“The woman… she came through our village several years ago. She spoke of feeling… much turmoil inside her,” Élisabeth started as they walked down Rue Saint-Paul. “I-I wish I could tell you more. The woman, she found it hard to describe.”
“You mentioned a howling like a wolf.”
Élisabeth hesitated. “I suppose.”
“And having a tongue like a serpent.”
Élisabeth’s face was becoming pinched with worry. Marthe frowned.
“The girl would have rested easier knowing which of the demons it is,” the widow said.
“Which of the demons?” Élisabeth stared at Maman Poulin.
“Yes. There are so many of them, and each has its own weakness. It is important to know which one ails her so that the priests may know how to defeat it.”
“I believe the woman should not have thought about it all!” Marthe chirped from behind. “It only distressed her further. It only added to her worries.”
The widow stared at Marthe with an open mouth, then turned to Élisabeth. “Your sister is surely the most callow little mistress I know. Of course the woman was right to worry. It must be her only concern.”
The wind blew so forcefully that Marthe’s hood was almost lifted off her head. She grabbed it with both hands, her knuckles white.
“She was nervous to tell any priest…” Élisabeth said. “Lest the exorcism be the death of her. For she heard that it is a procedure of… of great violence.”
The widow shrugged. “I do not know if that is true. You could ask the Sulpician priest who lately arrived in Ville-Marie how it is performed. He is a great expert on witches and demons. I’m sure he would also know which onehas afflicted this woman. He could write to your curé and explain what must be done, should she return to your village again.”
“An expert on witches?” Marthe tried to insert herself between the two women.
“Yes, a witch hunter from France. His name is Father de Sancy.” The widow gave her a backwards glance. “He’s the cleverest man who has ever set foot on this island, or so I heard him say.”
“We know him.” Élisabeth began to lather soap between her hands once again.
“He was on our ship on the journey over,” Marthe explained. “Though he mostly kept to his quarters. He would have no reason to remember us.”
“You must speak to him.” The widow ignored Marthe and turned to Élisabeth. “Tell him what you know of this woman.”
“I shouldn’t like to disturb him with such a tale.”
Marthe could see the widow clinging ever more tightly to Élisabeth’s arm, forcing her hands apart.
“Lili is right,” Marthe agreed. “No good will come of telling this priest about a woman back in Saint-Philbert. It’s a French story that must stay in France.”
“Nonsense. It is best that we understand as much about the workings of the Devil as possible. Lest he tries to strike here again.”
Before Marthe could counter the widow or pull Élisabeth aside to plead with her not to draw the inquisitor’s attention for nothing, another gust of wind lifted her hood right off her head, tossing it in the air and down the street. She scurried to capture what she had lost, while Maman Poulin drew Élisabeth into a tight embrace. Marthe wondered why the widow was so taken with her sister when she had had nothing but strict words for Marthe about how to cook and clean and take care of her husband. Was it Élisabeth’s frailty or the frisson of magic that drew Maman Poulin in?
“I will accompany you, chère Lili, if you like,” Marthe heard the widowsay when she had recovered her headdress. “Shall we go together to see the priest?”
Marthe’s heart sank as she heard her sister’s answer.
“Yes, Maman Poulin. I’ll seek out the priest and ask him about this demon.”
18
It was a full fortnight before Élisabeth came back to Ville-Marie to visit the priest, shortly after Lou’s and Rose’s wedding ceremonies had taken place. The Parisian girls married at the same time, to men whose plots of land lay next to each other, just as they had promised. Lou stumbled over her vows—for she only knew Jambon by his regimental nickname and balked when she was asked to take someone called Jean Dupuis as her husband. Her laughter upon realizing her mistake rang out like morning church bells. Rose spoke little before—or after—her marriage to his friend Laurent Lajeunesse.
Élisabeth waited outside the chapel for Maman Poulin. She had barely taken note of the weddings. She was still agonizing over her decision to seek out Father de Sancy—she alone knew how he extracted his knowledge, and she could not loosen the fear that he might discover her secret and call for her to be stripped naked and pricked with a needle—but she could no longer live with the uncertainty of the feelings inside her. Besides, Maman Poulin seemed so sure of the righteousness of the enquiry and Élisabeth liked the plain-spoken widow. With Maman Poulin by her side, Élisabeth felt she no longer had to carry her burdens alone.
As they walked from the Hôtel Dieu to the Sulpicians’ seminary though,the spirit inside her seemed to snake into her legs, trying to hide in her knees. She set her mind to putting one foot in front of the other, surprised at how difficult the task was. When they reached the front door of the stone seminary, a servant answered, and the widow took charge. They were soon shown along an unlit corridor into a room with large windows. Élisabeth had never seen so many books—the church in Saint-Philbert counted itself lucky enough to have a single missal—and yet here in Ville-Marie there was an entire case of prayer books. Father de Sancy sat behind a small table in the corner, a quill in his hand.
