quickly back. “It’s none of my business, really. I’m suddenly not sure the Americans’ house is such a good place for Alysse to spend time.”
What remained of Boudrie’s dullness vanished. He rearranged his big body straight in the chair. “I don’t want to pronounce moral judgment,” he said carefully, “but if you suspect the girl’s welfare might be in jeopardy, I urge you to tell me as much as you can.” When Devarre still hesitated, he added coaxingly, “I myself was their guest at dinner not long ago, and I found them very pleasant. You’ll have a job convincing me otherwise.”
Devarre exhaled, then sat hunched forward, elbows on knees. “I was called out there last night,” he began.
Boudrie listened with the patience of his years in the confessional, his expressionless face belying the sour unease that rose in him at the doctor’s flat, objective account.
. . could possibly have been brought about by, say, a large dose of barbiturates, perhaps compounded by alcohol. But her husband refused to allow urine or blood tests. He as much as admitted they use drugs occasionally, which probably explains his reluctance. At any rate, when I called the hospital this morning, they were gone, against my wishes. Of course, there was no way to hold them.”
“The woman was unharmed?”
“Apparently. At least she was walking, speaking, aware of what was taking place.”
“You haven’t called Monsieur McTell?”
“I considered it, but I was afraid my curiosity might be thought undue.”
Boudrie leaned back, letting his gaze move to the ceiling. His hand went automatically to his glass.
“At any rate,” Devarre said, with a touch of formality in his tone, “I thought such an environment might not be the best place for a teenaged girl.”
“But that’s not all,” Boudrie said quietly.
“No.” Devarre sounded resigned. “Even if there were some ‘recreational’ drugs around, perhaps for adults to play with them occasionally is not so terrible. Those people are nothing like addicts, not even heavy users. Certainly not the type to entice a young girl.
“But the look on the woman’s face—she was like an exploded flashbulb. Her mind had been so overloaded with shock that it had simply shut down. I have seen that sort of syndrome a few times in people who have witnessed or survived horrible accidents; but to such a great extent, it is very rare. And what could bring such a thing about in a place like that? The environment is as safe as a playpen. The husband assured me she had no history of mental problems. Even if he lied—and why would he?—for her to go, in a matter of hours, from normal functioning to poof'—he snapped his fingers—“would require a shock of enormous force. I don’t believe it could have been triggered merely by a memory, or some sort of hormonal imbalance.”
“You have no ideas?”
Devarre shook his head. “Not really. It seems that a fuse had blown, putting out all the lights. About the only thing I can speculate is that she imagined some sort of intruder, perhaps under the influence of drugs. But she had not been physically touched, in spite of the fact that she was quite naked when they found her—apparently she had been swimming—and nothing in the house was disturbed.” With a look of wry amusement, he added, “Madame McTell did say that she had recently lost a well-loved pet, a dog.” Boudrie’s mouth opened. He closed it again.
“But I hardly think that could account for it.” Devarre paused, then added, “This is where I overstep myself as a man of medicine, but I would swear there was something clandestine going on.” He rose to pour more brandy. “But I’m doubtless reading something into nothing, and it’s none of my concern anyway.”
“I’m not so sure either of
those things is true,” Boudrie said slowly.
Devarre turned, face questioning.
“I’m not just being polite,” Boudrie said. “Stories have come to me too. One has to do with this pet—could even, perhaps, explain the woman’s shock.” He hesitated.
It was Devarre’s turn to coax. “It would go no farther than this room.”
Boudrie nodded. “Do you know Anton Riboux?” “Perhaps by sight.”
“No matter. He worked until today as gardener for the Americans. He quit this morning suddenly and has been drinking since. His wife was angry with him: It was an easy position, it paid well, and now he has nothing. Naturally, she did not keep her feelings to herself. He reacted with anger in turn, of course”—he was about to add, “and threatened her with his fists,” but caught himself—“and then blurted out an ugly story. The pet you mentioned—” Melusine walked into the room, carrying a tray with a silver coffeepot and white porcelain cups. Startled, Boudrie began to rise. “Non, non, monsieur,” she said quickly. “Pay no attention to me.”
More easily said than done, he thought; but he settled back. Melusine poured cups of the thick black espresso, then sat in a chair near the fire. Fabric rustled as she crossed her legs.
Boudrie had been about to repeat the first thing Mme. Riboux had told him: “The blonde sunbathes shamelessly in the nude, not covering herself even when Anton passes by.” Which, Boudrie was sure, he had taken every possible opportunity to do—yet another indication of how serious the fright must have been for him to give up the job.
But Melusine’s presence made him reluctant. Not that the rest of the story was pretty. Why was it easier to speak of violence than sexual matters?
“This dog,” he said. “Riboux claimed that he found it this morning horribly mutilated, and that Monsieur McTell paid him extra for burying it—with the understanding of silence.”
“My God,” Melusine said. “What could have done such a thing?”
“He seemed sure it was not the work of an animal.”
“You’re sure this is true?”
Boudrie shrugged. “Exaggerated, no doubt, but I think, essentially, yes. He has not enough imagination to make up such a tale anyway.”
“Could he have been fired, really, and be bitter?”
“It’s possible,” Boudrie admitted. “Although the dog did disappear.”
Devarre leaned forward intently. “He said Monsieur McTell paid him for silence—so the others did not know.”
“I think that’s the case, yes. It was the secrecy more than anything that disturbed Riboux, that drove him to tell his wife. As if McTell knew something that must be covered up.”
“But if the woman who owned the dog did not know, this could hardly account for her shock.”
Boudrie watched his theory crumble. “I hadn’t thought of that. Then instead of one unhappy occurrence perhaps explaining another, we’re left with two that are independent.”
Devarre nodded, but his wife said, “Independent as far as we know.”
Both men looked at her in surprise. “You know something more?” Boudrie asked.
She gazed into her coffee cup, held in both hands. “No, but I have a feeling.” Then, with quiet emphasis, “And not a good one.”
“A natural reaction to such unpleasantness,” Devarre said comfortingly.
“It’s more than that.”
He turned to Boudrie. “Gypsy blood. How can I argue? She guessed immediately the sexes of our children.”
“Knew,” she corrected firmly. Out of delicacy, neither added that each time she had announced to Devarre within hours of their lovemaking that she was pregnant.
“Will you tell us more, madame?” Boudrie said.
She rose abruptly and walked to the fire. There she knelt as if about to pray, rearranging the embers into flame. “Dreams, partly,” she said. “Only I’m not so sure they’re dreams.”
“Clairvoyante?” Boudrie said sharply.
She nodded. “Such things used to happen to me long ago. Now they’ve started again, but they’re ugly and frightening. I’m sure—I fear—I saw some things that actually took place. Medieval, I think.”
“You’ve told me nothing of this,” Devarre said, almost harshly.
She smiled, but her worried look returned. “There was no point in upsetting you until I knew more.” He seemed about to speak again, but then settled back, looking disturbed.
“And you do?” Boudrie said.
“I wasn’t sure at first. Now I think, yes. You are familiar, monsieur, with the planchette?”
“A fortune-telling device, is it not?”
“Like the Ouija, yes. Well, I inherited one from my great-aunt, she from her grandmother, and so on. It’s very old, three or four centuries at least. Instead of a board, there is a silver dish with letters etched around the rim. One holds a little pendulum, an amulet on a chain, and waits for it to move to the letters.”
“You told me that was a necklace,” Devarre said accusingly.
“And you believed me, mon chou. I had not paid attention to the thing in years, monsieur; when we moved down here, I put it on a shelf in the attic. But when these visions began, I decided to see if I could contact whatever was causing them.”
“You succeeded?”
She nodded, mouth tight. “There’s always the possibility, of course, that one is supplying messages from one’s own subconscious, and I can’t rule that out—at least in the minds of others. But in my own mind, I know the truth. It was something outside of me, a very definite presence: tremendously powerful and thoroughly evil. I asked it three questions. It gave me three answers. The first two were in Latin.”
Boudrie’s hands gripped the arms of his chair.
“Of course, I’d had a little in elementary school and church,” Melusine went on, “but not for many years. Consciously, at any rate, I remember almost nothing. I asked it first why it troubled us. It answered, ‘Peccata patrum’: sins of the fathers.
“It took me a moment to understand. I thought at first it was the sort of jumbled message that so-called spirits often give in seances. But the next time, I was ready. I asked it what it wanted. It spelled, ‘Sanguis floris.’”
“Blood of a flower,” Boudrie said.
She nodded. “Clear as the words were, their meaning still makes no sense to me. It’s almost as if the spirit were deliberately teasing.”
“And the third,” Devarre said. The tone of his voice made Boudrie glance at him. The good-natured expression was gone from his face, and Boudrie quickly decided that whether it was human, spirit, or anything else that troubled Melusine, it had in Devarre a grim and implacable enemy.
“The third,” she said, “was in French. I demanded to know who or what it was. It answered, ‘Le noye’—the drowned man.” She turned to Boudrie, concerned. “You are all right, monsieur?”
Boudrie coughed and waved a hand. “Nothing,” he mumbled.
She stood and paced, arms folded. “The really horrifying part was what happened next. Whatever power it was suddenly opened up full force. I could not let go of the chain. It was like a terrible, loathsome sort of electric shock, only the agony was in my spirit, my being, rather than my body. It seemed to last forever. When it paused for an instant, I threw the chain down and ran. I was so badly frightened I hurried to the center of town, just to have people around me.
“As if you were its enemy,” Boudrie said softly.
“Worse. As if it had me in its power, then deliberately let me go, like a cat a mouse.” She shivered visibly. Devarre rose and strode to the liquor cabinet. Boudrie watched his profile as he poured: pale with fury. He caught Boudrie s gaze and tried to smile. “I don’t know who I’m angrier with,” he muttered. “This spirit, or Melusine for not telling me.”
“One question,” the priest said. “Are either of you familiar with the name of Guilhem de Courdeval?”
They looked at each other, then at him, shaking their heads.
“A
passing reference, perhaps, during some talk of local legend?”
“You must remember we’ve only been here a few months,” Devarre said. “What about this Courdeval?”
Boudrie hesitated, but the thought was too outlandish to voice. “I’ll explain another time. Eh bien, madame, is there anything else you can tell us?”
The lines in her face seemed to deepen. “This is very vague,” she said. “For some days now, I have felt at times a fluttering, as of a moth outside a window, trying to get in. It comes to me at odd moments, when my mind is blank. It’s different from the dreams, from—the other. Now, suddenly, there seems to be a second fluttering of the same sort; I felt it just this afternoon.
“I know how insane this must sound, but I think they are spirits being pushed out of their bodies.”
Boudrie swallowed.
“The new one is not as strong as the first, which makes me think it is young. It is bewildered, frightened, unable to comprehend what is happening. The other one is growing more distant; it is almost gone.” Her voice dropped, and she said, “I’m certain both are women.”
It cost Boudrie an effort not to crush the fragile glass in his fist. “You must forgive me for leaving so suddenly,” he said, pulling himself to his feet. “I have work yet to do tonight.”
“Do they mean anything to you, monsieur? Those messages?”
Sins of the fathers, he thought. Blood of a flower. The drowned man.
He said nothing.
“I’ve tried and tried to make sense of them. What fathers? How can a flower have blood? If I wasn’t so sure of what I felt, I’d be tempted to dismiss them as tricks of my subconscious.”
Her gaze was intent, searching. Boudrie chose his words carefully. “I don’t believe you are playing tricks on yourself. But I must think this through before I speak further. If anything concerning this—matter arises, please contact me at once.”
They walked to the door. “Madame,” Boudrie said, “I dined magnificently.” He bowed, raising her hand to his lips.
Next, After Lucifer Page 19
