Floats the Dark Shadow (20 page)

“No?”

“No,” Charron responded icily. “I’m not fond of blood.”

It was an effort not to murmur
touché
. Michel doubted it was true but it was an excellent retort. Instead, he told Charron he was free to leave. There was no reason to charge him, but he would be investigated, discreetly.

The officers returned from searching the cemetery and bridge with nothing to report. Bertillon’s men were arriving with equipment to photograph the body
in situ.
It was another of his innovations, one that Michel considered more useful than the complex system of measurements. He gestured for the men to wait, glad that Bertillon was not with them. He wanted to survey the scene without any distractions.

First he examined the girl head on, the way the killer had presented her. Even disfigured as she was, it was apparent she had been pretty. Had she been raised within the
demimonde
and sold accidentally or deliberately to a sadist? Snatched from the street? Michel could not help but think of his vanished children, but not one of their bodies had been found and this girl was blatantly displayed. Curious, he began to circle around the grave, wondering if the killer had only posed her from the front, or if, like a sculptor, he had considered her body from other angles. He could not tell. Two trees and some low bushes framed the gravestone against which she was placed, and ivy crawled everywhere. She would be partially visible from the back, but that might not be a deliberate act. Then he stopped. Pushing aside the bushes, he moved closer to the back of the gravestone.

In the center was a cross marked in thick black charcoal. Rising off to one side were strange smears like wings.

Chapter Nineteen

Darkness, woe, come flooding back….

~ Paul Verlaine

 
‘ABRUPTLY, even while weeping with distress, he precipitates himself into new debauches and, raving with delirium, hurls himself upon the child brought to him, gouges out the eyes, runs his finger around the bloody, milky socket
….’

Theo shut
Là Bas
, feeling queasy.

Violence against children was unforgivable.

It was not just a novel. It was history. This vile man had lost himself in orgiastic brutality, maiming and murdering innocents. The author even seemed to feel sorry for him.

Theo glowered at the book, then slid it back into her knapsack. She would finish it—eventually. The present had its own violence. Averill had come late yesterday to tell her of his gruesome discovery in the cemetery, but she suspected that what he told her only hinted at the hideousness. Theo wanted to comfort him, but she felt so hollow herself she could not find the right words. There were no right words, only platitudes that quivered like rickety bridges over the blackest suffering.

Theo rose from her bench in the garden behind Notre Dame and walked to the willow overhanging the stone embankment. Parting around the island, the Seine flowed past. Impatiently, she looked toward the Left Bank, the world of the Sorbonne, of students, printers and poets and artists, as bohemian in its way as Montmartre.

Where was Carmine?
Mélanie
’s voice echoed in her mind.
“She is always late just because she thinks punctuality is bourgeois.”

Theo had seen Carmine only once since the fire, after taking Madam Besset home. They were both subdued, almost silent. Neither of them had been able to cry. Theo almost wept when she identified Mélanie, but could not indulge in tears when Madame Besset’s loss was so much greater. She wondered where Mélanie would be buried. She should have a beautiful sculpture over her grave, a Greek maiden like the ones she painted.

Clouds drifted overhead. The spring breeze, moist and cool, caressed her skin. It carried a subtle scent of bright green grass, a bolder one of golden marigolds, even a hint of primrose. Theo let the natural perfumes comfort her. The memorial service for the victims of the fire had failed to do so, and the grisly
Là Bas
only aggravated her anger.

Two years ago, Theo had stood over new graves in California, devastated. A year ago January, when she was newly arrived in Paris, Averill had invited her to Verlaine’s funeral. “Our literary world will be there.” The flamboyant church was dedicated to St. Genevieve, the patron saint of Paris, the service solemn but marvelous. She’d met Casimir for the first time, and remembered how enthralled he was by the organ music. He was just coming out of mourning, too, for his grandfather. Feeling they shared a bond of grief, Theo asked if Casimir missed him much. “A man most ancient and utterly corrupt?” He’d smiled lightly. “I mourn Verlaine far more.”

After the service, the three of them joined the most famous writers in France on the long walk to the cemetery. As the chill drizzle gave way to clouded sunlight, the memorial transformed into a celebration. Everyone shared stories of Verlaine in all his glory and pathos. His poems were quoted around the grave like benedictions. Even the absurdity of his tawdry mistress trying to reclaim the sheet that covered him merged instantly into the myth of the poet. The tragicomedy continued when they turned to leave. Their umbrella and a dozen others had been stolen from under the tree where they rested. An Irish poet named William Butler Yeats pointed out the fleeing thief and recognized him—Louis XI—a poor, crazy, homeless man that Verlaine had taken under his wing and renamed because of his likeness to the medieval king. At last, the clouds parted and azure sky graced their return home.

That day, Theo had felt herself on the brink of something momentous. For her it was a death that signified a rebirth, a winter that promised a bright spring.
This spring, too, was bright and glowing. But Death stalked her, stepping out from Mélanie’s Tarot card, twirling his scythe.

Hearing the crunch of gravel, Theo
turned to see Carmine approaching. She also wore mourning. Nodding toward the cathedral, she said, “You look anything but consoled, Theo.”

“The sermon wasn’t the tribute I hoped for. The priest informed us that the fire was God’s judgment on us. We were wicked for indulging in the irreligious scientific and social ideas that abound in these sinful modern times. But if we repented, we would not be punished. Otherwise we should expect to be burnt to cinders. It was hateful.”

“Pompous, flatulent fool,” Carmine muttered. “I warned you.”

“Yes, you did.” Theo paused, feeling sad for the thousands who had come to the church in a futile quest for comfort.

“I have a better tribute to Mélanie. There are rumors of a protest at the École des Beaux Arts. Many of the men grudge sharing their privileges with women students. If it happens, I will protest their protest,” Carmine said. “And you?”

“I will go with you!” After the men’s treatment of Mélanie, Theo felt bound to support the other women.

They sat watching a butterfly, grateful for its beauty. Carmine asked, “Remember when I drew the Priestess from the Tarot deck?”

“Of course.”

“You were probably angry that I left so suddenly.”

Theo swallowed. “A little angry. Shocked.”

Carmine nodded. “It was as if the Priestess spoke to me. Summoned me. That’s why I knew the card wasn’t me. I felt I had to leave.”

The memory disturbed Theo but she was fascinated, too. “Leaving saved your life.”

“Yes. That morning I’d drawn the Tower, just as Mélanie did. I would have been trapped, too.”

To call it coincidence seemed cowardice. “I don’t know what I believe.”

“To me, the mystical is all around us. Not to see it is a kind of color blindness.”

Theo winced. “That hurt.”

“It was meant to pinch at little,” Carmine admitted. “But it was unfair.”

“It is so far beyond my control, it frightens me,” Theo confessed. “But I’ve always prided myself on facing my fear.”

“Moina Mathers wants to meet you today.”

“Your Priestess?”

“Yes. I’ve decided to study with her.” Carmine paused. “We think it’s important that we read the Tarot for you.”

Theo felt her stomach plummet, but Carmine looked at her so earnestly she didn’t refuse. Because of Mélanie, Theo knew she must confront the cards again.

As they started to walk, Carmine looked up to the cathedral. “Did you know they were going to tear down Notre Dame?”

“Tear it down!” Theo was stunned. She loved the elegant façade and glowing rose windows. Most of all, she loved the crazy collection of gargoyles perched on the ramparts. They were named for their gurgling and gargling as they poured rainwater from their snouts.

Carmine nodded. “Then Victor Hugo wrote
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
and everyone fell in love with it again. Sometimes we artists have power.”

“Sometimes.” It was an interesting conversation Carmine was offering, but Theo found concentration difficult. The Tarot cards had resumed their taunting dance in her brain. On the Right Bank they bought a ticket for a horse-drawn omnibus. When it arrived they climbed to the open-air seats on top. Theo was restless. She turned to Carmine. “Tell me about your priestess.”

“Her family is quite a
cassoulet
—her father is Polish, her mother English. Moina was born in Switzerland but has lived most of her life in Paris and London. Her brother, Henri Bergson, is making quite a stir in philosophy.”

The Revenants had talked about Bergson.

“She married an Englishman named MacGregor Mathers. He is a bit mad, in the way the British can be. The last time I was there he wore a kilt and performed a sword dance.”

Theo tried to smile. “That sounds quite dramatic.”

“He was actually rather good, though I could have done without the lecture on tartan plaids.” Carmine rolled her eyes.

“But you are impressed.”

“I find Moina compelling. McGregor is intense, but perhaps too much the autocrat. They are both serious about their occult studies. Between them they must know a dozen languages and MacGregor translates ancient texts. The one he’s about to publish is called
The
Book of the Sacred Magic of Abra-melin the Mage
.” Carmine intoned the title. “They are discreet about it, but I’m sure they are exploring magic.”

“Exploring magic,” Theo repeated. She knew Carmine didn’t mean parlor tricks. A week ago this would have been enticing. Now she felt uneasy.

“Moina designed the cover for MacGregor’s book.” Carmine frowned. “Most of her painting is for his projects.”

“Isn’t she unhappy, sacrificing her own art?”

“No. Utterly devoted.” Carmine paused. “Theo, have you been able to paint?”

“Paint?” It was difficult to even say the word. Theo felt as if a giant hand was squeezing her lungs. A cloud of sooty darkness hovered behind her eyes. “No…I’ve only drawn a little.”

Nightmares flung her sweating out of sleep—into the waking nightmares of memory. First had been the torment of not being able to paint at all, then of being compelled by the hideous images that haunted her night and day. Flames burned inside her brain until she thought her skull would explode. For the first time in her life, she was afraid of color. Afraid of hot scarlet, and orange, and yellow that burned white. Afraid of the vivid licks of azure that tipped the ends of flames. Perversely, she was scrawling compulsively in charcoal, her fingers black, the smell half nauseating, even the gritty sound repulsive, but she could not stop. Clouds of smoke obliterated the white pages. Black flames burned to the edges of the paper. Rage and fear and grief drove her fingers into scrawling patterns….

“Theo, are you all right?”

She took a deep breath. “I will be.”

“I’ve been drawing Mélanie over and over again. Trying to keep her alive.”

Mélanie came to Theo too, but she could not bear to draw her. She swallowed hard, refusing to cry on the omnibus.

They were silent again until they reached the suburbs. The flats in the sixteenth arrondissment were attractive, but less expensive than the ones closer to the center of Paris. Theo nudged Carmine, pointing out a new building in the sinuous lines of Art Nouveau. “Look, it seems to have grown out of the street.”

“It’s beautiful. Unique.” Carmine gestured toward the rest of the block. “I really hate Haussman’s renovations. I wish Paris were still medieval, full of nooks and crannies and quirks. Sometimes I go to the old churches just to slide back a few centuries.”

“I love the broad sweeping avenues,” Theo countered.

“Ploughed through the homes of the poor.” Carmine huffed.

Theo didn’t try to defend that. “I find Paris very beautiful. Perfectly elegant.”

“We call Haussman the Alsatian Attila. When he rebuilt the city for Napoléon III, he demanded uniformity. All new houses must be six stories high and stand square with their neighbors. The roofs must cant at the same angle. There must be a pretty little balcony running the length of the second floor and another pretty little balcony on the fifth,” Carmine complained.

“I love the balconies,” Theo protested.

“It’s so regimented!”

“But Carmine, the modern buildings blend with the older ones. Most are built of the same limestone—all those pale shades of cream and buff.”

Limestone from the quarries that housed the catacombs. The thought silenced Theo.

They got off the omnibus on the rue Mozart. The tree-lined street was pleasant, even if a prime example of the Alsatian Attila. Carmine led her to the Mathers’ bu
u
ilding, and together they walked up several flights of stairs. A young maid opened the door. Despite the serving girl, Theo could tell that the Mathers did not have much money. But everywhere talent and imagination enlivened their home. The apartment was furnished with low divans and other touches of the exotic. The air had a scent of incense and roses, of cinnamon and clove. Piles of sketches lay about, men in kilts and fairy goddesses. Others evoked ancient Egypt, a temple with lotus columns, pagan gods with the heads of beasts, a figure that looked like a priestess.