Floats the Dark Shadow (8 page)

“Charron, you are utterly mad,” Casimir retorted.

“I try to achieve madness—but I fear it eludes me.” The bitterness was back.

“Achieve your first ambition and the second may no longer elude you,” Casimir warned. “Such sights have cast others into the pit.”

“Where Satan would devour my soul?”

“A gibbering tidbit, fit only for an hors d’oeuvre.” Paul scoffed.

“A lovely line, Noret,” Averill said. “Gibbering tidbit. May I steal it for a poem?”

“As long as I critique the phrasing first,” Paul replied. “I fear for your rhyme schemes more than for your soul.”

“When I attend my Black Mass, I can sell my soul for the perfect rhyme scheme—something truly fiendish which will enthrall all of Paris.” Averill’s tone was light but his shrug was like a wince.

Theo turned on Paul, tired of his incessant attacks. “Why do you pick on Averill more than the other Revenants? His poems are exquisite.”

“But that is why I criticize him more than the others. Charron cannot restrain himself from making everything torturously exquisite.”

“An artist must transform pain and suffering,” Casimir countered softly. “Why else does he exist?”

Theo kept her focus on Paul. “It is better than making everything unbearably ugly.”

“Ah,” Paul countered, “you mean I can’t restrain myself from telling the truth.”

Theo drew herself up straighter, embarrassed to have made such a personal attack. Praising Averill made her feel naked, but still she said, “Averill’s poems need that beauty to bring light to their darkness.”

“Like a feeble little lantern, snuffed with one breath?”

For a second, Theo was back in the narrow passages of the catacombs. The dim lantern went out. The encompassing blackness choked every sense, as if air turned to earth. She was utterly alone, her soul swallowed up. Alive inside of Death. Then Averill’s fingers slid through hers, his palm pressed close, warm and firm. His touch was far beyond simple comfort. She said quietly to Paul, “In darkness like that, a little lantern light can save a soul.”

“Some souls prefer to drink the darkness,” Paul responded, his voice still sharp. Then, almost apologetically, he added, “Of our poets, Charron has the most talent. He can do better.”

“Huysmans likes to drink the darkness—but in quibbling little sips.” Casimir smoothly led them back to their other discussion. “But there is no doubt the Black Mass in
Là Bas
was written from experience.”

“An invaluable experience,” Averill agreed.

“One which you would gulp down without a thought for consequence,” Paul snorted. “But if you are so determined, there are certain priests more likely to have covert knowledge of the black arts. Loisel might even be able to help you.”

“Jules was a priest?” How odd. Or, how ironic. A true church mouse. Theo imagined him kneeling in a pew, sensitive hands pressed together, praying obsessively. She looked around. Why hadn’t he joined them?

Paul shrugged. “Almost a priest.”

“A crisis of faith?” Casimir asked

“Sins of the flesh?” Averill suggested.

The almost-priest had two poems in the first issue of
Le Revenant
. In one, Eve appeared as a succubus, probably to Jules himself, and tormented him with a snake. In the other, Mary Magdalene tended the body of Christ with obscene care.

“I prefer to believe Loisel forsook the seminary for the religious ecstasy of poetry—but who knows what arcane wisdom he still possesses?” Paul replied. “Perhaps angels and demons babble in his ears.”

“Are his new poems just as…biblical?” she asked.

“They are just as deliriously tormented, but more polished. Convincing him to show them is another matter.”

Theo eased back, assuming a nonchalant air as they discussed admittance to satanic rites in Paris. Sometimes the Revenants made her feel like a country bumpkin who would never attain their sophistication. Other times, they seemed like children entranced by outlandish games with secret rules.

Her gaze was drawn back to the man in velvet robes and dyed beard. However theatrical, something about him menaced. She hated the thought of Averill seeking favors from him. Was he truly a Satanist? Men often strove to appear more lethal than they were, as women feigned greater innocence than they possessed. Or greater experience, she thought, mocking herself. Certainly, Averill tried to appear more wicked than he could possibly be.

Vipèrine lifted his head. His gaze met hers across the room. Since he obviously wanted to be looked at, Theo stared back boldly. He was the epitome of what the French called
joli-laid
, beauty and ugliness mingled in a way more compelling than mere handsomeness. It was the face of a corrupt priest, the ascetic twisted with the crudely sensual. Black hair winged back from a high, domed forehead. The long vertical jut of the nose was reversed in the sunken hollows of the cheeks and countered in the long horizontal of thin, beautifully carved lips that suggested a ferocious craving. Under the heavy brows, deep-set eyes glowed black. There was a predatory cruelty in his face.

It gave her a frisson of fear—but the fear only increased her defiance. She refused to look away.

Finally, he gave her a lewd smile and turned to his companions. Huysmans had moved on, but a group of acolytes vied for the favor of the serpent’s word. Just then, shy Jules emerged from the shadows, almost as if he had stepped out from the wall of bones. He looked as worshipful as the rest of them. More so. The intense expression transformed his usually pinched features to an angelic purity.

“Monsieur, come with me! I can guide you to the exit.” Turning, Theo saw young Dondre approach Casimir, who looked the wealthiest. He tugged on the baron’s sleeve and pointed toward a tunnel. “I know the shortest route, monsieur.”

Casimir laughed. “From here, my boy, everyone knows the quickest way to escape.”

Dondre looked offended. Theo guessed he hoped for a handsome tip. She gave Averill’s arm a squeeze, encouraging him to accept the offer. Dondre missed nothing. “Mademoiselle, I am the best guide of all.”

“I believe you,” she assured him with a smile.

Averill leaned close, his hand lingering lightly on her arm. “I gather we are to follow this Dondre,
ma cousine
?”

Cousine
, again. Was he reminding himself that he shouldn’t ever be more than a cousin? “Yes, let Dondre light the way.”

“Very well, play at Hermes,” Casimir said. “Lead us back to the world of the living.”

Dondre gave them a broad grin. Theo had to fight the impulse to take his hand. He would certainly be offended by such foolish protectiveness—or maybe take advantage and pick her pockets. He guided them around the crowd and down a shorter section of tunnels. In just a few moments, they came to the ancient spiral staircase leading to the surface. Theo gave him a tip and urged her friends to add to it. She looked eagerly to the staircase while Paul scrounged in his pockets for change and handed it to him.

Dondre closed his fingers tight around the money and grinned. “Messieurs, mademoiselle, I know all the hidden places. You should come back soon.”

“Not too soon, Dondre. Mademoiselle can’t wait to escape,” Averill said, watching her prowl about the exit.

“Tant pis.
” The boy shrugged elaborately, indicating it was their loss. He stuffed the coins in his pocket and ran back into the catacombs.

“Do you want to lead the charge, Theo?” Averill nodded toward the stairs.

“Like Jeanne d’Arc leading the siege of Paris?”

“Jeanne failed to reclaim the city,” Casimir reminded her.

“Perhaps, but she was a fabulous heroine, even to a California girl.”

Casimir smiled at that. “Paris was one of her few failures.”

“Well, I shall succeed. Up!” Theo forged ahead. Their ascent seemed endless. They followed the tight coil of stone steps round and round and round, until they at last emerged onto the streets. She gazed up the night sky, at the pure and icy glitter of a billion stars. Eternity was that soul-stirring vastness, not the crumbling necropolis lying below. Theo breathed deeply, drinking in freedom with the sparkling air.

“I want a drink,” Paul announced.

“Champagne is best after midnight,” Casimir said.

Luscious, giddy champagne suited Theo’s mood, but Averill countered with, “Absinthe is best anytime.”

“Either, both—and beer as well,” Paul said. “But where?”

They were on the southern edge of Paris, in sprawling Montparnasse. Like her own neighborhood, it mingled peaceful, bucolic patches with sinful pleasures. But it was Montmartre where Theo wanted to be, her haven.
“Home.”

“
Le Chat Noir est mort. Vive Le Rat Mort
!
”
Paul exclaimed.

The Black Cat, Montmartre’s most famous cabaret, had closed with its owner’s death. But the even more disreputable Dead Rat remained. Theo shook her head. “Not there. Somewhere bright.” She craved light and life after all this grimness

“The Moulin de la Galette?”
Averill suggested.

“Yes. I want to dance!” New energy rushed through her. Released from the oppression of the catacombs, she felt deliciously wicked again. She would stay out all night dancing with her poets. Dancing with Averill—

Their fiacre was one of many waiting at the exit, the horses shifting restlessly as the midnight revelers emerged from the catacombs and jostled around them. “La Galette,” Casimir called up to the driver as Averill helped her into the carriage.

They rolled into the night, the horses’ iron-clad hooves clattering loudly on the pavement. Theo laughed with midnight giddiness as they hurried through the streets of Paris, leaning out the window of the coach to feel the night breeze ruffle her hair. She searched for a glimpse of the distant Eiffel tower, glinting like steel lace in the starlight. Almost as much a newcomer to Paris as she was, the tower was not yet ten years old—but already symbolic of Paris herself. The dark buildings grew denser as they drew closer to the center of the city, but lights glowed ever brighter as they rolled through the Latin Quarter, bustling even so late at night. Looking in the
café
windows, Theo saw students drinking, laughing, kissing, and even a few studying earnestly amid the cheerful chaos.

They crossed the Seine, the towers and spires of Notre Dame framed against pale clouds. On the Right Bank, they trotted beside the formal Jardins des Tuilieres, quiet in the starlight, and on to the Avenue de l’Opéra, with its elegant
cafés,
and through quieter streets, until at the foot of Montmartre the night came alive again. Lights still blazed at the Moulin Rouge and surrounding
cafés
, and would till the sun rose. The carriage passed the boisterous cabaret, then took the gentler slope up the rue Caulaincourt. They crossed the bridge over the Montmartre cemetery and took the first turn toward the rue Lepic. Except the carriage halted. Looking out, Theo saw some sort of commotion ahead. Gendarmes swarmed everywhere.

The Revenants climbed out of the fiacre and mingled with the people in the street, a peculiar mix of gaudy riffraff, insomniac artists, and sleepy bourgeois in nightclothes. There was an air of hectic gaiety. Some were singing, some shouting, some growling threats. There was a chant that sounded suspiciously filthy, something involving cows.

“What’s happening?” Paul asked the nearest chanter.

“Anarchist,” the fellow told them. “Blew up a building.”

“
Destruction is a passion—a creative passion,” Paul declared. “Bakunin.”

“It was just a gas explosion,” a gendarme said, followed by much groaning and argument in the crowd.

“All the buildings are standing,” Theo pointed out, hoping it was no more than a faulty stove. She felt a surge of protectiveness. This was her street, these were her neighbors. She didn’t want bombs blowing them out of their cozy beds at midnight.

“Not a whole building—just the top floor. Up the street.” A woman gestured beyond the curve of the rue Lepic. “The police took away the bomber.”

Theo started up the hill, her friends following. They were halted by a gendarme. Undeterred, she wove her way back through the throngs to the rule Tholozé, which was not guarded and ended across from the Moulin de la Galette. The crowd here was obviously from the cabaret. They had rushed into the street at the sound of the blast and most were returning, now that the bomber had been hauled off to jail.