Élisabeth looked up at the priest and flinched when she saw that his eyes were bearing down on her.
Father de Sancy inhaled sharply and continued. “We exorcised more than a dozen demons from those nuns and burned the witches who cursed them.”
“What sorts of demons were they?” Maman Poulin was almost breathless.
“Terrifying legions from Hell,” the priest said, though he did not seem frightened. He extended his legs and placed his hands behind his head, his elbows pointing out to the sides of the room. “Did you know, I spoke to the demon Leviathan himself at Louviers?” Father de Sancy’s eyes grew misty and his voice softened. “He was right there in the room, communicating with me through that poor Sister. The audacity of his words… it was remarkable. If I live another seventy years, I will never see such wonders again.”
“How did you know it was Leviathan?” Maman Poulin asked.
The question pierced his thoughts. He remembered their presence and sat up straight in his chair. “We learned through time and experience to recognize the different demons through the behaviour of their victims.”
“What sort of behaviour? What do you mean?”
“Sinful behaviour, of course. For instance, if your village girl is lustful, it could be the demon Rosier who inhabits her. Should she whisper during Mass, it is very likely Belias, a fallen prince of virtues. I do not think a demon as great as Leviathan or Beelzebub would bother with a peasant girl, but they have scores of lesser demons under their command. In one of the most celebrated cases, a demoniac had as many as thirty devils inside of her! Including Beelzebub the lion, Cerberus the dog, and Astaroth the pig. Without meeting your girl to examine her, I cannot tell you which demon afflicts her.”
Élisabeth swayed. Should she own up to her tyranny of symptoms and let the priest examine her? Should she risk being shaved and beaten until her skin turned blue? No, no. She could not survive the shame of it. It would be betterto do as Marthe suggested and entreat Jeanne Roy to help her with a potion. If Jeanne Roy could be found.
“Father, could it be something simpler than a demon?” Maman Poulin asked. “What about a werewolf?”
The priest snorted. “Nothing but folklore. Creatures of fantasy.”
“Could a demon be a wolf and a serpent at the same time?” the widow persisted. “The girl Lili met had snakesanda wolf inside her.”
The priest reached for a book and opened it. Élisabeth dared to take a step closer. On each page were loops of black writing, as well as sketches of stars and crosses and circles—all manner of magical shapes.
“Many spirits can have muddled limbs and borrowed features.The Lesser Key of Solomondetails the characteristics of seventy-two demons. Here is a prince of Hell with the head of a lion and the feet of a goose. Oh, and here you see the fifty-first spirit, Balam. He has three different heads from three different creatures, and the tail of a serpent. Ah, interesting. It says he rides a bear and can make men invisible.”
Father de Sancy flipped the pages of the book, lost in his research again. “Why look, here is another. Marchosias, a great and mighty marquis of Hell. He appears in the shape of a cruel she-wolf with a gryphon’s wings and a serpent’s tail, vomiting fire. It says, ‘He is a strong fighter and giveth true answers to all questions.’?”
“Mar-co-see-us?” Élisabeth shivered as the syllables tripped off her tongue. If this particular spirit was a fighter, could that account for how she attacked the men in the alley? She peered at the scratches of ink on the parchment, wondering at the connection between the black lines and the rising turmoil in her stomach. “Is he a wolf with wings and a serpent’s tail?”
“Yes, that is how he appears. Oh, I would dearly love to exorcise this devil from whomsoever he inhabits. If Marchosias is bound to tell the truth, I would learn a great deal.” The priest shut the book and laboured to stand up. “Now, I haven’t time for any more questions.”
“Please.” Élisabeth stopped him. “How… how can this demon be defeated?”
The priest grunted with disapproval, as if her question were too simple to warrant a proper reply. “Exorcism. Thorough, precise exorcism. Sometimes it takes weeks. Sometimes years.”
“So long,” she murmured.
“Yes. To be frank, it’s sometimes hardly worth saving these demoniacs, there’s so little of their souls left by the time the demon departs. Don’t look so alarmed, child! Many of them are secretly witches anyway. Only fit to burn.”
The priest gave them both a slight nod as he departed, leaving them alone in the library. Élisabeth tried to take a step towards the door but her legs failed. Maman Poulin caught her as she stumbled.
“Thank the Holy Virgin you left Normandy,” the widow whispered as she pulled Élisabeth close. “You are safer here in New France.”
Élisabeth clung to the widow. Her teeth chattered and she could feel a fluttering in her stomach as the demon—did the priest say Marcosi was its name?—attempted to unfurl its wings.
Was she not worth saving? Was she as good as damned?
“Come, we will go back to the chapel to absolve ourselves from such dark thoughts.”
They took the path between the seminary and the hospital until they reached the chapel. Élisabeth followed Maman Poulin into a pew, barely noticing as a handful of other villagers slid into the seats nearby. At least she understood how she had savaged the men who tried to attack her in the alleyway. Marcosi was a wolf. His fangs were what must have torn the lip of the branded man. And if the demon had gryphon wings as well? Well, that would explain the feeling she had of being ready to take flight whenever he was at his most unsettled. Even the existence of a serpent’s tail made sense, for he often slithered around her body and into her bowels. Everything she had been feeling for the past months could be explained, now that she knew there was a great marquis of Hell inside her. She gripped her rosary betweenher palms and rubbed the beads against her knuckle bones while the Latin droned on around her.
Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.
She could not tell the priest—she could not face the shame of undressing before him, or the pain he would inflict. But if she could not tell the priest, she could not confess her sins. If she could not confess, she could not take communion, putting her soul ever more in peril.
My fault, my fault, my most grievous fault.
