Three Women in a Mirror (38 page)

Twenty or thirty years earlier she could not have seen that Anne was an exceptional soul, because the only marvels she expected were to be found in prosopopoeias, reasoning, rhetorical constructions, and labyrinthine syllogisms. Now she welcomed this innocent young woman with respectful astonishment, and she approved of her defiant attitude toward language.

“Words were invented for ordinary use in life; they find it difficult to describe the extraordinary.”

She loved this young woman who combined the ignorance of the child and the wisdom of a veteran traveler.

But the era was more quarrelsome than mystical: the Reformation as conceived by Luther or Calvin had not taken hold within the Church, but had led to the creation of a new church, the Temple. The confrontation over aspects of faith and theology was not limited merely to the theoretical
disputatio
; it required weapons, sieges, and blood, and sent men to their deaths. Anne was in danger of being taken hostage by the unrest.

That night, while the two cousins held hands and wept, the Grande Demoiselle spent hours in prayer, pleading with Saint Elizabeth, the patron of the béguinage.

In the morning, fearful that a saint's protection would not suffice to resolve her earthly matters, she sent a chest filled with gold to the archdeacon, and joined the following message:

“Monsignor, please accept this gift with my excuses for having wasted your time. Your kindness, I hope, will know how to grant indulgence to this child who is weak in mind, and to leave her where she belongs, that is, in the shadow. As for me, I promise that you will never hear of her again. You must know, Monsignor, that you have my deepest respect and my admiration for your ardent piety.”

On signing her name, with the smiling cynicism of an aristocrat, she said to herself, “Compliments, coins . . . that usually suffices.”

Once she had sent the chest, she realized that her stomach was swollen and burning with pain. Informing no one, she took to her bed.

The weeks went by. The prelate had not taken Anne's visit any further, to the great relief of Braindor, who had no opportunity to discuss it with the Grande Demoiselle since she was keeping to her room.

Anne went by every day to recite her poems to her. As her abdomen continued to swell, the old woman declined.

Ida, on the other hand, had improved. But with her strength, her nastiness returned. The angelic gentleness she had shown to Anne on the evening of her aborted hanging had only been ephemeral, due to the shock, her affliction, and the remedies; as she got better, she once again became the envious, rebellious, hateful Ida.

But Anne had not forgotten that night of tenderness, or not enough, for she projected its positive aspects long after they had, in fact, vanished. She refused to see that Ida was once again sour-tempered and filled with hatred.

In fact, Ida's fury had been reignited by a single detail. During the days when she valued Anne's devotion, one night she had found her sobbing.

“What is going on, Anne?”

“Nothing.”

“Why are you crying?”

“Do not trouble yourself about it.”

With extreme difficulty, fighting her pride, Ida managed to say, “What have I done to make you so sorrowful?”

Anne smiled between her tears.

“Oh it's nothing you've done. I am worried because the Grande Demoiselle is getting weaker by the day.”

Her words were like a spark in a barn: the flames spread through the straw and in an instant the entire barn was lost. Ida could only accept her cousin's affection if she could be sure it was exclusive. The moment she realized that Anne liked every one, it meant that she cherished her as she cherished everyone, neither more nor less, and that she saw her only as one of the many human beings in distress that she must help.
Oh, so you love her, your Grande Demoiselle? Well, it will be either her or me
, she decided. Ida immediately opened her heart to bile and spite, to all her old rage.

Not only did Anne fail to notice, but when the proof was staring her in the face she merely sighed and thought,
How she must suffer
. No rebuff could lessen her affection; worse than that, when Ida became insufferable, Anne grew even more attached to her.

Anne was making progress in her meditation. She was nearing the essential, the living heart that beats within the world, whose ebb and flow makes us prosper; she embraced this secret beating heart, which makes us who we are, and shows us where we must go. In a poem she named this fundamental home “Naked Love”
:

 

In you, I lose images and figures,

I swim, I knead. Oh you, naked love,

Love without question, love without stain,

With you I am no longer myself.

 

Between her moments of ecstasy Anne looked after the Grande Demoiselle.

In spite of her heavy sleep, Ida suspected that Anne left the house at night. The first time she thought she was mistaken. The second time, she clearly saw a young woman run off deep in the night to return only in the morning, her clothes soaked.

Ida concluded that Anne had a lover.

This thought delighted her. She was jubilant. She thought it was wonderful, not that Anne experienced something so joyful, but that now she, Ida, had a secret that could destroy her cousin's reputation—her with her airs and graces, whom the common people still called “the virgin of Bruges.”

“Virgin, I'll say! No more virgin than I am,” cackled Ida as she turned on her bed. “That hypocrite is manipulating everyone on earth, but I will get to the bottom of her game.”

Unfortunately she was still too weak to follow her, as she was in danger of breaking her neck at the slightest awkward movement, so she had to wait twelve weeks before she could carry out her wish.

While she was waiting, she concluded that Braindor must be the lover Anne went to meet at night on the other side of the river. For Anne's wet clothes in the morning were proof she had crossed the water; therefore she did not stay in the béguinage. In any case, at night there were no men in the protected enclosure.

To make sure her theory was correct, she questioned her cousin in what she thought was a subtle manner: “What do you think of Braindor?”

“Pardon?”

“Do you think he is handsome?”

Stunned, Anne paused for a moment. She thought, then said in a smooth voice, “He is handsome, without a doubt. Very handsome.”

For Ida's purposes, this was a confession. Nevertheless she continued, “Does he not suffer as a monk?”

“I don't believe so.”

“No, you don't understand. Men find it difficult to forego the needs of the flesh.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. It is more difficult than for women.”

Ida was beginning to speak nonsense—in any event, the contrary of what she herself felt—her chastity was a terrible burden to her now that she was sick and ugly.

Anne nodded.

“You would have to ask him.”

“Has he never . . . with you . . . I mean, you know what . . . ”

Anne burst out laughing.

“No, Ida. He loves me and I love him, but not in that way.”

Ida frowned. Was this a confession or not? Oh, with a saint like her you never knew where you stood.

Several afternoons in a row she observed them carefully while they conversed beneath the linden tree. It was difficult to draw any conclusions. Although visibly they enjoyed each other's company greatly, there were no gestures or gazes betraying any carnal knowledge. Finally, Ida decided she had recovered sufficiently to trail Anne the next time the opportunity arose. She had two clues to help her determine when this escapade might take place: Anne tended to run away when the moon was full, at the end of a difficult day—which meant she had worked a great deal, and helped the beguines, and spent time reading to the bedridden Grande Demoiselle.

And so it happened that during the propitious period there came just such a day. The Grande Demoiselle had shown signs of extreme weakness, so Anne had been very busy. As the beguines' regular doctors and those from the Saint-Jean hospital had said there was nothing more they could do, Anne had decided to send for Sébastien Meus at the hospice of Saint-Côme, who had always shown himself to be more skilled than the others.

As it was out of the question for him to come and examine the patient—the usual doctors would be offended—Sébastien Meus asked Anne to describe the symptoms; then he gave some thought and asked her to come by again later. At Vespers, he handed Anne a green vial and told her to add ten drops of the liquid it contained to a bowl of warm water.

She did as he instructed.

That night, as overwrought nervously as she was physically, she informed Ida that she would be going to bed early.

Ida rubbed her hands.

And indeed, after Vespers, when everyone in the béguinage was asleep, Anne cautiously tiptoed out, hugging the wall, careful not to make the wooden steps or floorboards creak, and left the house.

Ida climbed out of bed, fully clothed, and followed her.

Anne made her way cautiously because she wanted to make sure no one would see her, and that she would not knock anything over that might betray her presence. She went down to the river Reie and grabbed one of the planks she found on the shore. Clinging to the piece of wood that would help her to swim, she kicked her feet, and made her way through the water until she had left the town behind.

Ida wasted no time: she used to compete with Anne, swimming in the ponds of their childhood, and now she followed her example; half lying on another plank, she made frog-like movements with her legs.

Careful that none of the watchmen could see her, Anne slowed her pace several times, hid under her piece of wood, and stopped kicking. When it was dark like this, any watchmen who peered into the river would see nothing but a piece of fir drifting downstream.

Ida did likewise, although she began to worry, afraid she would lack the strength if the excursion took too long.

“Why is she heading out of town? Where is she going to meet Braindor?”

Once she had left the last houses behind, Anne headed again toward the shore, climbed out, and began walking.

Relieved to leave the cold water behind, Ida reached the shore in turn.

Anne walked for a long time, first along the path, then along the trails, and finally she entered the forest. From the sureness of her step Ida concluded that she must be very familiar with the way.

Many times over Ida caused the branches to snap. Logically Anne should have noticed, but she continued on her way, oblivious.

She came out into a clearing by a bend in the river. Ida dropped behind, and as best she could she climbed up onto the branch of a tree in order to observe her cousin.

Anne had removed all her clothing.

Naked in the gentle light of the moon, she walked forward, trembling, to the Reie.

Because she had made improvements to her meditation practice, she needed to flee from the world of human beings—the noise, the familiar places, the limitations, the clothing. She had to give herself to nature, embrace the elements, air, earth, sky, water. She slipped slowly into the black water and lay on her back. Now her ears were filled with liquid and she could hear the agitation of the trout, the trembling of the tadpoles, the breathing of the silt. Her hair spread in a crown all around her and mingled with the rushes. Above her head the stars were so close it was as if she could pick them, so many silver cherries; but she would not take them down, she would change nothing in the world—other human beings had done enough of that already.

From her perch in the distance Ida had no idea what was going on.

She understood even less when the wolf arrived, a gigantic wolf with powerful muscles. It came closer, hopping like a cat about to be fed, then sat on the riverbank and gazed at Anne.

She went to join him. Together they stared into the night.

Ida could not believe her single eye. Several times over she pinched herself, trying to determine whether she was not having a nightmare. What was the meaning of this? Anne left the convent to go swimming in the company of a wolf, the famous wolf that had founded her legend.

And where was Braindor?

 

The return journey was more complicated because Ida now knew a terrible beast was lurking in the vicinity. Consequently she followed close behind her cousin, even if it meant she might be noticed.

She briefly saw a huge shadow digging about in the bushes nearby; two yellow eyes lit up the night. She panicked, but managed nevertheless to sustain her effort.

She reached the béguinage one hour after Anne, because the return swim along the Reie had exhausted her. Just before the sun would rise to reveal her to everyone, she managed to reach the béguinage. There she decided to linger outside, because Anne always got up to go and fetch the milk and bread for the first meal. Ida made use of her cousin's brief absence to return to her room, where she hid her soaking clothes on the windowsill, and hastened to bed. She fell into a deep sleep.

 

That morning, the Grande Demoiselle felt better. Regaining hope, Anne continued to administer the contents of the green vial.

In the days that followed the Grande Demoiselle gradually returned from the land of the dead to that of the living.

As soon as Anne was in the little house, she could not hide her joy from Ida. She laughed and danced and showed her cousin the miraculous potion. In the presence of so much felicity, Ida, needless to say, was filled with venom.

So when Anne informed her that the doctor was preparing a new remedy for the end of the morning, Ida conceived her plan.

She secretly followed Anne to the convent of the Cordeliers. There she waited until Anne came out of the hospice again, with her green vial in her hand, and the apprentices and the nurses had gone off for their fritters on the Place du Marché, then she hurried in to see the doctor.