by F. R. Tallis
‘It is difficult to explain.’
‘When she dropped the . . . receptacle, I thought I saw things.’
I opened my mouth but seemed to lose all powers of expression.
Hélène continued, ‘What is happening, monsieur? Please tell me.’
‘What did you see?’ I asked.
‘There was a flash of light and then the shadows seemed to gather around Annette.’ She shook her head and I surmised that she had seen something more, something even stranger. Even so, she clearly doubted the evidence of her own senses and did not continue. The sound of footsteps made us both turn towards the library. Monique came through the doorway and when she saw Annette lying on the divan she clapped a hand over her mouth in shock.
‘She collapsed,’ I said to the maid. ‘It sometimes happens when sleepwalkers are surprised. I am looking after her now. Go back to bed, Monique; there is nothing you can do to help.’ I was anxious for her to leave before she realized what Annette was mumbling. The two women looked at each other, and Monique’s raised eyebrows betrayed her thoughts. It was not acceptable for the mistress of the house to be in the doctor’s study wearing only her nightclothes. Hélène understood the meaning of the maid’s stony expression and said, ‘Monsieur, I will return after I have attended to my toilet.’
‘As you wish, madame.’
The two women departed and I was left alone with Annette. I placed my hand on her forehead and discovered that it was hot. ‘You think that you have won,’ I whispered under my breath. ‘But I will fight you.’
As if in response, the dogs began to howl.
When Hélène returned, Annette was quite delirious. The pitch of her voice had descended several octaves and she was growling blasphemies. It was disturbing to hear such deep tones issuing from the mouth of a child and the language she employed was exceedingly crude. Occasionally, her features would contort into a lascivious leer and she would clutch at her genitals. I had to prise her fingers away and hold her arms down, until a shudder passed through her body and the agitation abated. Hélène had positioned herself behind my desk and looked on in horrified silence. As I recovered from my exertions, Hélène stepped forward and stood behind me. ‘Monsieur,’ she said, ‘is my daughter possessed?’
‘Yes,’ I replied directly. I heard a small gasp. She had been hoping, no doubt, that I would say something different, that I would chastise her, perhaps, for being absurd and offer her a rational, scientific explanation. But I could give her no such solace. I remembered the curé and his suggestion that if ever the need arose, I should call on him for help. He was, by his own admission, only a country priest, but I badly needed someone to confide in. I found myself saying, ‘We must send for the curé at daybreak,’ and when I turned, Hélène was looking at me intensely. The dogs were making a noise that sounded uncannily like grief-stricken human beings.
‘Monsieur Clément, you must tell me what is happening. And what was that thing . . .’ She swept her hand over the broken crystal. ‘The thing that Annette dropped?’
‘Please sit down, madame.’ I stood up, indicated a chair, and crossed the room. Shards of glass cracked and splintered beneath the leather of my shoes. I then opened the cupboard, took out a bottle of rum and poured myself a large measure. Staring into the dark transparency of the liquid, I set about answering her questions, although with little reference to my actual history. The prospect of a full confession was simply too daunting. Instead, I improvised an episode of biography only loosely related to real life, which served the purpose of communicating some essential facts – but nothing more. I told Hélène that while living in Paris I had mixed with students of the occult and that among their number was a scholarly priest who had given me the crystal to look after. It was his claim that the glass contained a captive demon. The priest had gone travelling, had never returned, and I had become its custodian. I explained that I had only recently discovered a flaw in the glass, and that this discovery had coincided with Annette’s deterioration and the occurrence of strange phenomena such as the howling of the dogs. ‘As soon as I realized that the crystal was dangerous,’ I concluded, ‘I began making plans to leave Chambault. But it was already too late, madame. I am so very sorry.’
Hélène squeezed her lower lip between her thumb and forefinger. It seemed to me that she had accepted what I had said as true. Or perhaps she was simply too stunned – too bewildered – to think of any more questions. Eventually, she shook her head and glanced over at Annette, who was beginning to grumble obscenities once again. ‘Demonic possession,’ said Hélène. It is difficult to believe.’
‘But you saw something,’ I responded. ‘Is that not so? When the glass broke?’ She nodded and shivered as if a draught of cold air had chilled her to the marrow. Yet she did not elaborate and I did not press her. ‘It – the demon – took control of Annette’s mind,’ I continued. ‘That is how it managed to escape from its prison; and you too, were, for a time, in its power.’ She looked at me quizzically. ‘Do you remember waking Monique?’
‘When?’
Tonight. You went to Annette’s room, woke Monique, and asked her to fetch me.’
‘No,’ she brushed a strand of hair away from her face. ‘It was a dream! I dreamed that I was unwell, and . . .’ After a few moments of discomfiting reflection, her neck and face reddened and she turned away. The embarrassment both of us felt made it hard for us to look at each other and an awkward silence ensued. In due course, Hélène sat up straight, and, trying hard to recover her dignity, said, ‘What shall I tell the others? Tristan, Sophie?’
Tell them that Annette was discovered walking in her sleep. Tell them that she collapsed when we tried to wake her, and that shortly after Monique left us, Annette had another seizure.’
Why not tell them the truth?’
‘Your brother will not accept the truth. He will dismiss whatever it was that you saw as an illusion and he will question my judgement.’
‘Could it have been . . . an illusion?’
‘No, madame. You saw a demon, and I do not want to argue with Monsieur Raboulet. If you have any doubts,’ I gestured towards Annette, ‘consider what your daughter is saying.’
‘But what if Tristan wants to see Annette?’
‘Tell him that I have given strict instructions that Annette is not to be disturbed. Tell him that her condition is critical and I have forbidden visitors.’
‘We have always been honest with each other – Tristan and I.’
These are exceptional circumstances, madame.’
Hélène rose from her chair and walked over to the divan. She looked down at her daughter and said, ‘When will she recover from this . . . state?’
‘I do not know.’
Then how will she eat? Or drink?’
‘While she is like this, eating and drinking will not be possible.’
‘So what is to be done, monsieur?’
‘We must consult the curé.’
‘And what will he do?’
‘Advise us with respect to the ritual of exorcism.’
‘And once Annette has been exorcized: will she be well again?’ Hélène observed my hesitation and said, ‘Monsieur?’
‘I hope that she will be well again, yes.’
‘Hope?’ Hélène’s eyes were suddenly bright with anger. ‘Monsieur, whatever made you bring such an object into our home!’
I could not justify myself and made another apology, but this time my voice quavered with emotion. Hélène registered my distress and her expression changed. I did not need further confirmation of her fine qualities, her kindness, her generosity of spirit, but that is what she gave me. Her anger seemed to melt away and her face exuded pity, as luminous as the aura surrounding a saint in a religious painting. ‘Forgive me, monsieur,’ she said, ‘I spoke too harshly.’
‘No more than I deserve, madame,’ I replied, bowing my head.
Annette’s body suddenly convulsed, her hips thrusting upwards, her torso and limbs
describing a perfect arch. Her head was hanging down from her neck and I saw only the whites of her eyes. She opened her mouth wide and a jet of vomit hit the wall with remarkable force. It seemed to sustain itself beyond the point at which her stomach should have been emptied.
‘Wake Louis,’ I barked at Hélène. ‘Send him to the village. The curé must come as soon as he is able!’
By the time I reached Annette she had become limp again and she was lying flat on her back. She licked the vomit from her lips, the corners of which curled upwards to form a hideous, leering smile.
23
Louis returned with the curé shortly after the sun had risen. The dogs had stopped howling, but they started to bark as soon as they heard the trap approaching. Hélène received the curé in the courtyard and conducted him directly to my study. She had evidently advised him of Annette’s condition, because as soon as he came through the door, he barely acknowledged my presence and marched straight over to the divan.
Annette had been relatively peaceful since the break of day. Even so, she looked pale, drawn and exhausted. Her cheeks were hollow, her hair lank and her skin had turned a sickly grey-green colour. The air around her smelled faintly of ordure. Father Lestoumel gazed down at the child for several minutes. Finally, he turned and said, ‘Monsieur Clément, I have been informed by Madame Du Bris that you believe this child to be possessed. Would you care to explain?’
We sat at my desk and I described how the drama of the previous night had unfolded, although for Hélène’s sake, I omitted any mention of what had transpired in her bedchamber. I then informed the curé of how I had come to own the crystal, repeating the same half-truths. Father Lestoumel listened, showing increasing signs of discomfort, and when I had finished he asked Hélène a number of questions, quite clearly testing the accuracy of my report. As I listened to his gentle inquisition, I noticed two flies revolving around each other just beneath the ceiling. A third joined them, introducing an element of eccentricity into their orbits. I was mesmerized by their movements, the complexity of their mutual influence, and was startled when I felt Father Lestoumel’s hand on my shoulder. ‘You will excuse me a moment,’ he said, tightening his grip. ‘I am going to the chapel and will return shortly.’
Hélène and I waited for him in silence, and when he reappeared he was holding a small silver box in his hand. He lifted the lid and removed a communion wafer. Then, looking at Hélène, he said, ‘Madame, what I am about to do may cause you some distress.’ He brushed Annette’s hair off her face and pressed the wafer down on her forehead. The child immediately screamed, as if in pain, and her limbs flailed around wildly. Father Lestoumel tried to restrain her without success and called out, ‘Quick! Clément! Help me!’ and I jumped to his assistance. Together, we managed to hold her down, but only with great difficulty. We were both surprised by her enormous strength, and, if she had continued kicking and punching for very much longer, our efforts to contain her movements would have failed. Fortunately, the attack subsided and Father Lestoumel silently drew my attention to the communion wafer, which had fallen to the floor. A red weal had risen up on Annette’s forehead, its circularity and size corresponding exactly with the host.
Hélène was standing on the other side of the room, her hands crossed over her bosom. She seemed on the brink of tears. A fly landed on the child’s cheek and I brushed it away.
‘Madame,’ said the curé, ‘you must be very tired. Go and rest. In due course our needs will be better served if you are refreshed.’
‘What are you going to do, Father?’ asked Hélène.
‘Nothing, for the moment; however, I would be most grateful if you would permit me to speak privately with Monsieur Clément. There are some matters concerning the provenance of the crystal that I wish to clarify. I will then decide how we shall proceed.’
Hélène did not want to leave, so I made a show of examining Annette, checking her pulse and temperature. ‘Her condition is stable,’ I said reassuringly. ‘Perhaps you should do as Father Lestoumel suggests. Take the opportunity to rest while you can.’ She nodded and went to the door, where, before leaving us, she glanced back at her daughter with tears spilling down her cheeks. The sight of Hélène in so much anguish made me feel utterly wretched.
‘Thank you, monsieur,’ said the curé, and we both sat down again at my desk. Father Lestoumel created a steeple with his hands and let it bounce against his pursed lips. After a long thoughtful silence, he said, ‘I would like to begin by asking you one or two questions about these occultists you met in Paris. Were they members of—’
‘Father Lestoumel,’ I interjected. ‘I regret to say that the story I told of how the crystal came into my possession was largely untrue.’ The curé tilted his head to one side and eyed me quizzically. ‘I did not wish to frighten Madame Du Bris with my true history.’
‘You were not acquainted with any magical sects?’
‘No.’
‘And there was no scholarly priest?’
‘Well, in that respect, I was telling a partial truth. His name was Father Ranvier. But he did not give me the crystal to safeguard in his absence. Nor did he fail to return from his travels.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘The demon . . .’ I shuddered at the recollection of Father Ranvier’s grisly end.
‘Monsieur Clément,’ said the curé, making the sign of the cross. ‘Perhaps the time has come for you to unburden yourself.’
For a very long time, I stared at the surface of the desk, trying to order my thoughts. It was difficult to determine where I should begin, but eventually, I found myself saying, ‘After the great siege, I travelled to the Antilles to work at the Poor Sisters of the Precious Blood mission hospital on the island of Saint-Sébastien.’ And once I had begun, I continued, the words coming more easily, the momentum of the narrative demanding an ever-faster delivery. I told the curé everything: I told him of Duchenne, the experiment and my subsequent descent into depravity. I told him of Courbertin, the exorcism in the crypt of Saint-Sulpice and of Father Ranvier’s horrible demise. It was only when I tried to describe my trip to Chinon that a lump in my throat made it impossible for me to go on. I extended my arm, as if I could push the memories away, and rushed to the cupboard to pour myself more rum. When I sat down again, Father Lestoumel rested his hand on mine and said, ‘My son, how you have suffered.’ I had not expected such a response and I was deeply moved by his sympathy.
Lifting the glass to my lips, I took a sip of rum and said, ‘If it is God’s will that I should suffer, then so be it; however, I cannot understand why Annette must suffer too. It is incomprehensible. Why does He allow such things to happen?’
‘Wiser men than I have attempted to answer that question with less than satisfactory results. But our inability to penetrate God’s mysteries does not mean that He is indifferent to our suffering.’
‘I wish that I could believe that.’
Our Lord was assailed by doubts, monsieur. When he was being crucified, did he not cry out, “My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?” No one is without doubts.’
I looked across the room at Annette. ‘She is such a sweet child. I cannot bear to think of what torments she is being subjected to, even now – as we speak. I cannot bear to think of what the demon is doing to her.’
Father Lestoumel withdrew his hand. ‘Consider this, my friend: if an evil man were possessed, how would we know it? Both he and the entity that had taken control of his mind would share the same objectives. Consequently, the man’s behaviour would not change. Now, look at Annette! Her soul is not yielding. The demon is unable to manipulate her. In spirit, she is not a helpless child, but a power to be reckoned with.’
‘That may be so. But she cannot be roused and she cannot eat or drink. We must act promptly, Father, or she will die.’
Of course.’ He took off his biretta and used it to swat at one of the flies. ‘The demon must be cast out, and soon.’
‘Have you ev
er performed an exorcism before, Father?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure that . . .’
‘I am equal to the task? All priests are Christ’s foot soldiers. All priests are exorcists.’
There was little point in observing small courtesies at this juncture and I pursued my theme, ‘Father Ranvier was a distinguished scholar. He had made a lifelong study of the cathedral in Paris and its lore. Yet he was no match for the demon.’
‘Do not worry, monsieur,’ my companion replied, ‘I will not underestimate our adversary.’
I took one of the parchment seals from my pocket and handed it to the curé. His eyes narrowed as he examined the hieroglyphs. ‘It is an amulet. I made it for Annette, but unfortunately I did not give it to her in time. For over a year now, I have been studying the books in the library.’
‘An intriguing collection.’
‘And I have good reason to believe that this seal will give you some protection.’ The curé turned the parchment over and held it up to the light. I thought I detected a certain wariness in his manner. ‘Father Lestoumel,’ I continued, ‘some believe that Joseph, the son of Jacob – who interpreted dreams – was a practitioner of Egyptian magic. Moses too. You will recall that the lawgiver carried a staff. It could also be described as a wand. Not all magic is bad, Father. And some spells have been used against the forces of evil from the earliest times. Please keep the amulet.’
The curé inclined his head and tucked the amulet into his pocket.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘But I am already protected.’
‘By your faith?’
‘Indeed.’ His conviction did not strengthen my confidence. On the contrary: if anything, it weakened it. ‘Do you think the child can travel?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I suppose so. Why? Do you want her brought to Saint-Catherine?’
‘No. I was thinking of somewhere further afield.’
