Holy Fools (22 page)

The air was cool,
and there were livid smears of false dawn on the night’s palette. Soon the bell would chime for Vigils. But my head was too full for sleep, still ringing as it was with LeMerle’s words.

What was this? Some witchcraft, some drug slipped to me as I slept? Could it be that I believed him now, that in some way he could have regained my trust? Silently I berated myself. What I had said-what I had done-was said and done for Fleur. Whatever I had promised was for both of us. As for the rest-I shook aside visions of myself and LeMerle on the road again, friends again, maybe lovers…That would never happen. Never.

I wished I had my cards with me, but Antoine had hidden them well; my search of her bedroll and of her place in the bakehouse had revealed nothing. Instead I thought of Giordano and tried to hear his voice over the pounding of my heart. More than ever I need your logic now, old friend. Nothing discomposed your ordered, geometric world. Loss, death, famine, love…The wheels that turn the universe left you unmoved. In your numbers and calibrations you glimpsed the secret names of God.

Tsk-tsk, begone!
But my cantrips are useless in the face of this greater magic. Tomorrow night at moonrise I will pick rosemary and lavender for protection and clear thinking. I will make a charm of rose leaves and sea salt and tie it with a red ribbon and carry it in my pocket. I will think of Fleur. And I will not meet his eyes.

Clémente was not at Matins this morning, nor at Lauds. Her absence was not mentioned, but I noticed that Soeur Virginie was also excused from prayers, and drew my own conclusions. The drug was working, then. The question was, for how long?

Such was the speculation about Soeur Clémente that it was some hours before I noticed that Alfonsine, too, was absent. At the time I did not give it much thought; Alfonsine had recently become very friendly with Soeur Virginie and had offered to help her on a number of occasions. Besides, LeMerle was so often in the infirmary block that Alfonsine needed no other reason to haunt it.

But at Prime, Virginie came alone, and with news. Clémente was very sick, she said; she had fallen into a deep lethargy from which nothing was able to rouse her, and had been running a high fever since dawn. Piété shook her head and swore she had suspected the cholera all along; Antoine smiled serenely. Marguerite declared that we were all bewitched, and suggested a harsher system of penances.

But there was more unwelcome news. Alfonsine too was ill once more. In her case there was no fever, but she was unusually pale and had been coughing fitfully for most of the night. Bleeding had seemed to quiet her a little, but she was still very listless and would not eat. Mère Isabelle had been to visit her and had declared her unfit for duties, although Alfonsine had tried to persuade her she was quite well. But any fool could see it was the
cameras de sangre,
declared Soeur Virginie; and unless the bad blood was drained away, the patient would surely die within the week.

That troubled me far more than the news about Clémente. Alfonsine was already weak from overexcitement and self-inflicted penances. Bleeding and fasting would kill her with far greater efficiency than disease. I said as much to Soeur Virginie.

“I’ll thank you not to interfere,” she said. “My method worked perfectly well for Soeur Marguerite.”

“Soeur Marguerite had a narrow escape; besides, she’s stronger than Alfonsine. Her lungs are not compromised.”

Virginie looked at me in open disdain. “If we’re to speak of being compromised,
ma soeur,
you should look to yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that although you may have got away with it last time, there are some of us who think that your-
enthusiasm
-for potions and powders might not be as innocent as Père Colombin thinks.”

I dared not make any comment after that, either to help Alfonsine or to advise on the treatment of Clémente. It was too close to the truth, and although LeMerle might speak lightly of the possible danger, I was only too aware of the precarious line I was now treading. Virginie had the abbess’s ear; they were alike in some ways, as well as being closer to each other in age than the rest of us; and she had never liked me. It would take only a little thing-words spoken by Clémente, perhaps, in delirium or otherwise-to ensure that I was once more accused.

I would have
spoken of it to LeMerle, but he made no appearance today, remaining in the infirmary or in his study, surrounded by books. Very soon, if I knew my plant lore correctly, Clémente’s fever would break and she would regain consciousness. What happened then was up to LeMerle. He could control Clémente, he had said; I did not share his optimism. He had chosen me publicly over her; that was something no woman would forgive.

I slept badly and dreamed too well. My own voice awoke me, and after that I was afraid to close my eyes in case I spoke again and betrayed myself as I slept. In LeMerle’s cottage, a little light burned. I had almost made up my mind to go to him when Antoine got up to use the latrines in the reredorter, and I had to lie back, eyes closed, feigning sleep. She got up twice more during the night-our diet of black bread and soup evidently disagreed with her-and so we were both alert to the sound of the alarm across the courtyard from the infirmary.

Finally, Clémente was awake.

Antoine and I
were the first to reach the infirmary. We did not look at each other as we raced along the slype toward the walled garden, but we could already hear Clémente’s feverish cries as we approached. There was a light at one of the windows and we followed the light, with Tomasine, Piété, Bénédicte, and Marie-Madeleine arriving soon after.

The infirmary consists of a single large and rather stuffy room. There are beds lined up against the wall-six of them, although there is provision for more. No cubicle wall separates the beds, so that sleep is almost impossible here among the sighs and coughs and whimperings of the sufferers. Soeur Virginie had made some effort to isolate Clémente; her bed was at the far end of the room, and she had placed a curtain screen to one side of it, cutting off some of the lamplight and giving the afflicted girl some privacy. Alfonsine was positioned by the door, as far from Clémente as possible, and I caught sight of her open eyes as I passed; two points of brightness in the dark.

The abbess was already there. Virginie and Marguerite, who must have given the alarm at her command, were beside her, looking fearful and excited. LeMerle stood at her other side, grave in his black robe with his silver crucifix held in one hand. On the bed, her ankles fastened into place by two straps fixed to the wooden frame, sprawled Clémente. A pitcher of water had been spilt across a small bedside table; a reeking basin was pushed beneath the bed itself. Her face was white; her pupils were dilated so much that the blue of her irises was almost invisible.

“Help Soeur Virginie to tie her down,” ordered the abbess to Marguerite. “You-yes you, Soeur Auguste! Bring a calming infusion.”

I hesitated for an instant. “I-Perhaps it might be better if-”

“At once, you fool!” The nasal voice was sharp. “A calming drink, and a change of bedclothes! Go quickly!”

I shrugged. The morning glory seed requires an empty stomach to avoid ill effects. But I obeyed; ten minutes later I returned, carrying a light infusion of skullcap leaves sweetened with honey, and a fresh blanket.

Clémente was delirious. “Leave me alone, leave me alone!” she screamed, flailing at the proffered cup with her unsecured left hand.

“Hold her down!” cried Mère Isabelle.

Soeur Virginie poured most of the infusion down Clémente’s throat as she opened her mouth again to scream. “There,
ma soeur.
That will make you better,” she shouted above the noise. “Just try to rest-”

Her words were barely uttered when Clémente vomited with such force that reeking liquid splattered against the wall of the infirmary. I shrugged inwardly. Virginie, who had been liberally showered, shrieked, and Mère Isabelle, beside herself, slapped her smartly, as a spoiled child may slap her nurse in a fit of temper.

Clémente vomited again, leaving a trail of slime over the new blanket. “Fetch Père Colombin.” Her voice was hoarse with shrieking. “Fetch him now!”

LeMerle had been standing in silence at a safe distance. Now he moved closer, delicately avoiding the patches of vomit on the floor. “Let me pass.” In fact there was no one obstructing him, but we responded to the voice of authority. Clémente too responded; she turned her face toward him and whimpered softly.

LeMerle held out his crucifix.

“Mon père!”
For an instant the afflicted woman seemed quite lucid. She whispered in her hoarse voice: “You said you’d help me. You said you’d help-”

LeMerle began to speak in Latin to her, still holding the crucifix between them as if as a weapon. I recognized the words as a fragment of the exorcism service, which he would no doubt perform in full at some later date.

“Praecipio tibi, quicumque es, spiritus immunde, et omnibus socüs tuis hunc Dei famulum obsidentibus…”

I saw Clémente’s eyes widen. “No!”

“Ut per mysteria incarnationis, passionis, resurrectionis, et ascensionis Domini nostri-”

In spite of everything I felt a sudden surge of guilt at her suffering.

“Per missionem Spiritus Sancti, et per adventum ejusdem Domini.”

“Please, I didn’t mean it, I’ll never tell anyone-”

“Dicas mihi nomen tuum, diem, et horam exitus tui, cum aliquo signo-”

“It was Germaine-she was jealous, she wanted me for herself-”

When Janette used the drug in ceremonies and divination, it was in tiny doses after a long period of meditation. Clémente had been unprepared. I tried to imagine the depth of her terror. Now, at last, the drug was reaching its final stage. Soon the attack would be over, and she would sleep again. LeMerle made the sign of the cross over Clémente’s face.
“Lectio sancti Evangelü secundum Joannem.”

But his refusal to acknowledge her seemed to contribute to her agitation. She grasped at the sleeve of his robe with her teeth, almost knocking the crucifix from his hand. “I’ll tell them everything,” she snarled. “I’ll see you burn.”

“See how she recoils from the Cross!” said Marguerite.

“She’s ill,” I said. “Delirious. She doesn’t know what she’s doing.”

Marguerite shook her head stubbornly. “She’s possessed,” she said, her eyes shining. “Possessed by the spirit of Germaine. Didn’t she say so herself?”

Now was no time to argue. I could see Mère Isabelle watching us from the corner of my eye and knew she had heard every word. But LeMerle was unmoved. “Demons who have infested this woman, name yourselves!”

Clémente whimpered. “There are no demons. You yourself said-”

“Name yourselves!” repeated LeMerle. “I command you! In the name of the Father!”

“I only wanted-I didn’t mean to-”

“Of the Son!”

“No-please-”

“Of the Holy Spirit!”

At this, Clémente finally broke. “Germaine!” she screamed. “Mère Marie! Behemoth! Beelzebub! Ashtaroth! Belial! Sabaoth! Tetragramma-ton!” She was weeping now in fast, gasping sobs, the names-many known to me from Giordano’s various texts, but doubtless gleaned by Clémente from Alfonsine’s raptures-coming from her lips in a desperate rush. “Hades! Belphegor! Mammon! Asmodeus!”

LeMerle laid a hand on her shoulder, and such was her agitation that she shrieked again and drew away.

“Possessed!” whispered Marguerite again. “See how she burns at the touch of the cross! Hear the names of the demons!”

LeMerle half turned to face the rest of us. “Evil news indeed,” he said. “I was blind enough yesterday to believe there might be another explanation for her illness. But now we have it from her own mouth. Soeur Clémente has been infested by unclean spirits.”

“Let me help her, please.” Unwise, I knew, to draw attention to myself, but I could bear it no longer. All the same I was very aware of Virginie’s eyes on me, and behind her, those of our little abbess.

LeMerle shook his head. “I must be alone.” He looked exhausted, the outstretched hand that held the crucifix visibly shaking with the effort. “Anyone who stays here puts her soul in peril.”

Clémente, between sobs, began to recite the Lord’s Prayer.

LeMerle took a step backward. “See how the demons taunt us!” he said. “You have named yourself, Demon, now let us see your face!”

As he spoke, a cold draft blew from the open door, flickering the flames in the candles and cressets that illuminated the room. Instinctively I turned; others followed my lead. Beyond the door, in the darkened hallway, a white figure hesitated just out of the range of our light. I could barely make out its shape; it appeared to float vaguely down the passageway, skirting the light with delicate precision so that all we saw of it was the habit it wore-so similar to our own-and the pale
quichenotte
that hid its face completely.

“The Unholy Nun!”

I grabbed the cresset from Virginie and sprang forward with its small flame in my hand. Marguerite shrieked and clawed at my sleeve. I paid no attention but took three paces into the passageway, carrying my light before me.

“Who’s that?” I cried. “Show yourself!”

The Unholy Nun turned, and I had time to see dark-stockinged legs beneath the robe. So much, then, for its ghostly floating. The hands, too, were gloved in black. Then the figure began to run down the passage, moving lightly and quickly away from the light.

Someone at my back called out impatiently, “What did you see?”

Someone else tugged at my wimple, my arm. I dislodged the grip with some difficulty, fighting to keep hold of the cresset. When I looked back the apparition had gone.

“Soeur Auguste! What did you see?” It was Isabelle, clutching me as if she never meant to let go. At close quarters her complexion looked worse than ever; small angry red sores were blooming around her mouth and nose. Janette would have prescribed fresh air and exercise.
Fresh air and sunshine,
she would have said with her familiar cackle.
That’s the thing for a growing child. That’s what made me the beauty you see before you.
If only Janette were here now.

“Yes indeed, Soeur Auguste, what
did
you see?” The polite tone was LeMerle’s, touched now with a note of mockery only I could hear.

“I-” I heard my voice waver. “I’m not sure.”

“Soeur Auguste is a skeptic,” said LeMerle. “Perhaps even now she doubts the presence of demons in Soeur Clémente.”

I kept my eyes fixed to the cresset’s light, not daring to face his smile.

“Soeur Auguste,” said Isabelle shrilly. “Tell us at once. What did you see? Was it the Unholy Nun?”

Slowly, reluctantly, I nodded.

A wave of questions followed. Why had I pursued her? Why had I stopped? What exactly had I seen? Was there blood on the bonnet? And on the surplice? Had I seen the face?

I tried to answer them all. Where lies were needed, I lied. Every word I uttered drove me further into LeMerle’s power, but I had no choice, no strength to resist it; I lied by necessity. For in the second when the specter turned to me, face-to-face and almost close enough to touch in the dim passageway, I had recognized the Unholy Nun. My dearest friend, her gold-ringed eyes wide with something almost like amusement. As if this were a game with nothing more at stake than a handful of glass marbles.

It made perfect sense. Her innocence protected her. Her silence was assured. And only I had heard the faint bird laughter that followed the specter’s disappearance into the gloom, that hooting, inhuman note no other throat could quite duplicate.

There could be no mistaking that sound, those eyes.

It was Perette.