That night, as I usually do in these après-séance writing sessions, I flung open the windows and took in great gulps of the sea-washed air. I had smoked a bit of hashish before the event. Now I relit my pipe, stood at my desk and transcribed the words the Shadow had spoken to me.
With nothing to distract me but the ink flowing onto the paper, the walls of my resistance crumbled in these sessions. The rules of logic relaxed. I opened my mind to the possibilities of the night, to the magic of the dark, to unfathomable ideas that had been presented to me.
I am blind to everything but the scrawls of black moving across the paper when I write. I didn’t hear the house hum around me, or my own heart beat, or the waves pound on the rocks. I only hear the words that I set down. Though not my words, no. During those après-séance writing sessions I was no different from a scribe recording the words spoken by another. The spirits revisited me in my aerie, elaborating and elucidating to me as if the séances were but rehearsals and these communions the true ones.
After I transcribed the exchange above from the spirit who identified himself as the Shadow of the Sepulcher, I was bathed in sweat. My large room, even with the windows open, was suffocating. I needed to escape. To breathe the night air and find some comfort in the corporeal world. I would go to Juliette’s, I decided. The walk to my mistress’s home would revive me, and then I could climb into her bed and she would soothe me.
Even though the sky was strewn with storm clouds, I decided to walk on the beach instead of taking the main road. Always I am drawn to the unrelenting waves, the salty, briny air and the feel of the sand shifting beneath my feet.
Reaching the shore, I stood for some time just looking out on the rough sea and thought about the offer the spirit had made. I was filled with both wonder and dread, curiosity and chagrin. How could I believe such a thing? It was not possible to bring back my daughter. And the price? A piece of poetry? The whole exchange was ludicrous.
As I pondered these thoughts, I became aware of a presence nearby and turned. No one was there.
I looked up at the sky and wondered if Didine was one of the stars peeking through the clouds. Could she be looking down and watching over me at that moment?
I had always believed that if we cannot chart the geography of the heavens, if we cannot ride over heaven’s hills or sail over its seas, then we cannot know for sure who dwells there and how they interact.
But in the last two years, in over a hundred séances, I had been given glimpses of that geography. Hadn’t I?
That was the question on my mind as I walked the beach. After a time, I noticed someone up ahead. At first I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman from that distance. But when I came closer, in the light of the moon I recognized you, the comely servant girl whom my mistress had recently employed. Fantine, you were walking along the shore, staring out at the vast ocean. The sky had cleared and the moon glow shone on your white chemise, making it stand out like a beacon.
When I’d noticed you at her house, Juliette had told me you were another exile from Paris. I’d only seen you two or three times but had been acutely aware of your sadness. You wore it like a frock. It clouded your eyes, turning the blue sky to gray. Even the scent that lingered in a room after you’d left it reminded me of grief. It was the fragrance of flowers past bloom in their death throes.
As I approached, you became aware of me, and when you turned, I thought I saw the silvery track of tears on your cheek.
I was sorry I’d intruded, but it was too late for me to turn back without being rude. “Good evening, Fantine.”
“Monsieur Hugo, good evening.”
In Juliette’s abode, you were demure. Here you seemed less so. In her home you would have lowered your eyes and been slightly embarrassed in my presence. But you were none of these things on the beach. You were forthright, almost defiant. As if I had interrupted you. As if this were your beach and I were trespassing.
I fell into step beside you and must admit was still so absorbed by what had happened in my house that for the first few minutes of our stroll, I paid you little heed.
Lost in thoughts as dark as the sea, I tried to make sense of the evening’s revelations, tumbling the thoughts in my own head. Getting nowhere, I finally felt the need to discuss what had occurred with someone who hadn’t been in my house and exposed to the table tapping.
“Do you believe in spirits?” I asked.
“Do you mean ghosts?”
“Well yes, I suppose so. The spirits of those no longer alive. Do you think they are capable of communicating with us?”
You nodded, and your dark curls dancing on their own endowed the grave question with a certain ironic frivolity. “Oh yes. I’ve often felt my mother’s presence and smelled her perfume in the air when there’s no one nearby. It’s always very comforting.”
“Is she really communicating with you or are you just remembering her vividly? Do you actually believe some shade of her is here, watching over you, visiting you?”
The beach was rocky where we were walking, and as you started to answer, you tripped. I reached out to steady you. Closer, I marveled at your fragrance. The same I’d sniffed in Juliette’s house, but so near now I could smell other subtle scents mixed in with the roses. Night-blooming jasmine, lemon… I shut my eyes for a moment, to fix the curious smell. In Juliette’s house you wore your hair up, covered it with a cap, and donned a uniform that hid the ample bosom and small waist now apparent. Now your thick dark hair fell in waves around your face and down your back. In my mistress’s house you were an ordinary maid. Here you were a wanton, suffering woman.
“I believe she has truly communicated with me.”
“Tonight is the anniversary of my daughter’s death,” I said.
The words hung on the wind for a moment and reverberated like church bells until the sound of crashing waves overwhelmed them.
“I lost a child too,” you whispered. “She was stillborn.”
“But you are so young.”
“I’m twenty-five,” you said, as if it were very old indeed.
“What of your husband?”
Your gaze returned to the sea.
“Lost?” I asked. The sea claimed so many lives, as I knew all too well.
“He was not my husband. But yes, lost.”
“Did you lose them both together?”
You shook your head no. “But I can’t stop mourning either of them.”
“Would you, if you could, talk to your mother now? If she is in the netherworld, would you want to know how she was, what it is like? Find out if she is looking after your baby for you?”
“Of course.”
“What would you pay for such a privilege?”
“Anything asked of me.” And then you looked at me as if I were half mad. “You aren’t suggesting there’s a way, are you?”
“I might be,” I said, and then told you about the séances. I remember how at first you had to hold back from laughing at me. From the questions you asked, it seemed you found me foolish and absurd. But as we continued our walk and I told you more about the sessions and spirits, your initial skepticism turned to curiosity.
I fell in love with you a little then. I admire nothing so much as the willingness to suspend disbelief and open one’s mind to new ideas.
“What was your daughter’s name?”
“Leopoldine,” I said. “But I called her Didine.”
“So have you talked to your Didine?”
“I haven’t heard her voice, but I believe she is speaking to me.”
You turned your gaze upon me now. No longer as if I were daft but as if I might not be entirely human.
We continued walking for a few steps in silence. I was thinking about you now. Wondering about you. Clearly you were well educated. Out of place, being a lady’s maid in the Channel Islands.
“How long have you been in Jersey?” I asked.