It was a bittersweet homecoming because we all were worried about my grandmother. I fervently hoped she would get better quickly so she could join me there. Was sure that once she saw how happy I was at the maison and how glad the house was to have me back, she would stop being so afraid for me.
I painted for hours that first day. While in the studio, brush in hand, brilliant colors swirling, my mind was focused on the canvas, and I felt nothing but joy. But as soon as I left the tower, I was overwhelmed with concern for Grand-mère and haunted by what she’d said about the spirit taking over me.
The only person I could think of talking to who might understand was Julien’s client Monsieur Dujols. As a student of the esoteric and occult, surely he would not be surprised by what my grandmother claimed and would be able to explain it to me. Perhaps he would even have some advice.
It took me most of the next day to work up the courage to go to the Librairie du Merveilleux. Even though I knew Julien didn’t approve of Dujols’s beliefs I wished he were available to go with me. Something about the store and its owner intimidated me, but Julien had gone back to the furniture factory in Nancy, and I was on my own.
Finally, late that afternoon, I walked over to the shop, being careful to make sure no one followed me. I now habitually watched the reflections in store windows, looking for any suspicious behavior of people lagging behind me.
The latest telegram from Mr. Lissauer had reported that Benjamin had fired his first detective agency, hired a new one, and put forward a reward that was more money than most people made in a year.
Since Benjamin was unaware of just how much I knew about his scheming, the size of the offer made sense. He had to be wondering if my father had confided in me and shown me enough incriminating evidence to destroy Benjamin’s reputation.
The largesse was also fueled by pride. In disappearing, I’d outsmarted him and Benjamin couldn’t abide being shown up. Why wasn’t it enough that, without suffering any consequences, he’d driven my father to suicide and taken over the bank, our residences in New York and Newport, and all our valuable collections?
I turned the corner and arrived at my destination. Dujols’s store was so dark I thought it was closed and was about to leave when I noticed shadows moving inside. Trying the door, I found it open and entered.
More than a dozen people milled about, and the furniture was arranged with all the chairs in three rows, as if a lecture was about to begin. The air was thick with the scent of heady incense and sweet tobacco. Open bottles of wine and absinthe were lined up on a sideboard.
A petite woman, wearing a dark caftan embroidered with silver symbols like those on the wall, eyed me suspiciously and asked who had brought me. When I said no one, she arched her eyebrows and looked at me askance.
“I wanted to see Monsieur Dujols,” I told her.
She nodded and slithered off, going, I hoped, to find the publisher.
“Mademoiselle Sandrine,” Dujols greeted me by taking both my hands in his. “How did you know about our lecture? Did Julien tell you? No matter, you’re here.”
“I didn’t know about it. I came to talk to you because—” I broke off, unsure how to broach the subject that was the reason for my visit with so many people around.
“It’s all right, Mademoiselle. I know why you came,” he said. “There are things happening that you don’t understand, and you need help, don’t you?”
There was so much sympathy in his voice that my eyes filled with tears. Taking me by the arm, he ushered me into a small alcove.
“How do you know?”
“I’m acquainted with your grandmother. And as you know, your family’s legends are familiar to me. I’ve studied them and researched them. First for her, then for my own edification. I can help you. Explain what is happening to you. I have an idea of what you are suffering. I have some books . . .” He pulled one book and then another off a shelf. “I think if you start by reading these it will give you a foundation. And then we can delve a bit deeper and contact La Lune.”
“Contact her?” I felt the now familiar nausea.
“We often have séances here to reach out to spirits beyond our dimension.”
“Has my grandmother attended these séances?”
“No, we met privately,” he said without further explanation. “Here, take these.”
He handed me the two slim volumes. Their leather covers were worn, and they smelled of old paper, musty and waxy. It was a scent that reminded me of my father and our library at home. A scent that was both comforting and exciting. My father would have relished poking around in Dujols’s collection.
“I am at your service, Mademoiselle. Once you have read what is in these books, come back and I will do my best to explain it all to you. Then we can gather some kindred evolved folks together to reach out to La Lune. Trust me, Mademoiselle, I can guide you through this.”
I stayed up late that night reading the first book and began the second the following day. I never left the house but read continuously, even during my dinner of a simple bouillon, roast chicken with braised endives, and a dry white wine. I read without stopping, my mind bursting with questions about the theories exposed by Dujols’s contemporaries. The concepts were strange, disturbing, and seductive. Were there spirits trapped between this life and the next? Could they haunt their old habitats? Did they need our help to set them free? Was it possible to summon them through séances? Was what my grandmother believed even possible? Was I being inhabited by La Lune? Was that where my passion to paint had come from? Was she changing me?
And if she was, how could I get rid of her?
A sudden and violent stomachache and nausea chased away all thoughts except of how to alleviate the pain. No doubt my condition had been brought on by my lack of sleep and concentrated reading. I called for Alice and requested she prepare a powder remedy and to make it extra strong.
Despite her doing so, relief was slow to come, but finally, sometime past midnight, I fell asleep.
The next morning at ten, Alice came to my room to tell me that Monsieur Duplessi had arrived and was confused to find her there. I told her I’d see him and hurried downstairs, relieved that he’d come back to Paris, hopeful that, now that he was back, he could help me make sense of what was happening.
I greeted him downstairs, still in my peignoir instead of a day dress. “Welcome to my home,” I said.
“Your home? Has something happened to your grandmother?”
“Yes, she is unwell. She’s been taken to Dr. Blanche’s for care.”
“The sanatorium?”
“Yes, she had an episode. It was horrible. She is convinced . . . It’s so absurd . . . She thought she saw a ghost . . . and couldn’t cope with the shock of it.”
“How terrible,” he said.
“Yes, I’ve spent the last four nights crying myself to sleep.”
And I had. I was a mess of emotions. Elation and horror living inside of me at the same time. Torn by terribly missing my grandmother and fearing for her and simultaneously delighted that now that I’d moved into Maison de la Lune I would be able to devote much more time to painting and being with Julien.
“Monsieur le Docteur assured me that it is only temporary and that Grand-mère will recover and be able to come home in a week or two. A few weeks at the most.”
“How did this happen?”
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know if Julien would be sympathetic or think us all mad. “She went to my cousin’s funeral, and when she returned became hysterical.”
“Were they very close?”
“I think they were.”
“But she’s a very strong woman. To become undone to the extent that she has had to be hospitalized? Surely something else occured.”
I desperately wanted to confide in him. I kept seeing my grandmother’s eyes staring at me with horror and fear. If I told Julien, would he look at me the same way? Surely not. He’d taken me to the occult bookshop, but he didn’t believe in Dujols’s mystical and occult world. He’d made that clear.
“Sandrine? What really happened?”