Le Colonial (2 page)

CHAPTER THREE

T
ime began its torment once his guest departed. Alone and dreading the next six hours of darkness, Pierre tossed on his cot. He knew the routine of insomnia so well. It had first troubled him in his old bedroom when he was ten, the evening his mother had died, and it had returned to disturb him every night since. Here in another unfamiliar room, when the light faded into obscurity, he again became that bereft ten-year-old.

His cell was warm, and the night, through his half-closed eyelids, was an undulating indigo in which he was sinking. In this viscous space burned the red shadow of the urn, so dim he seemed to be staring at the sun from deep within a pit.

He had gone to the Far East at the age of twenty-four, and had lived in India, Siam, Kampuchea, and Annam. Six years ago, under a cluster of bamboo by the edge of a rice paddy, he had built his first mission, a bunch of mud-drenched, thatch-covered huts. The image of the Annam that he knew merged into that of the painting created by the drifter. He marveled at how accurate it was for someone who had never set foot in a tropical terrain. Could some intuitive bond between them have provided the artist with such keen vision?

Soon Pierre would be traveling to the Far East again, leaving the winter behind.

He turned to one side, his eyes squinting shut as he tried to trick his mind into drowsiness. If he achieved two hours of sleep tonight, he would consider himself fortunate. Often, he masked his frustration by conducting predawn sermons, seizing the opportunity to ridicule any monks or novices who were unable to keep awake. He regarded those who overindulged in sleep as grave sinners. He knew his suffering showed clearly in the dark rings under his eyes and in the lethargic way he moved.

Pierre ran his fingers under his pillow to search for a crude wooden box. The unvarnished texture was familiar to his touch. On the lid he felt the metal crucifix fastened next to a faded inscription. In the box he kept a small Bible, a rosary made from olive pits, and a few unopened letters from his brother Joseph. These were the only possessions that remained from his past.

Home
was a comforting word that soothed his mind with tranquil images. Many a spring day he had sat on the doorstep of his house on the outskirts of Origny watching his brothers and sisters play in the meadow. Once, behind the rows of apple trees, he had spotted a pair of young lovers, their colorful garments showing through the green leaves like ripened fruits. Curious, he observed them. Their passion made him wonder about his own sexual apathy. For as long as he could remember, he had felt no interest in women nor courted any from them. Something inside him seemed radically wrong; he believed it was his heart. Instead of love, it harbored only resentment, and most of it was directed toward his father, Doctor Abraham Pigneau de Béhaine. His mother’s body was not even cold in the grave before there was a new bride in the house.

When Pierre decided to leave home at the age of seventeen, his family’s governess, Mademoiselle Émilie Tournelle, had already been Madame Pigneau de Béhaine for more than seven years and had borne five more offspring for his father, including a set of twins. Pierre needed a change in his life. Enrolling in L’université théologique de Paris was his way to escape the infirmary, a household full of noisy children, the country life, and a woman who every day attempted to erase his mother’s presence with her own offensive traits. He knew that if he allowed the memory of his mother to dissipate, he would retain nothing of his spirit. He would become an empty shell, a walking corpse among the living. With all his will, he kept alive his belief in the heavenly world where his mother was now dwelling.

As the day for his journey to the seminary drew near, the atmosphere in his family had quieted to a deceptive calm. Dr. de Béhaine, still tending his duties in the somber, rustic hospital, hoped his eldest son would come to his senses and accept his rightful place as the heir to his father’s profession. But no miracle intervened. The doctor accepted his son’s decision with ambivalence. He did not hold the Church in the same esteem as Pierre did. But what was happening to his son was now a private matter between the boy and God, and even a father could not enter that realm.

Pierre remembered the galloping of horses on the cobblestone pavement, the fresh scent of a spring morning, and three of his siblings—Theresa, Mary, and Joseph—pressing their faces against the kitchen window. He also recalled the way he had forced himself to be polite and not give in to his feelings as he bade Godspeed to his father and stepmother.

In Paris, Pierre used his newfound freedom to submerge himself in his studies. Slowly, like the winter in Origny, he grew icy.

The next dawn, he conducted his sermon in the Tower of Saint John. Pierre paused in the middle of a sentence and squinted above the students’ heads. There was an empty space in the dark opening of the corridor where the artist had stood the day before.

François Gervaise and his painting weighed on the monsignor’s mind. He could not deny the impression the drifter had made on him, and on the novices. Why couldn’t he captivate his audience the way a simple painting had? The artist added a new element of turmoil to his already restless mind.

His words flowed as he sped through the lecture. Phrases leaped from his mouth as if to catch up with the time he had wasted. He was preaching with such fervor, he wondered if he had gone mad. In his excitement, he raised his voice and stretched out his arms. Over the last bench, where the air still seemed heady with the odor of wet paint, all that he looked at became bright and colorful, full of promise.

He must find François Gervaise and confront him. Talent alone would not be enough to stir the heart of Monsignor de Béhaine.

Pierre decided to start his search at Villeneuve. The city’s reputation for generosity, unlike that of Avignon, attracted the poor. Most of them would congregate at the charterhouse of du Val-de-Bénédiction for a free noonday meal. François, with his distinctive bundles of canvases, wouldn’t be difficult to spot in a crowd.

It took the monsignor a half hour to cross the river by ferryboat. He could see his destination at the foot of Fort Saint André, behind the Tower of Philippe le Bel. Back across the Rhône, Avignon was a cluster of Gothic castles wrapped in an amber bed of foliage, unfurling like an exaggerated sunflower. The winter in the south of France, although milder than the season in Origny, was still bone-chilling. The long stroll in the blustery wind tightened Pierre’s legs and cramped his muscles, but he refused to rest. He walked faster, until he came to the entrance of the charterhouse.

The structure was one of the largest Carthusian monasteries Pierre had ever seen. It comprised a church and three cloisters as well as forty monks’ cells, or so he had been told. Every building within the compound was constructed of limestone, with a tile roof. In addition to the resident priests in their simple black cassocks, at least a hundred people scurried about. Lay brothers in brown robes mingled with servants and workers in coarse breeches and layers of sleeved vests. He felt conspicuous in his Jesuit uniform, which often drew negative reactions because of the order’s poor reputation.

When Pierre entered the chapel, the Carthusians’ wealth was evident in the gold, marble, and paintings that lined the walls. Most of the frescoes depicted the life of Saint John the Baptist, as did the painted wood panels covering the windows—those that had escaped the damage of time. The luxurious vision lifted Pierre’s spirit. Looking farther into the sanctuary, he marveled at artistic renderings of the miracles of Christ, the feast of Hérade, and the decapitation of Saint John. He roamed through the building, projecting an air of confidence that discouraged others from approaching him.

After passing through several manicured gardens, he exited the vestibule of the monastery where the public gathered, and strode into the sacred cloisters and living quarters of the monks. No one was in sight. His footsteps echoed down the stone galleries. He regretted not having asked the way to the kitchen. After he went through a series of colonnaded hallways, he detected the pungent aroma of grilled meat. Somewhere in this maze, the monks were preparing the only meal of the day.

At last he found the kitchen, a small square building attached to the north walk of the cloister, with smoke rising from a shaft in its roof. The morning was approaching midday. The rusting iron latch on the kitchen door was within his reach, but he hesitated to open it. The Carthusians were a strict order of contemplative monks, and Pierre was not sure how he would be received. In a clearing to his left, he spotted a group of more than fifty people, mostly women and children. They, too, were lured by the scent of stew.

Look at those faces.
He had seen so many like them at the Saint Roch hospital where his father had worked. Despair glazed their eyes and dimmed their spirits. Hunger draped them like a blanket. Any acts of mercy showered upon them would wash away unseen, for they would never be able to change. He remembered helping his mother distribute food to the sick when he was a boy, but pride and duty were stronger in him then because of her presence. As time passed, he could no longer summon that sense of pure kindness, and he relied instead on his commitment.

The artist was not among this group. But it was still early, and more people were coming. Pierre decided to wait. The wind chilled his fingers and the tips of his ears. He put on his white gloves, pulled the rounded crown of his hat past his ears, and sat on a patch of grass under a leafless tree. A few paces away, four little girls picked tiny yellow flowers off the ground with their dirt-stained hands. He watched them fasten the blossoms in the folds of their clothes, a gesture that was more mechanical than playful. No laughter came from their lips.

He wondered whether these children had been baptized.

He caught a flower between his gloved thumb and forefinger. A milky juice oozed from the broken stem, creating a brown stain on his glove. The withered yellow petals fell to pieces under his touch, releasing a smell of fresh mud. The girls looked up in surprise, and one of them offered him another blossom. In the community of beggars, he felt out of place. All his life, he had been an outsider: his family, the whole world—everyone—seemed to be standing on one side of the road and he on the other.

No one spoke. The adults stared at Pierre.

“Go on, take it,” the little girl said, thrusting the flower forward. She brushed a lock of brown hair from her eyes. She wore a stained dress made of rough gray fabric, and she was shoeless despite the chill. He saw that her face, like every exposed part of her body, was filthy. He received her gift, using both hands and carefully avoiding touching her.

“What kind of flower is it?” she asked.

“
Dent-de-lion,
” he answered. “See how the petals resemble a lion’s tooth?”

The girl said, “If you are waiting for food, you must get in line like everybody else. And don’t ask the monks for meat in your stew unless you have money to pay for it.”

Her mother pulled her away. Pierre started. He suddenly understood why everyone was staring at him.
Not because I am a Jesuit. They all think I am trying to get ahead of the queue
.

“I am here to look for someone,” he said. Rising from his sitting position, he addressed the adults. “Does anyone among you know a man—a young artist around twenty years of age? His name is François Gervaise.”

Only silence ensued. Pierre spoke louder and added a more commanding tone to his voice. “Anybody know a wandering artist named François Gervaise?”

A woman spoke up. “I know who he is. For two sous, I’ll take you to him.”

CHAPTER FOUR

A
fter leaving Monsignor de Béhaine’s room at the Tower of Saint John, François returned to the street. The city was asleep, submerged in blackness. A torch crackled in his hand, emitting only a small circle of light to guide him. In the distance, a dog bayed at the moonless sky.

François staggered and trembled. His teeth were chattering, but he could do nothing to stop them, for the shivering came from deep within his bones. The road seemed to stretch endlessly ahead, weaving between the pine trees that grew at its sides.

He missed the warmth of the monsignor’s cell, the stacks of books and papers, and the wet, sweating stone walls. How he had wanted to collapse on the wooden bed, to battle his illness under the heavy woolen blankets. He had hoped the monsignor would offer to let him stay. But to earn the comfort of the charcoal brazier, he would have had to surrender the secrets that he had buried so carefully. Even through confession, he was not ready to relinquish them.

A few miles from the Rhône River, François found the only shelter he could afford: a deserted stable in the wooded area outside Villeneuve. Such enclosures were common—huts of twigs and thatch, with mounds of straw on the floor. As the city and its churches grew in size, new facilities had been built closer to the monasteries, leaving the old structures to decay with the weather. They became the homes of cripples and beggars, or sometimes served as secret hideaways for outlaws. François chose a cabin that was nearly hidden by a stand of tall firs. The roof had caved in, so he rested in a corner under the hayloft.

Among the dry leaves and hay, he sprawled on his back, then realized he was not alone. A rhythmic panting in the next stall indicated that a whore was plying her trade in the same makeshift shelter. A drunkard slurred encouragement to her moans. All François could do was clutch his head and allow himself to melt into the chilly debris.

His fever persisted, intensifying through the night. His head was throbbing, his eyes blurry, his tongue encrusted. On his cheeks he could feel two burning patches of flame. The attacks came in waves, flooding through him. His strength ebbed until nothing was left but a constant burden of self-pity.

He had no way of escaping the guilt of his misdeeds. Only he was to blame for the troubles that had torn him away from the paradise that once was his life in Villaume. His past haunted him, from the bittersweet childhood incidents to the most recent hapless event. How sublime his former ignorance had been! The most blessed thing of all was to have an identity and a station in life. It brought tears to his eyes to think how he had lost everything. If only he had shown more strength of character.

The moaning of the whore blended with the wind. He noted that a curtain hung from the spindles of her stall; this was why he had not realized her presence when he’d first stumbled in. He wished he could block out her pretense of ecstasy. But unlike his fever, her throes of feigned pleasure followed no pattern or frequency, and he believed that when her heavy breathing faltered, it was to disguise a yawn.

The whore’s insincerity was obvious. But he remembered a woman who was far, far more deceitful. He dared not think of her. But it was too late! The sound of her name was already bouncing inside his skull like an echo.
Helene! Helene!
He remembered the branches of an oak tree reaching to her bedroom window, forming a natural ladder that he had climbed many times. On the last occasion, he had seen the orange glow from the flickering candles that lit her room, through a curtain of leaves, through a layer of lashing rain . . .

The grunting quickened.

“Damn you, she-devil!” he roared, feeling the veins jut from his temples. “For heaven’s sake, cease your beastly noise!”

“Now, be good, my pet,” coaxed the whore from across the stable. “Pay heed and you may learn something.”

Her companion guffawed.

Again her voice screeched through the night. “Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, please take pity on me.”

The gale howled, and the prostitute’s curtain whipped against the stall’s outer wall. François closed his eyes, and the image he carried in the depth of his soul rematerialized. He grew rigid at the scene being replayed in his mind. Through the beckoning window of Helene’s bedroom, the candles danced to the rhythm of the wind. Two naked bodies entwined in her bed, their skin rosy in the fire’s glow. She was lying on her back, looking straight at François. The expression of bliss on her face turned his stomach sour . . .

Above him, the trees murmured. The frosty stars that pricked the black sky winked at him. He reminded himself that he must rise above his suffering and make his heart devoid of feelings. He dozed fitfully, drifting in and out of consciousness until a blaze of light penetrated his eyelids and made him wince.

He awoke. His body was shivering. It was early afternoon. A few black crows were flying high in the sky. From where he was lying, they looked like floating crosses. Around him the forest was silent, and he had no way of knowing if the whore and her customer had left or were merely sleeping.

He rolled to one side and propped himself up on an elbow. Dizziness made him nauseous. He swallowed a bitter taste rising to the back of his throat. A violent heaving twisted his innards, and François vomited until he felt he was drowning.

Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, please take pity on me!
his mind cried, mimicking the prostitute’s wail. The blue air above him faded.

As he slipped into the gray abyss of nothingness, he heard the voice of the same woman. “Is this the artist you are looking for, Father?”

He was melting. His body was a river of paint. Where its current took him, there was no concept of time. But the fright was overwhelming—choking him, spreading until he was nothing but a tiny particle in a vastness of pure terror. For each drop of water that was dribbled on his tongue, for every gentle touch of a wet cloth over his lips, his stomach would expel bursts of bitter bile in response. A hand was massaging his back. Its heat was like fire, scorching him.

A flash of lightning illuminated an image. He saw Helene’s heart-shaped face, the thick waves of light brown hair that cascaded down her shoulders, her high cheekbones—he gasped. In his fevered consciousness, she represented everything that was lost. The lightning had revealed her entwined with her lover in her bed. They turned to look at him through the open window of her bedroom, through the gushing rain that blurred his vision. He was unable to move. The man on top of Helene ceased his rocking motion. In utterpanic, she clutched her limbs around his glistening body. And then something struck the side of François’s head. Hot wax sprayed his face, but he could barely feel the heat. He saw her reach for another candle.

I gave you all my love. Why are you doing this to me?

Go away!
Her shout drummed against his face, the language dripping with poison.
This is how it has to end. My love for you is over. I am no longer amused by a boy’s inexperience.

Soon his ears were filled with the whispers of strangers. It seemed other people were coming and going, talking to him and about him. He tried to listen to their words. The voices coalesced and dispersed until all became one, belonging to the Jesuit monsignor. It sounded far away, distorted, and strangely elongated.
François
. . . He heard the hissing repetitions of his name, full of entreaty and despair.
Pray, pray! François! We beg mercy in His glory, forever
.

The blur in his mind abated, and his delirium took physical form. The whispers became dark shadows of people moving swiftly against a wall. Of his whereabouts he was uncertain, but he could see that he was lying on a simple bed in a dimly lit, high-vaulted, cavernous tower. A black curtain shielded him from the rest of the hall. His body seemed light.
François
. . . The whisper returned; then the voice materialized.

“Very glad to see you are recovering, François Gervaise.”

He turned and beheld the face of Monsignor de Béhaine, like parchment suspended in a wan halo of light. Behind the priest, the window was curtained, but through a small opening, a few sunbeams poured forth a sliver of radiance. The monsignor towered over him. François burst into tears.

“Where am I?” he asked between sobs. His thin shoulders shook like the wings of a chick. He realized that he was without clothes. From under the bedspread, he caught the odor of his own excrement.

The monsignor seated himself on the windowsill. He removed his white gloves and pressed them neatly across his knee. Then he rolled up his long sleeves. François could not see the expression on his face. His voice, however, was gentle.

“We are inside the charterhouse of Val-de-Bénédiction. The city is suffering an outbreak of cholera. You are being quarantined for observation.” He scanned the room and added, “And so are they. For many of them, death is very near.”

“How long have I been here, Father?” asked François.

“Three days! I did my best to stay by your side.”

François wept into his hands, overwhelmed by the attention the priest had reserved for him. “Dear sir, you should not have risked your life to save mine. I am not worthy of your concern,” he said.

The priest leaned forward and rummaged through a casket that was set against the wall next to him. From it he drew forth a glass bottle of colorless liquid and poured some of its contents over his arms and hands. The smell of vinegar exploded in the air.

“Through these hands of mine,” the priest said, “God has performed many miracles. Your survival is just one of many. Since childhood I have been blessed with the power to heal. With the angels in heaven watching over me, I fear nothing. You would not believe, sir, what deep solace it gives me to see you well. But you must be exhausted. I shall leave you alone to rest, as there are many others in this hall who need my services. We can talk more when I return for a visit this evening. One of the monks will bring you a basin of water so you can wash yourself. I have retrieved your belongings and placed everything on the floor next to you. The clothes you were wearing had to be burned, so you will need to put on fresh garments.

“In your delirium many times you shouted out a name in great distress. Helene!” A twinkle of malice crept into de Béhaine’s eyes as he leaned forward and read François’s expression. “She must be someone important. Who is she, Monsieur Gervaise? A ghost of your unruly past, perhaps?”

Without waiting for François to answer, he put on a wide, stiff-brimmed hat and walked away.

The hall was silent except for an occasional moan. No doubt the others were also lost in frightful dreams.

He cursed his vulnerable condition. How much of himself had he revealed during his delirium? How much of his shame was made public? François rested his head and again felt himself drifting away. The images materialized in spite of his effort to repress them. He could see the tile rooftop of a roadside inn, shimmering under a summer sun. He approached the stone structure, noticing the tall gables and ornate details that blended against the bright sky . . .

Stop it . . .

François could not stop.

The laughter and music drifting through the inn’s thick walls stirred in him a longing that felt almost like homesickness. It was a harmless memory. It did not make his heart ache when he decided to enter the building through the back door near the kitchen. He knew he would find her there, an attractive woman a few years older than he. A large loaf of bread nestled against her bosom. The crust, honey-colored, emitted a scent of baked yeast that made his mouth water. He stared at the bread and the girl. His mind was vacant, but his stomach rumbled out loud.

I am Helene, daughter of the innkeeper . . .
She lowered the bread, and he could see more of her chest. He had never seen skin so beautiful so close. He looked away and caught her stare. She had large, sky-blue eyes capped by neatly shaped brows. Her gaze seemed to penetrate his mind and expose his thoughts . . .

François moaned. The memory he knew so well faded, losing its sharpness. It was like watching his life reflected in a lake. One touch and everything that had once been real was swept away in the ripples. When the calm returned, another scene rose to the surface.

What must I do in order to escape her bewitching stare?
He could live a thousand years and would never know the answer. He fought the urge to cling to her feet like her shadow. She reached for a sheet to cover her nakedness. A few paces away stood his rival. François turned his head to stare directly at him.

Get out!
Her voice was devoid of sympathy.

I can’t! Tell me what I have done to cause the loss of your affection.

The sound of her laughter made François furious. He looked up as the other man stepped forward, brazen in his state of undress. His flaming red hair and dark umber eyes matched the fire behind them. The stranger reached into the pile of his discarded clothing and grabbed an iron dagger, which he shifted back and forth from one thick hand to the other. François could tell he was an experienced fighter. Even his grin was intimidating.

Are you brave enough to challenge me?
said his rival.

Helene quivered with laughter. Her hand pressed against his chest, forcing him to retreat. He could feel the open window and the rain against his back. She looked at him. Both her hands were on his body as the sheet slipped, forgotten, to the floor. The black circles of her irises dilated. And without a word she pushed with all of her strength.

Caught off guard, he fell out the window. The tree’s branches embraced him, breaking his fall . . .

François sat up. His body was bathed in sweat. The monsignor, like a statue, stood in front of him. His black robe was invisible against the dark curtain.

“Why are you here?” he asked the ghostlike vision.

The monsignor looked at François. “The monks have always considered this chapel to be one of the holiest places in the south of France. Luckily, I am an acquaintance of Abbot Beaufort, the superior of this charterhouse. Monsieur Beaufort is a friend to poor people. You are here as his ward, and I am here to watch over you.”