The Witch of Painted Sorrows (27 page)

Chapter 29

I returned to Maison de la Lune with a purpose. I told Alice that no, I didn’t want coffee or
chocolat chaud
, and yes, I’d call her later if I changed my mind.

“Do you want the telegram that arrived?” she asked, holding out a silver tray with a single slim envelope in its center.

I took it with trepidation. Mr. Lissauer’s communiqués never contained good news.

The lawyer wrote that the longer the search to find me continued, the more Benjamin became convinced I was in hiding because I had information that could destroy him. In addition, rumors were now circulating in the business community that my husband had become so obsessed with the fruitless efforts, he was becoming unhinged.

Benjamin believing I was dangerous to him was the worst possible news I could have received. I ripped the offending correspondence in half and then in quarters, and finally ripped each of those sections to shreds. When I couldn’t rip them into any smaller pieces, I left the mound of paper on the silver tray.

I was halfway up the stairs when I realized I’d come home with a purpose and that I could not allow Benjamin to deter me. That would be giving him power and I was determined never to do that again.

Starting from the bottom of the staircase once more, I walked up
slowly, taking the time to examine each of the portraits. A deep-red-and-midnight-blue Persian runner covered the center of the steps. If I kept to the rug, I’d be too far from the paintings to examine them carefully, so I walked on the marble, aware of every footfall ringing out on the stone, like solemn chimes marking time.

I’d been painting at the École for more than two months and knew so much more than I had when I first arrived in Paris, and yet for all this time I’d paid almost no attention to these remarkable paintings that were right here in my own home. They were masterful and evocative, but familiarity, or something more dangerous, had prevented me from really studying them as I did now.

There were six life-size portraits climbing up the stairs, each of a woman sitting in the same room, a room in this very house. My grandmother called the small square room that protruded out into the courtyard the jewel chapel because three of its walls were stained glass. All day long sunlight streamed in and illuminated the glass masterpieces. While it did have the feel of a chapel, there was no religious iconography in the window’s illustrations—rather, all the symbolism celebrated the secret and the sensual. If it was a temple, it was a temple to the senses.

The windows were bordered with mother-of-pearl frames painted with runes, numbers, mystical symbols, and signs that I’d recognized in Dujols’s store. Each of the three distinct panels illustrated a different scene. On the left a sun set over a stone circle, the sky suffused with the violets of twilight. In the middle, a midnight-blue night sky shone with stars, the full moon magical and heavy, glowing silver-white. On the far right panel, the sun rose over an idyllic lake, a rustic waterfall in the distance. The pastel rose and peach colors of early morning reflected on the water.

A chandelier of amethyst and ruby glass teardrops hung down over an altar in the center of the room. Instead of a religious icon in its center, there was a row of bronze sculptures of lithe, naked women in suggestive poses. Beside them, silver censers used to burn incense.

There was a divan covered with a chinchilla fur against the far wall. Next to it an Indian hookah sat on the floor, exotic and strange. Deep plush chairs upholstered in violet mohair were scattered on a thick carpet of black and purple flowers on green verdant stems heavy with leaves.

Each portrait had been painted in that room, the light streaming in from the windows creating an aura of incandescent color behind the women. Mysterious studies, all of them were truly masterpieces. And puzzles.

Puzzles that I now knew also contained clues.

After examining all of them for their similarities, I began to study each one for its differences. Every painting had a painted trompe l’oeil scroll on the lower arm of the frame. Only one did not have an end date next to her name.

It appeared the hand that had painted the names and dates was the same.

When I’d stayed here the summer I was fifteen, I’d asked my grandmother about these women who didn’t have last names and stared out at me as if trying to tell me a secret.

Grand-mère had told me they were all my ancestors, women who had lived in this house during the last three centuries.

And there was a family resemblance. They all had fiery red in their hair—some extreme like my grandmother’s, others subtle like mine. They all had almond-shaped topaz eyes, too, some with more golden-orange flecks than others. Haunting eyes, I thought as I considered
them. They all had hands like mine with very long fingers and tapering nails. Piano fingers, my father used to call them.

But there were other things to notice now that I was really scrutinizing them. Odd things.

Since they each stood at a different angle in the little temple, the focus was on different symbols in the stained glass behind them. I wondered if the symbols appeared in some kind of specific order? Was there a message here? The choice of where to place the woman couldn’t have been an accident. I’d need to get a piece of paper and make some notes.

Each woman was wearing the same beautiful burnt-orange silk robe, embroidered with russet and cream flowers and green dragons. The dark coral was the color of embers burning in a grate. Of fall leaves when they are at their most colorful. A sensual, suggestive color—too strong and too powerful for it to be anything but a promise. Each woman held a rose, not in full bloom but just a day past, when its lush scent was at its most provocative. Beautiful, but too heavy. When the scent wasn’t any longer a perfume but a drug.

I could smell it so strongly that I looked around for a vase of the flowers, but there was none there. When I turned back to the portraits, I noticed something I’d certainly been aware of but had never thought much about. None of the women’s full, almost pouting lips were finished. The color wasn’t quite filled in, and the shading hadn’t been completed. Unlike the gowns, the roses, the stained glass, the hair, the fingers, and the evocative eyes . . . the mouths were still in progress. I’d told Julien I used to think they’d been kissed too many times.

Now, it seemed to me that the artist had somehow, magically, let the viewer know that each woman had a story to tell, but the time had not yet come for her to tell it.

I studied the color of their lips. I could mix that specific red on my palette. Use a tiny bit of cobalt with cadmium to create that color . . . the color of blood. The same red in the stained glass behind each
women and in the stones of the ruby necklace that each wore. The identical necklace that hung around my neck.

I heard my father’s voice telling me about the ring he had given my husband to use as my engagement ring.

“Inside of every ruby is a drop of blood, suspended, petrified, and if we could but learn how to release it, it would lead us to the secret of immortality,” my father had said.

I walked back down the stairs, found my sketchbook in my reticule, returned to the portraits, and copied down the strange letters and symbols. It was time to go back to the Librairie du Merveilleux
and ask Dujols for another favor.

Chapter 30

I walked the short distance to rue de Rennes and, as I approached number 76, felt my stomach begin to flutter. Every time I’d gone to the mysterious shop, I’d grown apprehensive. But fear wouldn’t help me work through my puzzle. I pulled open the door. As I touched the twisting vine handle, I thought of Julien. The burial service would be over by now. Julien and Charlotte’s father would have returned to their apartment house. Was Julien all right? How badly was he suffering? Was he taking care of himself?

It was wrong of me, but even as I worried about him, I was jealous, jealous that even dead Charlotte could keep him away from me.

The store, which was often crowded with men and women searching for information about the psychic and spiritual worlds, was empty, and that pleased me. I preferred privacy for the questions I’d brought. Monsieur Dujols was inside, seated at a round table, marking up what appeared to be a manuscript.

“Monsieur Dujols,” I said, “I’m hope you’re not busy, but—”

“Of course not, Mademoiselle Verlaine,” he interrupted as he capped his bottle of ink and rose to greet me. “I was so upset about how the séance ended and hoped you would return. The art of influencing events and using hidden forces is a temperamental one. I asked Julien if he would bring you back, and he said he would,
but . . .” He shrugged and then gestured for me to have a seat in one of the alcoves. He sat down also.

I wondered why Julien had not told me about Monsieur Dujols’s request. How long would it be before I would even see him to ask? I pictured him and Cingal sitting sadly in a parlor, surrounded by friends and family.

“Did you have a specific reason for asking me to return? Other than wanting the grimoire, of course?” I asked.

“Did you bring it?”

“I’m not comfortable taking it out of the house in inclement weather.” The truth was I couldn’t actually move it out of the tower and didn’t want to admit it. Twice I’d picked it up and carried it to the door. Normally heavy and cumbersome, once I reached the bell tower threshold, it became suddenly and impossibly weighty. When I’d turned back to return it to its hiding place, it was manageable again.

“The Secret Witch of rue du Dragon is an enigma.” There was a long, low table in front of us covered with maps, and as Dujols spoke, he piled them up and moved them to one side. “I have studied her for years. Through you, we may be able to learn more about her secrets. Will you bring it soon?”

“Of course I will.” Another lie. “But how can you be sure she wasn’t just an ordinary seductress? Perhaps a bit more intuitive and sensitive to the people around her, but cast unfairly in the role of a witch?”

“Alchemy, witchcraft, casting spells, understanding the occult . . . captures our imagination. We sense that there are secrets beyond our grasp; we are sure there are powers greater than us, some benevolent, others malevolent. Religion has tried to explain the mysteries of the universe, but man does not just strive to understand; he needs to harness them. Through time, those of us who have had just a soupçon more of the ability to access the mysterious have been feared, revered, thwarted, maligned. Almost never elevated as deserved. No, I don’t think La Lune was an ordinary seductress.” Dujols studied my face. “And neither do you, so why do you suggest it?”

I was caught off guard by his forthrightness and for a moment wasn’t sure how to even respond. As it turned out, I didn’t have to.

“I’m sorry, that was quite rude,” he said. “I didn’t mean to challenge you. You came here to see me today, so how can I help you?”

I regained my composure and took the paper out of my silk reticule. “I was at the flea market last weekend and saw a painting that had some curious symbols on it. Some were a bit familiar and I thought they might intrigue you, so I copied them down. Since you know so much about symbols, you might know what they mean.”

I was pleased with my story. It made sense without suggesting that my interest was any more than curiosity or that the painting was something I owned or had access to.

“Yes, yes, this is quite interesting,” he said as he peered at the paper.

“Why is that?”

“Let me show you something.” He got up and walked over to a large, low file cabinet, the kind that oversize prints and drawings were kept in, and began to riffle through one of the drawers.

I was thinking about what he’d said about La Lune. I know he’d called her a witch before, but this time it terrified me to hear it. The word coming from his lips was harsh and ugly, and La Lune, while desperate and determined, was none of those things.

But what else was there to make of all the strange phenomena that had occurred?

A necklace with a clasp that sometimes refused to open? I knew it was not the result of an old hinge.

And the paintings I was creating? It was impossible they were only a latent talent blooming out of tragedy, stirred by my surroundings and nurtured by one of Paris’s best teachers.

The horrible accident at the Eiffel Tower? A woman who’d drunk too much champagne? An errant umbrella carried away by a gust of wind at just the right moment?

“Yes, yes. Here it is,” Dujols said as he withdrew a sheet the size of a frontispiece to a large book.

Gingerly, he placed it in front of me.

Judging by the ragged edge of the yellowed paper, the page had been ripped from an ancient book. The printing was not refined, and the quality of the ink was uneven in spots. The type was fairly small and hard to read, but I could make out enough to know it was archaic French.

Painted over the printing, in an oddly familiar style, was a woman scantily clad in a dress made of cobwebs. Bugs and insects nested inside her long reddish-brown hair. Around her was a laboratory with shelves of alembics and beakers. I recognized the position of the windows and beams—this was my bell tower.

And the painting was done in the same style as the illustrations I’d discovered in the grimoire in the ancient studio. La Lune’s paintings. La Lune’s grimoire.

“What is this?” I asked.

“A page from a book called the
Malleus Maleficarum
in Latin, which, translated, is
The Witches’ Hammer
. It was written in 1486 by Heinrich Kramer, a German Catholic clergyman. It’s a treatise on the prosecution of witches.”

I shivered, as if the door had opened and a frigid wind had blown in, embracing me in its chill.

“The goal of the manifesto was to prove that witchcraft existed and to educate other members of the church and government on how to hunt and prosecute them, since sorcery was condemned by religious and secular institutions. The papal bull instituting the first inquisition was included in the preface of this book. The rest is broken into three main sections. The first is an argument against critics who denied the existence of witches and the reality of witchcraft. The second lists and explains all the forms of witchcraft and what witches are capable of, including how they recruited other witches. Usually something would go awry in the life of a younger woman, causing her to seek out the wisdom and guidance and help of a witch.”

My shivering increased. I had painted that very scene in my bedroom on rue de la Chaise the morning my grandmother went mad. I’d painted La Lune going to the old crone in Prague for help in seducing Cherubino.

Dujols noticed my discomfort. “You are cold—let me throw some more coal into the heater.”

While he was gone, I examined the page. It appeared to be the very one that had been ripped out of the front of my book in the tower.

Dujols came back and picked up where he’d left off: “The book describes rituals and explains how witches cast spells. It includes remedies to prevent young women from falling victim to those spells.” He stopped. He was staring at me.

“And the last section?” I prompted.

“Yes, yes. The last section is for those who are given the power to judge and confront the witches and witchcraft. What to look for, how to determine if someone is a witch, how to test her. It’s quite horrific. The tests were set up so that no one could survive. For instance, a suspected witch was submerged in the water. If she drowned, she was not a witch, but she was dead. If she didn’t drown, she was a witch, but then she was killed.”

“What about the painting?” I asked in a voice that surprised me with its strength since I felt quite weak. “Why do the letters and symbols match the ones I’ve brought you?”

“The legend is that the woman who painted this was herself a witch, and it was said that she had a formula that not only gave a witch immunity from harm but also allowed her to keep herself alive forever.”

“The formula for immortality.”

“Yes.”

“And you think the symbols and letters I copied down are part of that formula?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because of the instances where it’s turned up.”

“So there are alchemists who have tried out this formula?” I asked.

“Yes, but what’s survived is incomplete. We only have the first step in what must have been a long and complicated set of steps.”

“And what does all this have to do with La Lune?” I asked, even though I was sure I already knew the answer.

“It’s believed La Lune is the witch who was given the formula, who painted this.”

“Believed? Doesn’t anyone know?”

“No, no, not for sure. It’s an ancient legend that dates back to the 1600s. Just one grain of sand in a search for hidden knowledge that goes back to the beginning of time. It is a labyrinthine journey, Mademoiselle Verlaine. Sometimes we are searching in the dark; other times we have but a single candle to shine on the walls of the caves as we crawl through them, hunting for clues.”

For a moment neither of us spoke. I was glad I hadn’t told Dujols the symbols I’d written down came from paintings in our house. But had showing him even this much put me in jeopardy? How insatiable was Dujols’s hunger for more information?

“Well, it’s very fascinating,” I said, “but like all legends, I’m certain it’s become more fantastical over time.” I waved my hand as if dismissing the possibility that it had any basis in reality.

“Perhaps or perhaps not,” he said in a voice that sounded as if he were still wandering those dark passages in his mind. “Certainly your grandmother has told you how the legend was passed down to her? Surely she’s given you details.”

I shook my head and lied again. “Nothing like what you told me, no. I know of La Lune of course, but only that she was a courtesan and an artist’s muse. Bewitching for sure but not a witch.”

Dujols smiled.

“That’s odd. Your grandmother and I have talked about it at length. She discussed you with me, too, a long time ago, before I met you. She told me how much she feared for you.”

I was stunned.

“You didn’t tell me that before. Not when you met me. Not when I came back and you offered to set up the séance. Why?”

“She’s always been so concerned that La Lune would one day try to possess you, I assumed it was she who had sent you back here.”

I was angry that my grandmother had talked to a stranger about me and confided her fears in him. But anger now was a wasted emotion. We were far past that. There was still more information I needed, and I couldn’t afford to alienate Dujols. He was my only ally now, even if it was an uneasy alliance. We both wanted the same thing. The question was, how far would he go to get it? How much did I have to fear him?

“So these symbols”—I pointed to the edge of the page ripped from the book—“what exactly do they stand for? Do you know?”

“Yes. The first is the symbol for blood. This second is for salt, and the third is for night.”

“Blood?”

“Blood, herbs and flowers, chemicals, human hair, excrement, skin, parts of animals . . . they were all used by alchemists.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I believe that there are more mysteries that we will never solve than those that we will.”

Dujols picked up the paper I’d brought and placed it next to the ripped page. “But to return to your question and what brought you here today, the symbols and letters are out of order in the painting you saw. The way they are written there, they spell out nothing . . . but if you rearrange them to go backward, not forward, they say . . .
‘Make of the blood, a stone. Make of a stone, a powder. Make of a powder, life everlasting.’ ”

“That phrase. You know the first time you said it, I was sure I’d heard it before.”

“And had you?”

“I didn’t think so, but now . . . I think I might have dreamed it.”

I was remembering. Yes, these were the words I’d heard in the recurring dream I’d had as a child. I was certain of it.

“A stone? Powder? What do you think it means?” I asked.

“It’s the first part of the formula, Mademoiselle Verlaine.”

He looked from me to the page he had shown me and then back to me again.

“When you are ready to tell me where you really found those letters and symbols, I will be here to help you. In the meantime, it’s best to be careful. It’s called darkness because there is no light. And without light it is easy to trip and fall.”

He was scaring me. Hadn’t Julien warned me that the men involved and invested in the search for hidden knowledge were determined? I felt something shudder under my feet. Almost as if the earth was warning me as well.