by F. R. Tallis
‘Where?’
‘Paris.’
I was so stunned that I could only respond by making inarticulate noises.
‘It may surprise you to learn,’ the curé continued, ‘that I am not entirely ignorant of the occult sciences. Indeed, I would go so far as to say that, for a country priest, I am quite well read. Before your appointment, after celebrating Mass in the chapel on special Saint’s days for Madame Odile, I would very occasionally spend a few hours in the library. I may not be a scholar, but I have a reasonable understanding of what might be termed the elementary principles. And in my opinion the exorcism should take place in the cathedral. That is where this began, and that is where this must end.’ I stuttered an objection but the curé dismissed my utterances with a wave of his biretta. ‘Now, I wonder whether your friend Monsieur Bazile would be willing to help us? We will need to be in the cathedral at dawn, and we must have access to a secluded area where we will not be disturbed.’
‘I have not corresponded with Monsieur Bazile since my departure from Paris.’
‘Then we must hope that he still occupies the same position.’
The curé stood up and circled the desk, pulling at his chin and talking very quickly. He was not addressing me, but rather thinking aloud. ‘We must leave as soon as possible to make use of the daylight. Louis will drive us. If we set off soon, we may be able to make the capital shortly after sunset.’ I wanted to know why, precisely, he had determined that the exorcism should take place in the cathedral, but he was not very forthcoming. He offered me some vague generalizations and, when pressed, spoke only of symmetries, sympathies and correspondences. Eventually, he dismissed my requests for clarification with an impatient gesture and his monologue resumed. ‘After my departure, you must inform Madame Du Bris of our plan. She will, of course, want to travel with us. I would suggest we assemble outside Saint-Catherine at one o’clock.’
As Father Lestoumel aired his thoughts, I became increasingly unsure whether I had made the right decision concerning his involvement. I was not convinced that he fully appreciated the terrible dangers we would face; however, I had no alternative but to follow his lead. He was a priest, and a priest was needed to conduct the exorcism. Our eyes met on one of his turns around the desk, and he must have seen my uncertainty, because he paused and gave me a strange little smile. ‘Faith,’ he said, before starting up again, ‘have faith.’ But I did not find this exhortation in any way reassuring.
When the curé finally ceased talking, he stood by the divan and removed the wooden cross that hung from his neck. He looped the leather lanyard over Annette’s head and placed the sacred object on her chest. Then, touching the red weal on the child’s forehead, he said, ‘Be strong. May God protect you.’ We shook hands. One o’clock, monsieur. Outside Saint-Catherine.’ He pulled his biretta back on and vanished into the library.
I sat next to Annette and gazed down at her face. Her expression was serene and the colour had returned to her cheeks. She seemed calm and her breathing was regular. Outside, the birds were singing and the sun was high. A mechanical whirring filled the air before the clocks in the library and study began to chime. It was noon. Before the last note had faded, Annette’s eyes flicked open. I was startled and gasped. Her head rolled to the side and she said, ‘Monsieur Clément.’ The voice was her own.
‘Annette!‘
‘Monsieur, I am thirsty. May I have something to drink?’
‘Yes, of course, of course.’ I leaped off the chair and emptied a jug of water into a cup. Returning to the divan, I helped Annette to sit up and placed some cushions behind her back. I held the cup to her lips and she gulped the contents.
‘I have had such bad dreams, monsieur.’
‘Have you?’
‘A foul creature, like the one on the church spire, came to me and would not leave me alone. It teased me and hurt me and called me names.’
‘Annette, I am so sorry,’ I took her hand in mine and held it tightly. I noticed that her nails had thickened.
‘And there were fires and people screaming and monsters that came out of the earth.’
‘Do not think about it.’
She frowned: ‘Am I unwell again?’
‘Yes.’
‘Am I dying, monsieur?’
‘No.’
‘The creature said that I would die soon.’
‘It was only a dream, Annette.’ Her eyes glazed over and her head fell forward. ‘Annette?’ I cried, ‘Annette?’ But she was insensible. I heard a low growl, coming from the back of her throat, which was sustained and then inflected to produce obscenities. ‘Annette?’ She was gone. I removed the pillows, one by one, and ensured that she was lying comfortably. ‘Take me!’ I shouted in anger. ‘Take me! Not her. I won’t resist. Take me now!’ But the demon did not accept my invitation. The hell that I occupied was far worse than the hell of fire and brimstone, and it wanted me to stay there for as long as possible.
I wiped away my tears and rang for a servant. It was Monique who came, and I told her to go and wake Madame Du Bris immediately. ‘But do not alarm your mistress,’ I called after her as she descended the stairs. ‘Tell her that Annie is well.’ A few minutes later, Hélène stepped into my study. She anticipated my apology and said, ‘I was not asleep.’ Looking about the room, she added, ‘Where is Father Lestoumel?’
‘He has gone back to the village.’
‘And when will he be returning?’
‘He won’t be.’ I gestured for her to sit and told her of the curé’s plan.
‘But why must we go to Paris? To Notre-Dame?’ Hélène asked.
‘It is a very holy place,’ I replied. She did not appear very satisfied with my answer and I felt obliged to add, ‘We must place our trust in Father Lestoumel.’
While Hélène sat with Annette, I searched for Louis and found him in the kitchen. I told him to pack a small travelling bag and to prepare the two-horse carriage for Paris. Years of service had accustomed him to obeying orders and he hardly blinked when I added that we intended to leave in half an hour. On my way back to the study I encountered Raboulet. He was wearing a dressing gown, a pair of oriental slippers, and held Elektra in his arms.
‘Clément, what is going on? I can’t find Hélène anywhere and Madame Boustagnier tells me that Annette is very ill.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid that what you have heard is correct. Multiple seizures . . . through the night.’
‘How dreadful.’
‘I have done all that I can, but it is not enough. I have decided to take her to Paris, to see Charcot.’
‘Charcot?’
‘If anyone can help her, it will be the chief of services of the Salpêtrière.’
‘Do you want me to come with you?’
‘No, that won’t be necessary. Madame Du Bris will be accompanying me on the journey.’
‘Can I see Annette?
‘Now? I’d rather you didn’t – she’s sleeping. The poor child is exhausted.’ Elektra insinuated a tiny finger into her father’s mouth and laughed. ‘Forgive me, but . . .’ I indicated that I needed to get past and Raboulet stepped aside. Thanking him, I hurried through the connected rooms and ascended the stairs to my study.
Hélène was still sitting beside the divan and she informed me that Annette had been silent and calm. In turn, I recounted what I had said to Raboulet concerning the pretext for our imminent departure. Hélène then left to make her own preparations for travel and I washed and shaved. Even though the windows were closed, there were flies everywhere, and I supposed that there must be some connection between their increase and the demon. Anger welled up in me and I slapped one hard against the mirror. As I removed my hand, the squashed insect fell into my shaving bowl and sank beneath the suds.
When I heard the horses neighing and the rattle of the carriage, I picked up Annette and carried her down to the courtyard. In the bright benevolent sunlight she looked much the same as she always looked: a beautiful child, sleeping. I
t was fortunate that the hour of the day favoured the forces of light over the forces of darkness, because Raboulet was waiting to see us off and I did not want him to see his niece speaking in tongues or mouthing obscenities. Hélène got into the carriage and Raboulet helped me to lift Annette onto the seat. We settled her head on her mother’s lap and covered her body with a blanket. Raboulet stroked her hair and noticed the red mark that Father Lestoumel had made with the host.
‘What’s that?’ he asked.
‘A rash,’ I replied. He looked a little perplexed but made nothing of it. He then jumped down from the carriage and handed me my medical bag and a battery I had sent down earlier. I was already thinking the unthinkable.
Louis mounted the box and as soon as we were beyond the gardens I instructed him to stop outside Saint-Catherine. We arrived at the village shortly before one o’clock, but Father Lestoumel was not waiting for us. I entered the church and found the curé kneeling before the altar and praying. By his side was a large leather satchel. It was unfastened and appeared to contain a Bible, several candles and a rolled-up stole. He heard my approach, made the sign of the cross and rose to greet me. ‘Is it one o’clock already?’
‘Yes,’ I replied. What little confidence I had in him suddenly evaporated. He looked small and slightly befuddled. ‘Father,’ I continued, ‘are you sure you want to proceed?’
Of course’
‘If you had decided otherwise, I would not think ill of you.’
‘The child’s life is in danger.’
‘Yes, and so is yours, Father.’
‘Indeed, but I am not frightened.’
‘You should be.’
‘I do not want to die. But if God wills it . . .’ He shrugged and repeated the same empty injunction that I had heard so many times before, and now served only to deepen my despondency: ‘Faith, my friend. Have faith.’ He smiled and added, ‘Come over here. I want to show you something.’ I followed him down a side aisle and we stopped beneath the stained-glass window of Gilbert de Gandelus and the demon. The image was so arresting and colourful it was easy to overlook the rusted metal plate in the wall below it. Plunging his hand into the deep pocket of his cassock, the curé produced a key, and it was at this point that I realized what I was looking at: not a plate, but a door. Father Lestoumel pushed the key into the lock and, when he turned it, the sound of the bolt’s release echoed through the church. He pressed his finger into the small gap between the metal and the stone wall and pulled the door open. Then, he reached into the dim compartment and removed a large book which he held out for me to examine. It was bound in red leather and the hasps were made from gold. My eyes oscillated between the book and the glowing image of its double in the stained glass. The curé showed me the spine and indicated the title: Malleus Daemonum – the Hammer of Demons.
‘This, my friend,’ said Father Lestoumel, ‘was the secret of Gilbert de Gandelus’s remarkable success. It was given to him by Roland Du Bris, an ancestor of the family you serve, at the time of the Séry-des-Fontaines possessions. The author of this volume is none other than the great alchemist Nicolas Flamel, who lived not very far from the cathedral in Paris. You will already know, of course, that he is reputed to have made a philosopher’s stone and to have discovered the elixir of life. This remarkable tome, which has, for obvious reasons, escaped the notice of scholars through the centuries, contains a ritual of restitution – a ritual that can send demons back to hell. Flamel suggests that, where an exorcist can identify the portal through which a demon came into the world, that is where the ritual is most likely to be effective. I have long wondered why it has fallen upon me, a simple country priest, to be the custodian of this hidden treasure. But now I think I know. The Almighty has a plan, you see? I have my small part to play – just as you do, monsieur.’ He handed me the book. ‘Come now,’ he concluded. ‘We must make haste. It is past one o’clock and the road to Paris is long.’
24
Little was said in the carriage. The curé closed his eyes, sat very still and only the occasional movement of his lips, accompanied by a whispered invocation, indicated that he was at prayer. Hélène rested her head on the woodwork and gazed out of the window at the rolling countryside. I studied her reflection in the glass and watched the clouds passing behind her image. The situation in which she found herself was so far removed from the gentle routines of the chateau: her expression was blank and her jaw tensely set. Apart from the occasional grumble, Annette was relatively quiet. At regular intervals I took her pulse and found no change. Consequently, I was able to spend much of the first half of our journey perusing the Malleus Daemonum.
It was a remarkable piece of scholarship and contained chapters on a wide range of subjects: the provenance of demons, the demonic hierarchy and the names of the princes of hell; words of power; summoning demons and commanding them to do one’s bidding; the making of pacts; capturing demons in glass, precious stones and rings; the demons of the Middle East, or djinni; the classification of demons according to Raban the Moor; incubi and succubi; magical weapons; exorcism; and finally, sending demons back to the inferno. I was astonished when I discovered a map of Paris, showing the location of what Flamel called ‘openings’ between our world and the ‘infernal region’. Each was represented by a black circle, and the largest of these was located on the Îie de la Cité, next to a miniature illustration of Notre-Dame. The ritual of restitution was decorated with figures representing the exorcist in various attitudes, and superimposed on mathematical diagrams. An explanatory footnote suggested that Flamel’s geometry was originally developed by Daedalus, the engineer who designed the labyrinth in which the legendary minotaur was imprisoned.
We made good progress, stopping only twice to water the horses; however, I was conscious of the sun’s steady descent, and as the shadows lengthened, Annette became more restless. There were bursts of obscene language and her fingers toyed with the hem of her smock. An hour or so before sunset, I noticed another curious phenomenon: Annette’s skin seemed to become unnaturally smooth, making her face look like a tight-fitting mask. I did not want to worry Hélène, and said nothing, but eventually the effect was so pronounced that she also noticed and said, ‘Monsieur? What is happening to Annette’s face? She looks like a doll.’
‘Dehydration,’ I replied.
The curé caught my eye and continued his prayers. He knew perfectly well that the phenomenon was supernatural, but, like me, he did not want to alarm Hélène unnecessarily.
And so the day passed, and we arrived at the southern tip of the capital in darkness. I got out of the carriage, joined Louis on the box, and directed him through the streets. Louis had only been to Paris once before, as a young man, and he could not believe how impatient the other drivers were. They are all lunatics, monsieur!’ he cried, as a cab carelessly swerved in front of us and a crude imprecation resonated in the air. The old retainer gawped at the advertisements, shop windows and painted whores, who showed us their ankles and blew us kisses. After the peace and sleepy charm of Chambault, Paris was indeed like a madhouse.
As we came to a halt outside Saint-Sulpice, the bells started ringing. I prayed that it was Bazile, and not one of his assistants – or even worse, a new bell-ringer. The door to the north tower was unlocked and I climbed the stairs. Only a glimmer of light filtered down from above. Eventually, I came to Bazile’s apartment. I knocked on the door, which was immediately opened by Madame Bazile.
‘Monsieur Clément!’ She cried. ‘Good heavens! Monsieur Clément! Do come in, do come in!’ I stepped into the parlour and my head filled with recollections of talk and sweet cider. ‘Let me take your coat,’ said Madame Bazile, fussing around me. ‘Édouard has just rung the hour. He will be down in a moment.’
‘How is he?’ I asked.
‘Well,’ she replied. ‘And you, Monsiuer Clément? How have you been?’
Before I could answer, the door opened and Bazile stepped into the room. He started and looked at me as if I
were a ghost. ‘Paul?’ he said, a note of doubt creeping into his voice. The sight of my old friend touched me deeply and my eyes became hot and moist. He came forward, extending his arm, but when I took his hand, I drew him towards me and we embraced.
‘It isn’t over, then,’ he said.
‘No,’ I replied.
‘I knew you would come back, one day,’ said Bazile, slapping my back. ‘What took you so long?’
We carried Annette up the stairs of the north tower and put her to bed, after which I dismissed Louis, telling him to return with the carriage an hour before dawn. Up until that point he had accepted all of his instructions without question; however, before making his departure, he hesitated and said, ‘Does the master know we are in Paris?’
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Monsieur Raboulet promised to send a note.’
Louis gave a curt nod and began his descent of the stairs, but a trace of mistrust lingered in his eyes.
On returning to the parlour I found Bazile poring over the Hammer of Demons, with Father Lestoumel sitting at his side relating its history. Hélène and Madame Bazile were in the bedroom, watching over Annette. I was surprised to discover that Bazile was acquainted with the name of Gilbert de Gandelus. He even knew of the holy man’s victory over evil at Séry-des-Fontaines. The curé was most impressed. When I showed Bazile the map of Paris with its many circular ‘openings’, his face shone with excitement. ‘There it is!’ he cried, pointing at the illustration of the cathedral. ‘Proof that Father Ranvier was right!’
I tried, as best I could, to summarize what had transpired at Chambault – the cracking of the glass and the sequence of events leading to Annette’s possession – although, once again, I felt obliged to protect Hélène’s modesty and did not mention what had occurred in her bedchamber. Nor did I say anything about Thérèse Courbertin.
Bazile listened in his customary fashion, smoking his pipe and frowning. When my story was concluded he shook his head and said, ‘We are up against a fearful adversary!’
