I shrugged. The morning glory seed requires an empty stomach to avoid ill effects. But I obeyed; ten minutes later I returned, carrying a light infusion of skullcap leaves sweetened with honey, and a fresh blanket.
Clémente was delirious. “Leave me alone, leave me alone!” she screamed, flailing at the proffered cup with her unsecured left hand.
“Hold her down!” cried Mère Isabelle.
Soeur Virginie poured most of the infusion down Clémente’s throat as she opened her mouth again to scream. “There, ma soeur. That will make you better,” she shouted above the noise. “Just try to rest-”
Her words were barely uttered when Clémente vomited with such force that reeking liquid splattered against the wall of the infirmary. I shrugged inwardly. Virginie, who had been liberally showered, shrieked, and Mère Isabelle, beside herself, slapped her smartly, as a spoiled child may slap her nurse in a fit of temper.
Clémente vomited again, leaving a trail of slime over the new blanket. “Fetch Père Colombin.” Her voice was hoarse with shrieking. “Fetch him now!”
LeMerle had been standing in silence at a safe distance. Now he moved closer, delicately avoiding the patches of vomit on the floor. “Let me pass.” In fact there was no one obstructing him, but we responded to the voice of authority. Clémente too responded; she turned her face toward him and whimpered softly.
LeMerle held out his crucifix.
“Mon père!” For an instant the afflicted woman seemed quite lucid. She whispered in her hoarse voice: “You said you’d help me. You said you’d help-”
LeMerle began to speak in Latin to her, still holding the crucifix between them as if as a weapon. I recognized the words as a fragment of the exorcism service, which he would no doubt perform in full at some later date.
“Praecipio tibi, quicumque es, spiritus immunde, et omnibus socüs tuis hunc Dei famulum obsidentibus…”
I saw Clémente’s eyes widen. “No!”
“Ut per mysteria incarnationis, passionis, resurrectionis, et ascensionis Domini nostri-”
In spite of everything I felt a sudden surge of guilt at her suffering.
“Per missionem Spiritus Sancti, et per adventum ejusdem Domini.”
“Please, I didn’t mean it, I’ll never tell anyone-”
“Dicas mihi nomen tuum, diem, et horam exitus tui, cum aliquo signo-”
“It was Germaine-she was jealous, she wanted me for herself-”
When Janette used the drug in ceremonies and divination, it was in tiny doses after a long period of meditation. Clémente had been unprepared. I tried to imagine the depth of her terror. Now, at last, the drug was reaching its final stage. Soon the attack would be over, and she would sleep again. LeMerle made the sign of the cross over Clémente’s face. “Lectio sancti Evangelü secundum Joannem.”
But his refusal to acknowledge her seemed to contribute to her agitation. She grasped at the sleeve of his robe with her teeth, almost knocking the crucifix from his hand. “I’ll tell them everything,” she snarled. “I’ll see you burn.”
“See how she recoils from the Cross!” said Marguerite.
“She’s ill,” I said. “Delirious. She doesn’t know what she’s doing.”
Marguerite shook her head stubbornly. “She’s possessed,” she said, her eyes shining. “Possessed by the spirit of Germaine. Didn’t she say so herself?”
Now was no time to argue. I could see Mère Isabelle watching us from the corner of my eye and knew she had heard every word. But LeMerle was unmoved. “Demons who have infested this woman, name yourselves!”
Clémente whimpered. “There are no demons. You yourself said-”
“Name yourselves!” repeated LeMerle. “I command you! In the name of the Father!”
“I only wanted-I didn’t mean to-”
“Of the Son!”
“No-please-”
“Of the Holy Spirit!”
At this, Clémente finally broke. “Germaine!” she screamed. “Mère Marie! Behemoth! Beelzebub! Ashtaroth! Belial! Sabaoth! Tetragramma-ton!” She was weeping now in fast, gasping sobs, the names-many known to me from Giordano’s various texts, but doubtless gleaned by Clémente from Alfonsine’s raptures-coming from her lips in a desperate rush. “Hades! Belphegor! Mammon! Asmodeus!”
LeMerle laid a hand on her shoulder, and such was her agitation that she shrieked again and drew away.
“Possessed!” whispered Marguerite again. “See how she burns at the touch of the cross! Hear the names of the demons!”
LeMerle half turned to face the rest of us. “Evil news indeed,” he said. “I was blind enough yesterday to believe there might be another explanation for her illness. But now we have it from her own mouth. Soeur Clémente has been infested by unclean spirits.”
“Let me help her, please.” Unwise, I knew, to draw attention to myself, but I could bear it no longer. All the same I was very aware of Virginie’s eyes on me, and behind her, those of our little abbess.
LeMerle shook his head. “I must be alone.” He looked exhausted, the outstretched hand that held the crucifix visibly shaking with the effort. “Anyone who stays here puts her soul in peril.”
Clémente, between sobs, began to recite the Lord’s Prayer.
LeMerle took a step backward. “See how the demons taunt us!” he said. “You have named yourself, Demon, now let us see your face!”
As he spoke, a cold draft blew from the open door, flickering the flames in the candles and cressets that illuminated the room. Instinctively I turned; others followed my lead. Beyond the door, in the darkened hallway, a white figure hesitated just out of the range of our light. I could barely make out its shape; it appeared to float vaguely down the passageway, skirting the light with delicate precision so that all we saw of it was the habit it wore-so similar to our own-and the pale quichenotte that hid its face completely.
“The Unholy Nun!”
I grabbed the cresset from Virginie and sprang forward with its small flame in my hand. Marguerite shrieked and clawed at my sleeve. I paid no attention but took three paces into the passageway, carrying my light before me.
“Who’s that?” I cried. “Show yourself!”
The Unholy Nun turned, and I had time to see dark-stockinged legs beneath the robe. So much, then, for its ghostly floating. The hands, too, were gloved in black. Then the figure began to run down the passage, moving lightly and quickly away from the light.
Someone at my back called out impatiently, “What did you see?”
Someone else tugged at my wimple, my arm. I dislodged the grip with some difficulty, fighting to keep hold of the cresset. When I looked back the apparition had gone.
“Soeur Auguste! What did you see?” It was Isabelle, clutching me as if she never meant to let go. At close quarters her complexion looked worse than ever; small angry red sores were blooming around her mouth and nose. Janette would have prescribed fresh air and exercise. Fresh air and sunshine, she would have said with her familiar cackle. That’s the thing for a growing child. That’s what made me the beauty you see before you. If only Janette were here now.
“Yes indeed, Soeur Auguste, what did you see?” The polite tone was LeMerle’s, touched now with a note of mockery only I could hear.
“I-” I heard my voice waver. “I’m not sure.”
“Soeur Auguste is a skeptic,” said LeMerle. “Perhaps even now she doubts the presence of demons in Soeur Clémente.”
I kept my eyes fixed to the cresset’s light, not daring to face his smile.
“Soeur Auguste,” said Isabelle shrilly. “Tell us at once. What did you see? Was it the Unholy Nun?”
Slowly, reluctantly, I nodded.
A wave of questions followed. Why had I pursued her? Why had I stopped? What exactly had I seen? Was there blood on the bonnet? And on the surplice? Had I seen the face?