The Book of Shadows (15 page)

Father Louis, in resorting to justice, ensured that it would not be served.

Though his hours in the pulpit had honed his speech, rendered him eloquent, Father Louis failed to make his case before the Parliament of Paris. His charms were nothing against the law, and the assembly was unmoved by his tale of calumnies and conspiracy.

The Prosecutor fared far better. From his friend the bishop he won the following sentence: the curé was condemned to fast on bread and water every Friday for three months and was forbidden to exercise the sacerdotal functions for five years.

Louis returned from Paris to learn of the sentence. Nonsense! An outrage! Condemned? In his absence? He would appeal.

But he soon discovered that he could not appeal, for the Prosecutor had
already
appealed the sentence: as the bishop and his ecclesiastical judges could only mete out
spiritual
punishment for such crimes, the Prosecutor had also petitioned the Parliament of Paris, asking the civil magistrates to consider
corporal
punishment. The appeal—presented at Parliament two days
after
Father Louis's failed plea—bore the weighty signature of the Bishop of P——; it asked Parliament to consider “hanging, maiming, branding, or condemnation to the gallows.” (The bishop had been swayed toward severity by the Prosecutor, to whom he owed a favor or two relating to certain indiscretions within his See.)

The bishop's sentence stood while the matter went before the Parliament of Paris.

Louis canceled all confessions and took to his rooms. His thoughts were not of Madeleine but of his friend René Sophier, the Curé of T——, who, just six years prior, had been burned alive, guilty of “spiritual incests and sacrilegious impudicities.” To him, René had been a trusted friend; and indeed, the older man had taught Louis a thing or two. Could it be that the same fate lay in store for him? Impossible! Weren't the men considering his case—men of the Church and courts—righteous and smart, principled and learned? And hadn't countless clerics committed acts far worse than his? For what had he done but love as every man should?

Ten days passed with no word from the Parliament. The good men and women of Q——went unconfessed. It was rumored that the omnipotent Richelieu had taken an interest in the case. Louis thought about leaving Q——. Several of his friends and lovers advised, even begged him to do so, offering to slip him unseen into the Italian hillside, or place him among the peaceable Swiss…. No. He would stay. He would fight.

Finally, word arrived from Paris: the Parliament wanted proof of the priest's infidelities.

The Prosecutor, despite the cabal's efforts to dissuade him, continued to deny the presence in his home of the pregnant Madeleine. The coming bastard would
not
be proof. And so, lest the door to his good home be opened, and infamy let in, the Prosecutor dropped his case and the inquiry was ended.

Without proof, the appeal and all outstanding charges against Father Louis were dismissed and the bishop's sentence was rescinded. The curé was restored to his office and full duties.

Ever more impudent, Father Louis returned to the sins of the willing women and men of Q——.

As for the Prosecutor and the cabal, they would watch, and wait.

I
T WAS
one month later that the Prosecutor duly served notice to the bishop that the case against the curé was to be reopened. A petition bearing the signatures of the fine men and women of Q——(many of whom were dead) was sent to P——. This was not evidentiary; but it was effective. The bishop was bound to respond to the town's plea in some way. He could not ignore their request, which was for permission to receive the sacrament “from hands other than those, so notoriously impure, of our parish priest.”

The bishop, deeming his debts to the Prosecutor paid, followed Parliament's lead: he would do nothing without proof of some sort. And in private correspondence, the bishop stated plainly that “the bastard spawn of a cleric” would not suffice. The bishop would have true proof of the priest's perfidy—of sacrilege, of devilry, of bewitching, of possession—and he'd have it soon, for he'd not suffer much longer “the distractions of Q——.”

The cabal accepted the bishop's challenge, and acted quickly.

Off the main square of Q——, over the glass-paned door of a large shop, there hung a sign. Into the wood, cut to resemble a pestle, were carved the words
M. Adam, Apothecary
. Sagging shelves, heavy with jars, lined the walls. Jars full of dark, viscid…
things
. Fetal shapes peered out from within the jars, pale, pickled, seemingly suspended between life and death. Other jars held powders and berries and extracts, all labeled in Latin. Hundreds of herbs, some dried and others fresh. Three flying fish had been pinned to a thin sheet of cork; afternoon sunlight shone on the webs of their outstretched wings, dry and thin as parchment. An alligator, tall as a man, hung upright on a wall. Tortoise shells of sundry size were displayed like armor. There were dried vipers, horses' hooves, and human bones, either whole or powdered. A sign announced that powdered sapphire and pearl were available, payment due in advance if you please.

Behind a half-wall at the back of the shop could often be found four men at a round table.

Present would be the old pharmacist, Monsieur Adam; his nephew, the Public Prosecutor (and Madeleine's father), tall and bald and stoop-shouldered, with a horrible hook of a nose; dressed in full robes despite the heat would be Canon Mignon, oldest of the men, dry as dust, with tiny ice-blue eyes; and the quietest of the men, Mannoury, the surgeon, would be known by the rings he sported on the small finger of each hand—bands of white gold, inlaid with gems.

“Mademoiselle Dampierres was in not one week ago,” said Monsieur Adam, the shopkeeper. “She came, as always, in the company of her nurse, and she complained, as always, of the
female
problem, for which I sold her mugwort.”

“What is your point, Uncle?”

“Just this,” came the reply. “The nurse tells me the new confessor takes to the back parlor of Madame de Brou's, with the lady herself, each Tuesday in the afternoon, and for no less than one hour.”

“Can the good lady have so much to confess? What crimes could the magistrate's widow be committing that she needs—?”

“Don't be a fool, man! The worst criminal need not see his confessor as often and as long as that!”

“There it is then!” fumed the Prosecutor. “Another victory for the cassocked pig!”

The Canon counseled patience: “Take your ease, man,” said he. “As you all know, I am confessor to Mademoiselle Sabine Capeau—”

“The hunchback child?”

“The same; but she is hardly a child. Indeed, she speaks to me of…of certain
things
…. Let me simply say she has strong,
very
strong feelings for the priest.”

“As do they all…. As do they all.”

The Canon continued, “
Oui,
but this Capeau is different, I tell you. She is,” and here he paused, sought just the right word, “desperate. She is
desperate
. The things she says I have never heard before—not from a woman, certainly, but neither from a man; not even, I swear it, from a criminal about to swing at the city gates! She talks of crimes, of carnality! She has thoughts that would shame the Devil's maids! And all her thoughts feature the curé…. Oh, how she
hates
that man!”

“But what of it? What does the crooked little cuss have to do with us, with our plan?” The plan, of course, was the ruin of Father Louis.

The Prosecutor said what they were all thinking: that perhaps they'd found the bishop's witness.

It took but a few short weeks for the cabal to convince Sabine Capeau that she was possessed.

At twenty-two years of age, Sabine Capeau was an old maid of Q——. Her mother long dead, the girl lived alone with her father, a rich and disreputable ship's chandler, in the finest home of Q——, just off the square. In fact, Monsieur Capeau was rarely at home—his business and a favorite whore kept him in Marseilles many a night—and when he was in residence he and Sabine hardly spoke. They took their meals at opposite ends of a long table, the wrought-silver screen of a branched candelabra rising up between them. Once a year they rode in ritualized silence to Madame Capeau's grave.

Monsieur Capeau had found himself unable to love his deformed daughter; to assuage his guilt at this, he spoiled her. Sabine had a maid and a cook. She had the finest dresses, tailored with some difficulty. She had money of her own to spend in the square and at market, when on rare occasions she ventured out, and she was accountable to no one. Monsieur Capeau was a bankroll and nothing more to his daughter; this was as he wished it. Sabine had even managed to save a great deal of money over the years; for, in addition to an ample allowance, she stole from her father. It was a hobby of sorts. Had she been “normal,” these monies might have been added to a dowry, something to sweeten a marriage deal; but Sabine was not “normal,” and no dowry, no matter how great, would render her marriageable. This her father told her.

Sabine, at the age of seven, with her mother not six months in the grave, had been packed off to live at an abbey on the River L——. Though the prioress was well-paid to keep her, some months later Sabine returned home with a kind yet emphatic note recommending a regime of prayer and regular bloodletting, “to loose the dark humors from the child.”

As her father had been assured that young, misshapen Sabine would not attain the age of ten, the party marking said occasion was a grand affair, a feast for all the village held in the square. Free food and drink drew nearly all the villagers (if not their children), few of whom addressed Sabine.

First from the nuns, and then from a series of tutors, Sabine received the rudimentary education offered to girls. She was smart, and supplemented her schooling by reading on her own. However, Monsieur Capeau would allow only theology texts in his library; and so it was Sabine grew devout by default. Sadly, at a most impressionable time, she discovered the Old Testament.

Due to her unnamed affliction, she grew increasingly misshapen over the years till, at twenty-two, with her outsized features and humped back, she had the appearance of a gnome. Or—more accurately, if less kindly—a troll. This might have made the girl the focus of sympathy had it not been for her disposition.

She was by nature melancholic; the events of her life rendered her first sad, then bitter; and in time she'd turned sour, if not acidic. In town it was joked that she'd once bled venom when cut. A shepherd, misused by her father, held that one look from
“la petite Capeau”
could kill a lamb, and cross words could ruin a flock.

Sabine had withdrawn from the world, was already living as a recluse—friendless, loveless, without family, she had no one to see, nowhere to go—when the new confessor came to Q——. She spied him from the parlor window one Sunday morning, dressed in full canonicals, making his way through the square to the doors of St. Pierre. That afternoon Sabine's maid had two errands: deliver her mistress's card to Father Louis and inform old Canon Mignon that his services as confessor were no longer needed.

Sabine waited patiently for the priest to arrive. Finally he came, unprepared; and the look on his handsome face when he was led into the parlor to meet Sabine seared itself into the girl's brain like a brand. Father Louis agreed to hear the girl's confession but, despite the sum offered, then doubled, he would not come but once a month. Nor would he stay for supper, not even when Sabine had gone so far as to have the table set with linen and silver and china, and laid with fruits and sundry viands; still the priest excused himself with fast politesse.

After three months Father Louis stopped going to the Capeaus' altogether. A two-line note said his schedule did not allow it. As apology, he promised to pray for Sabine. Her gift of an ivory cross inlaid with small emeralds was returned.

Of course, Canon Mignon returned to hear the girl's confession, but not without feigning hurt at having been dismissed. Sabine apologized, and the Canon accepted and sold the ivory and emerald cross. And so each Friday the Canon sat beside Sabine in the parlor, blushing at the changed content of her confessions.

In the following weeks, the cabal's plan in place, no one noticed that Canon Mignon spent his days at the Capeau house. Monsieur Capeau stayed happily away. The servants did not care what their mistress did, so long as she left them alone. As for the neighbors…well, so disliked were father and daughter that their neighbors had stopped gossiping long ago. So barren were their lives, especially that of the humpbacked girl, that no one begrudged them their finery, their furnishings, their three-story home dominating the square.

Sabine and the Canon met in the library. They sat knee to knee, with the Canon whispering. It was quite warm, with spring quickly ceding to summer, but the Canon insisted on keeping all the doors and windows shut. He told Sabine he feared the spirits; in truth, he feared the servants, or anyone else who might overhear and one day testify to the content of these sessions. They prayed, but only as much as necessary, which is to say not much at all. Mostly Canon Mignon asked questions of Sabine, leading the girl like a beast on a leash. Wasn't it true that the curé came to the girl in dreams? He did indeed. And wasn't it true that he committed unspeakable crimes in the course of those dreams? He did. And hadn't she, when first she'd seen the curé, been seized by a
violence
the likes of which she'd never known, one that began with the deepest of thrills and localized to a…wetness, to contractions of certain muscles…? Hadn't she wanted then and there to offer her womanhood? Yes! Yes it was true, every word. And wasn't it true that the man was a devil? Yes! A thousand times yes!

On and on it went. With the Canon telling tales of mystics and saints, of Satan and his ways, of the Five Sorrowful Mysteries, of wrongdoers and the Wrath of God, et cetera. He brought in books on devilry for Sabine to read. They reviewed the transcripts of countless trials. They read the testimony aloud, with Sabine taking the role of the possessed, the witness, the witch; the Canon, of course, was the Inquisitor.

Summer came, and their sweat-drenched sessions continued in the library, which wore now its summer dress, as did the whole house—woven mats where thick carpets had lain, damask panels in place of the velvet curtains. The shut-up room was airless and powerfully hot. The Canon went through countless collars. Sabine lay on the daybed (on her stomach, of course: pressure on her hump pained her) and pulled at the string that made a fan of a large palm leaf. Periodically, the Canon would calm her with a concoction of Monsieur Adam's. Sabine, tired by the heat and lessons, would doze and dream. Upon waking she'd call for the Canon, who was always there, waiting to record her words. Such dreams she spoke of!

After one particularly successful session, during which Sabine put a gilded candlestick to abominable use, the Canon reported to the cabal that their witness was ready. Ready to go before the baron, the bishop, and God's good people. She was all the proof anyone would need to condemn the curé.

That very day, Father Louis was formally accused of having had commerce with the Devil and of bewitching Sabine Capeau.

As for the bishop, he sent his promoter to Q——to meet with Sabine, to hear her testimony. And so the company—including the promoter, his lieutenant, two magistrates, one clerk, the baron, and, of course, the cabal—crowded into the Capeaus' library on a steamy afternoon in early August.

The Prosecutor produced two pacts, which, he said, were proof that Sabine had sworn herself to the Devil: bunched hawthorn prickles, which he said she'd vomited up, and a witch's ladder—a cord tied with nine knots—which Sabine woke one afternoon to find pendant from her belt. To her visitors, and in response to no particular question, Sabine averred that “men such as I have never seen come to me in my dreams; they come from the Darkness and each one, speaking words of devilled Latin, changes his shape and speech till each becomes the Curé of St. Pierre; and then I know that
he
is with me, to tell of the Devil's amours, to ply me with caresses, to work my own hands upon me in self-abuse, which sometimes lasts the night long and leaves me swollen, and to ask me with words insolent and unchaste to offer up to the Devil my womanhood…” Et cetera.

Such talk, accompanied by minor acrobatics, convinced the bishop's party. They returned to P——without meeting the accused, imprisoned in an attic across the square. They advised the bishop to proceed. In haste.

Which he did. He issued a monitory against Father Louis, denouncing him, inviting the faithful to inform against him. The monitory, fixed to doors throughout Q——, quoted the
Malleus Maleficarum
: “…for witchcraft is high treason against God's majesty. And so the accused must be put to the torture to make them confess. Any person, whatever his rank or position, upon such an accusation may be put to torture. This is the right of the Church, thus decreed. And he who is found guilty, even if he confesses his crimes, let him be racked, let him suffer the tortures prescribed by law in order that he may be punished in proportion to his crimes, in order that the faithful may triumph over the Prince of This World in the good and great name of the Prince of Peace…”