“Aren’t demons evil?”
“In our sphere, the way we are taught, they could be classified as evil, but is our way of seeing things always correct? We are viewing it from inside our circle. What if we stepped into the spirit’s sphere and looked at us from that same distance. Perhaps we would be evil and they would be goodness. Don’t judge, Mademoiselle. Live to paint. Paint to live. It may be the only path open to you.”
I took in his words, not sure I even understood them.
“And please don’t pretend anymore with me in class, at the Louvre or here. Even if we cannot explain how or why your talent is exploding, you must not dam it up. Mallarmé, the poet, wrote, ‘Let the window be the art, the mystical experience.’ I want you to show me what you see through the window, Mademoiselle. You must be brave and you must be dark, or you will never be great.”
I left Moreau’s atelier in a fever. I’d been shown what few had seen and been taken into his confidence. If Moreau believed in the realm beyond this one, then there must be some others I could trust who might also. Would I find them that night at the séance that Monsieur Dujols had arranged for me?
Chapter 25
We were seated at a round wooden table in the Librairie du Merveilleux. The doors had been locked and the shades drawn. As usual, books were piled everywhere; maps were laid out on the floor; alembics and jars filled the shelves—nothing was actually different than when I’d visited before, but the atmosphere was almost sinister without the gas lamps turned on, and only the light from candles illuminating Dujols’s cave of wonders. In the dim atmosphere, the undulating wall looked like it might be moving. Or was I just a little drunk from breathing the resinous air rich with burning incense? Or was it the chalk drawing of a pentagram in the center of the table affecting me so?
Dujols shook out a large white cloth and placed it over the symbol. The alphabet was spelled out in four rows of block letters.
Next to the cloth he placed a glass cup, turned upside down.
“Let’s be seated,” he said.
The six of us, including Julien, who had kept his promise to me and come, took our places at the table. He was still wearing the grim expression he’d greeted me with at my house when he arrived to escort me here. During the carriage ride over he was quiet, and I chose not to press him. He was so against this experiment I’d been afraid he would refuse to accompany me. I didn’t want to chase him away by saying the wrong thing.
In addition to us and Dujols, the well-known avant-garde composer Debussy was present. He’d brought the opera singer Emma Calvé, who, while Dujols had been setting up, had talked incessantly of the chateau in the Aveyron region that she’d just purchased. The sixth person was a friend of hers.
“We should have had this event at my chateau,” she said. “There’s far more likelihood of summoning spirits there since it was built by the magician and alchemist Nicolas Flamel.”
I wondered if Julien’s black mood, which only intensified as the evening got started, was aggravated by someone from Charlotte’s world being present. Did Calvé know Julien’s fiancée? Was he worried that she might tell the young woman she’d run into him at a séance? Would that disturb Charlotte? My head ached with all these questions.
What happened next is not quite clear, even now.
Dujols began the event by giving instructions that we each were to put one finger on the top of the glass cup and not break contact with it no matter what happened.
He explained he would call the spirit forth and then ask her, or him, certain questions that pertained to my dilemma, which no one but he and Julien knew anything about. The secrecy was important, he said, so that the authenticity of the communication could be preserved.
“If a spirit does communicate, he or she will use us as conduits and push the cup around the cloth, spelling out an answer. I will record the letters since sometimes they move too fast to figure out in the moment. But first, I’d like us to take hands.”
We took one another’s hands. Dujols was seated to my right. His hand was dry, his pulse even. But Julien’s hand was moist with perspiration. I glanced at him, but he wouldn’t make eye contact. I thought he looked pale.
“Julien?” I whispered, trying to get his attention. “Are you all right?”
He nodded but didn’t say anything.
“And now we begin,” said Dujols, preventing me from asking Julien anything else. “Everyone please close your eyes and concentrate on welcoming the spirit into our midst.”
A surge of excitement mixed with anticipation pulsed through me. Maybe now I was finally going to find out what had been going on for the last few weeks. Discover if the spirit of La Lune really had survived and truly was connected to me in some way.
“Yes, yes, fingers on the glass, please, ladies and gentlemen,” Dujols said.
We all placed our forefingers on the small crystal tumbler. Mine trembled.
Dujols waited a moment and then asked: “Are you with us, dear spirit?”
The glass sped off to the corner of the cloth where OUI was spelled out on the board.
Who was moving it? Not I, certainly. I was sure it was not Julien. Who here had any reason to prove a spirit was visiting? This séance was not being held for a price. This was a favor Dujols was granting me in exchange for me promising to show him the grimoire I’d found in the bell tower.
“Mademoiselle Verlaine would like to know what it is you need from her,” Dujols asked.
There was a hesitation, and I wondered if the previous answer had been an accident of the wind. Or one of the members of the assembly was playing a trick on us.
And then the cup spelled out one word.
Nothing.
“Then is there something you need to tell her?”
The cup moved and spelled out Julien’s name. Beside me, his body tensed.
“You are here for Julien?
Yes.
“What is it you want to tell Julien?”
The board spelled out: My death not accident.
I heard Julien gasp.
Then there was a moment’s pause, and the cup continued.
Forgive yourself.
A pause.
She loosened wheels . . .
A pause
. . . for money.
Julien stood and pushed himself away from the table with such force that his chair fell backward.
“Enough of this.” He looked around at our faces as if he was searching for someone to accuse. His green eyes were clouded, his features set in an anguished expression. After a second he turned and ran to the door, unlocked it, pulled it open with great force, and rushed out into the street.
I ran after him, hurrying to keep up. He was on a tear and going faster than I could. He reached the corner but didn’t stop. From the opposite direction a carriage was coming, but he didn’t seem to see it. I screamed out: “Julien, stop!” For some reason he didn’t stop but just went barreling into the street straight into the oncoming horse and carriage.
He was going to be trampled, and I was not going to be able to get to him in time. I shouted again, but he kept going. Why wasn’t he stopping? It was almost as if he were throwing himself in front of the carriage on purpose. As if he wanted something terrible to happen to him.
There is no question about what happened next, though it seemed impossible then and impossible now as I recall this.