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TITLE: It Was Meant For Love The room was shrouded in darkness, lit not even by a single candle and the shapes of the objects within it merely different shades of black. The furniture stood as it always had, in an arrangement of almost obsessive neatness. The itchy woollen covers on the bed turned down with perfect symmetry. The chairs at perfect angles with the table. The books on the shelves lovingly cleaned every other day, when time permitted it. The Abbé de Coulmier sat on the floor in the corner of the room. He was shaking all over, tears streaming down his face, and felt as if he'd just woken up from the most frightening dream he'd ever had. But this was no dream. The room was dark, as after what had happened, he had just run here as fast as he could, not bothering with fiddling about with lighting candles. The familiar smell of his room made him feel sick and his surroundings made him feel trapped. After all this time, he wondered whether he had finally succumbed to the madness that seeped from every wall within Charenton. Nothing seemed to fit straight inside his head anymore. Memories were merely a jumble of incomprehensible thoughts and regrets. He still had a horrible taste in his mouth and blood smeared on his bare chest. Even in the dark he felt he could see the blood, and wrapped his cassock around himself to try to cover it up. But this time, this memory, was impossible to push to the back of his mind like he had done with so many others. He had gone to Madeleine to say goodbye. What was wrong in that? The physician had finished examining her body and she was lying in the chapel ready for the people to come and dress her ready for her coffin. The thought had repulsed him. He didn't want her to be buried. It seemed too cruel and final. He thought, maybe if he visited her and asked forgiveness it would ease his mind. But something happened. Maybe he was possessed. Maybe the grief caused him to believe things that weren't there. She had awoken, and stared him in the eyes. He ran it over again in his head. Yes, she had, he was sure she had. She touched him. Her hands were cold, but she had been lying in the cold chapel for hours. He shook his head to try to free the memories. That was sheer stupidity. Of course she wasn't alive. He'd pulled her out of the laundry vat after she had been attacked, he'd seem the terrible wounds Bouchon had inflicted upon her as she lay dying. It was just wishful thinking to think when he visited her in the chapel, the wounds had somehow healed, that she had just been in a deep sleep, maybe, or unconscious. He had thought God had given him a miracle, a message to tell him to follow the path he wanted to follow, given him back the woman he had watched from afar for so long, knowing he could never have her. He spat viciously on the floor. The memory of what came after was forever imprinted on his mind. No one would find out about it... no one saw him after all, but he would never forget. How could he? He got up and pulled off the cassock quickly, over his head, suddenly decisive. He could not sit here all night with Maddie's blood on him. He wiped the remaining blood on his chest off onto the cassock and then opened the door to his room, peering out. The smell of burning wood and straw still hung in the air. But it was clear of people, and so the Abbé crept out, and as quickly as he could, ran out to the garden at the back of the asylum. Tears fogged his vision, but he did not waste time trying to wipe them away. He stopped by a small brook towards one side of the garden, and knelt down. He threw the cassock into the water, watching in disgust as Maddie's blood stained the water red and washed slowly away. He then stepped into the water himself and lay down in it, desperate to rid himself of the smell of her, and the feeling of her body against his, which kept making him shudder. The water was just deep enough that when he rested his head against the stony bed of the brook, it covered him completely, and he lay there for a few minutes, holding his breath, almost willing something to happen to cause him to drown here. He imagined what people would think if, when they awoke in the morning, and came outside, they found his body in the brook, drowned, his face pale, eyes open but with a vacant stare he had never worn before. But he wasn't strong enough to take his own life. He tried to sit up, but there was a sudden pressure on his chest that prevented him from doing so. He panicked, the rest of the oxygen he had in his throat escaping in a desperate gasp of shock. He tried again, using more force but something seemed intent on keeping him underwater. He reached his arms up desperately, hoping someone happened to be in the garden at this hour, who would see his struggle and help him. He splashed the water around him, his vision started to black out. Suddenly the pressure released and he rushed above the surface of the brook, gasping in deep gulps of fresh air, the suddenness of getting oxygen into his lungs hurting him. He pulled his wet hair back off his face and sat up, shaking. The wind caused the bushes and trees around the garden to rustle, and upon the wind he heard a whisper so faint if he hadn't recognised the words he wouldn't have known what was being said. "Don't send me away, Abbé." He gasped again and stumbled out of the water. Sudden sobs escaped from his lips, and he knelt by the bank of the brook, and cried hard. Madeleine, wherever she was now, would truly hate him more than anyone she had ever had an opinion of. He was worse than all of the terrible characters in the Marquis' books. He was more barbaric than any of the tortures Royer-Collard had inflicted on the poor inmates at Charenton. "I love you, Madeleine," he whispered, echoing the words he had spoken to her just two nights before. But this time he did not try to justify the statement. He had lied to her. And that lie had caused her last words to him to be of hurt and betrayal. And now, his actions had caused her to lose her life. If only. If only he hadn't said he would send her away, she would never have felt obliged to beg one last story from the Marquis. If only he had told her how he truly felt about her, she maybe would not have felt the emptiness that caused her to continue seeking the Marquis' stories to hold her interest. If only he hadn't gone to visit her body in the chapel, he might not have betrayed her in the most ultimate way. "Cleante begs a word with you, Abbé." The Abbé de Coulmier, several weeks later, sat in the seat where he had previously been teaching Madeleine to write, helping her to copy a section from St. Augustine's City of God. The script remained, unfinished on the table. It had become a sort of ritual to ease his mind, to take the script and read it when his thoughts weighed heavily on his mind, smiling slightly at the errors she had made. Every night since it had happened, he dreamed of what had happened in the chapel. And every time the detail magnified itself so that it seemed even more heinous a crime than it had the night before. Since the death of the Marquis, the Abbé had dreamt of him in the dream too, sometimes egging him on, sometimes writing his story, so that everyone in the world could know what he had done. The Abbé looked up at Valcour, who was frowning at him. "Cleante? Why?" he asked finally. Valcour shrugged. Long gone were the days when Valcour tripped over himself, desperate to please the Abbé, and follow his orders. Valcour only listened to one man now; Royer-Collard. "He is insistent." "Then I shall go to him." The Abbé rose. "You have to get permission first from the Doctor." The Abbé turned to the man. "Why?" he asked. "I was told to not let anyone—" The Abbé cut him off quickly, a streak of annoyance creeping into his calm voice. "Give me the key." Valcour obeyed, hesitantly, handing the key to him. The Abbé moved quickly down the corridor. The floor where Cleante used to reside was still being repaired after the fire and they had been moved to a different floor now. When the Abbé found the cell, and peered through the little window in the door, he saw Cleante crouched in a corner of the cell. "Cleante?" The man looked up. His eyes were wild; much more so than the Abbé had ever seen them before. There was fear in them too. He hated to think what monstrosities Royer-Collard had inflicted upon the poor man. Cleante got to his feet and rushed over to the door. He pushed a bony hand through the bars, which the Abbé gripped. "Abbé, I did not think you would come." Tears were in his eyes. "Step back and I will open the door. Valcour said you had something you wished to tell me." He unlocked the door and stepped inside, stepping behind the door, a habit he was used to doing, as it both prevented the inmates from escaping from their cells, and would grant him an easy exit if one of them should become violent. "I do indeed, Abbé..." Cleante sat back down in the corner of the room. There was silence for a few minutes. "What is it? Speak freely," urged the Abbé. "I think they've flown off and left me," replied Cleante resolutely, gazing out of the tiny window in the cell. "Who have left you, Cleante?" "The birds. I am but a man again." "Surely it is far better to be a man than a bird?" replied the Abbé, used to having this sort of conversation. "Nay, Abbé, that is incorrect. As a bird my mind was not large enough to think too much about things. In this form, all I ever seem to do is think..." He looked into the Abbé's eyes directly for the first time since he had stepped into the room. "Madeleine's death plays heavily on my mind." "You cared for her?" asked the Abbé, the breaths suddenly sticking in his throat. Every mention of her name sent shivers down his spine. "I know something..." "What is it you know?" replied the Abbé. "The night of her murder... the night we told her a story. The last night I was free as a bird." The Abbé leaned against the door, and sighed. "I know that you told her a story. She asked the Marquis to tell her a final story." "No, it is not that... when we were released from our cells, I was standing nearby. I could not remember where the exit was... but I saw... I saw Royer-Collard outside the linen pantry. I could hear her screams... but of course I could not help her." "Why not?" asked the Abbé, staring hard at the pathetic man sprawled on the floor. He didn't like to be taken back to the night of Madeleine's murder. He was shivering now, as little flashes of her pale face, as he pulled it from the laundry vat flashed in his mind. He tried to force the images away. "A mere bird can hardly prevent a murder. How should I have opened the door?" Cleante sighed. "But that is beside the point, the Doctor, he went to open the door. But then he listened... and he stopped and stepped away... he left her there with Bouchon." The Abbé's knees suddenly gave way and he sank to the floor of the cell, his lips parted slightly in a silent 'Oh'. A tear slid down his face. "I was afraid to tell you, Abbé. After all, I could feel nothing but helplessness that in the body of a bird, I myself could not save her for you." "For me?" whispered the Abbé. "Indeed," replied Cleante. "You loved her." The Abbé smiled weakly. Even a madman could see his feelings for Madeleine; he must have betrayed his feelings much more than he suspected. A fool is a man who wears his heart on his sleeve; that was what his mother had told him once. "As a child of God, I loved her," he replied gently. "Would God forgive me for not helping her, Abbé?" asked Cleante. "Of course," replied the Abbé in a whisper. "After all, as you say, what could a bird have done?" They sat in silence for some minutes. The Abbé ran over in his mind what he just been informed of, and then finally got to his feet. "Thank you, Cleante... you have made things a lot clearer in my head." With that comment, he left the cell, locking it again behind him, and walked down to the office on the ground floor, that had been taken over by Royer-Collard. He knocked on the door, as it was closed. "Who is it?" replied Royer-Collard in a hard voice. "The Abbé de Coulmier. I need to speak with you." "Enter." The Abbé opened the door. Royer-Collard sat at a writing desk, bent low over the paper upon which he was scrawling, the expression on his face most ill-natured. "I have a few matters to discuss with you myself." He set down his pen and leaned back in the seat, as the Abbé moved into the room and closed the door behind him. The shift in power was now very obvious; the Abbé de Coulmier had gone from being respected by the doctor, to being nothing more than an underling, another person to order around. "Valcour tells me you paid a visit to Cleante... that is not advised, Abbé... talking to you seems to mar the good progress I am making on him." "Good progress?" questioned the Abbé. "By that, I assume you mean striking fear into his soul with your tortures?" "Watch your tongue, Abbé." The Abbé scowled, recognising the irony his words. After all, if the Marquis had 'watched his tongue', he might not have lost his. The Abbé gave a little shudder; he couldn't blame that one on Royer-Collard. So angry was he, that he himself had given the order for such a monstrous deed to be performed on the Marquis. He stepped lightly across the room and sank into the chair on the opposite side of the desk to Royer-Collard. "Cleante had some very interesting things to tell me, Doctor," said the Abbé softly. The rational thoughts that usually buzzed in his head were fast filtering out of it. He gripped the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles became white. The doctor had resumed his paperwork, and replied without looking up, in the tone of someone bored of the conversation. "Did he, indeed? I am sure he rants about many things... that you should find them interesting is... perhaps worrying." The Abbé ignored the snipe at him. "He saw you," he replied, even more softly. He could feel tears welling up in his eyes again. Royer-Collard looked up again, raising an eyebrow. "He saw me? Well, yes, he's seen me many times. Usually whilst he is strapped to my calming chair..." The Abbé scowled again. "What sort of a man derives pleasure from seeing these pour unfortunate souls in agony, in fear and in torment?" He stood up, his voice rising, tears now falling down his pale cheeks. "What sort of a man leaves a girl when she is screaming for someone to rescue her? When she needs someone to save her, what sort of a man would pretend he has not heard, close the door and walk away?" Royer-Collard looked surprised for a second, then triumphant. "Abbé, you rant. I have always wondered whether your pure mind would be tainted by the inmates here but I never thought you could invent such lies." "Cleante saw you," replied the Abbé fiercely. "Indeed? And the word of a madman who frequently believes he is a bird is so very reliable." "You deny it then?" asked the Abbé angrily. Royer-Collard got up and stepped around the table. He moved very close to the Abbé. "You want the truth, Abbé?" he whispered softly. "The truth is that you seek to blame anyone other than yourself. You are so full of guilt that you are relieved the chambermaid is dead, because she is no longer a burden on your thoughts, and a temptation to break your vows to God." "That is not true." "She was a parasite, Abbé. All she wanted was to meddle with your head and the Marquis'. She played you both for fools. She is better off out of the way. Why else would you send her away?" "Don't try to justify your deeds by saying you did it for the better of this place!" shouted the Abbé. "You are a weak man, Abbé," retorted Royer-Collard. Something just seemed to flick on inside the Abbé's head and he reached out and grAbbéd the doctor's throat in his hands. He pushed him back until he was pressed against the wall. "Weak, am I?" he replied to him. "Tell me, do your same warped rules apply for yourself? I know if you died, it would be a great improvement to the asylum... maybe if I just let you die... if I did not let go of you now... I could... I would be helping this place and thus it would be justifiable?" The doctor struggled against him. "Kill me... and... you'll lose... everything!" he replied. The Abbé scowled. At that moment the door opened and in walked Valcour. He paused for a moment, and then ran over and pulled the Abbé off Royer-Collard. Valcour held the Abbé against him, an arm twisted behind his back. "The man is insane!" exclaimed the doctor, massaging his throat, where the Abbé's hands had left red marks. "He was intent on killing me! He said I would breathe my last!" "I did no such thing!" shouted the Abbé. "I only wanted to scare you." The Abbé turned his head to Valcour. "Do not trust this lying wretch of a man, Valcour!" he demanded. But Valcour had a new expression in his eyes; it was a mixture of anger and pity. And it was aimed at him. "This man is a danger to those around him," replied Royer-Collard. "You killed her!" yelled the Abbé, struggling against Valcour, who gripped him tighter. "Take him away." The cell was cold. That was what first hit the Abbé. He had been stripped of his cassock, and the thin linen of the shirt provided no warmth. He was used to a fire in the hearth in his room. He looked down at his shaking hands; they were chained together. Royer-Collard betrayed him. He had been sent to a cell to be inspected by a physician who would decide whether he was an attempted murderer or a madman. Either way, it was not good. He'd either be in prison or in an asylum, and knowing Royer-Collard's mind, the Abbé knew if the latter happened, he would be bound for Charenton, where he would no doubt suffer unspeakable torments at the hands of his old employees. His mind no longer felt his own. His temper was always bubbling beneath the surface. How could he survive inside Charenton? He was not mad now but he soon would be if he was forced into living that lifestyle. He was scared. More scared than he had ever felt in his life. He knelt down on the dirty floor of the cell. "Please, Lord, prove your unending forgiveness and help me," he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. "I am truly sorry for my sins... for my sins against Madeleine... it was meant for love... it was just... love..." "Who are you speaking with, Abbé?" He looked up. A tall, sallow skinned man had entered the cell. He was so involved in his thoughts and prayers he hadn't even noticed. "God," he replied solemnly. "God?" The man's eyes narrowed. "Is he here in this room with you?" The physician made as if to look around the room, looking for God. "Don't be an idiot," replied the Abbé, standing up. "I was praying... I am, after all, a man of God." The man looked him over. "You don't seem like a man of God to me," he replied sensibly. The Abbé leaned against the far wall, his eyes narrowed in dislike. "They took away my clothes. Well, my cassock." He folded his arms over his shirt. "No, you misunderstand me. Why would a man of God try to kill a respected Doctor?" "Have you ever been to Charenton, Doctor?" replied the Abbé in a whisper. The doctor shook his head. "The respected doctor you speak of treats the inmates at Charenton worse than he would treat vermin!" The doctor frowned and the Abbé stepped towards him. "Charenton is filled with the screams of its patients, it never used to be like that. And he..." The Abbé paused, softened his voice again and continued. "Royer-Collard let a girl die... he just... left her to die." The physician nodded. "Did he?" he questioned. The Abbé nodded, stepped closer. "You have to help me," he said as quickly as he could. "He means to destroy me! I fear for myself around me and for the safety of the poor people within Charenton. They need a kind hand, not tortures and pain." "And why did you try to kill the doctor?" asked the physician. "He threatened me... he... I was not trying to kill him." "The bruises on his neck show you used excessive force." "I only wanted to prove to him I was not weak... I would not have let him die." The doctor raised an eyebrow. "Well, thank you, Abbé, for this little chat." And with that, he was gone, through the doors, and before he was even told, he just knew where he was bound for. Why had so many visited him as he journeyed to Charenton, chained and led by two thickset men? He was now nothing more than another grim entertainment for the people who enjoyed watching the downfall of men, watching the blade of the guillotine swing down upon its victim's neck. The Abbé whose work at an asylum sent himself insane. It was even better than watching some French aristocrat being killed for treason or murder. They shouted things at him, angry that such a weak man had had so much power in their society. Once he was locked up in Charenton, it began to spread like wildflower that there had been a sordid affair between him and Maddie, which had resulted in her death. Some even seemed to suggest that it was he who had incited Bouchon to kill her, as he realised too many had learned of their forbidden affair. The more he tried to protest his innocence to people, the more they seemed to see it as an admission of guilt. His cell at Charenton was small. He was denied any kid of privilege, and only had a few sheets on the floor as a bed, as it had been spread amongst the people of Charenton that he was a grave risk to himself, and, with even the most mundane item, could manage to injure himself with it. He had had to beg a chambermaid for the sheets, and that was only because she had felt sorry for him sleeping on the stone floor among the rats. He was rarely allowed out, partly because it was believed he would try to kill himself or Royer-Collard, who since his admission to Charenton, had kept the place running. In fact, the only person who showed him a kind hand, apart from the chambermaid who pitied him, was Madame LeClerc. She would sometimes come down at night and unlock the padlock on the grate at the bottom of the heavy metal door, and kneel on the floor to speak to him, and ask him about Maddie. "I don't care what anyone else says about you, Abbé," she would tell him. "To me, you are still a man of God. I know you never done any wrong by Maddie—" not strictly true, but the Abbé was hardly about to reveal to Madeleine's own mother, the horror of what he did in the chapel "—I believe that horrible doctor did not save my daughter..." Here Madame LeClerc dropped her head and sighed. "I think about her always," he whispered sadly. "I loved her... I wish... I wish I had taken her away... from this wretched place." He looked at Madame LeClerc. "Both of you." "It does not do to dwell on dreams. Good night, Abbé." Then she closed the hatch, and walked away. It was not until his third week inside the asylum, just as the loneliness of every monotonous day began to play tricks on his mind, that he was called out by Royer-Collard's men to suffer the torments of what Royer-Collard called his 'treatment'. His treatment entailed many things, each more painful than the last, until at the end of it, he could not stand, let alone speak, and lie in a twitching heap on his dirty sheets, gasping with pain and sorrow. It was about a week after this he suddenly grew the desire to write. Fictional writing was never an important thing in the Abbé's life, but then when he had run Charenton, he had been kept rather busy. He kept hearing the Marquis' oily voice inside his head, demanding him that he should write a tale... tell a story... seek solace in the only thing that the Marquis had found eased his mind. One night, when the same chambermaid who pitied him, brought him his meal, no knife and fork of course, in case he used them upon himself, that he slipped a hand through the hatch and caught hers. "Please," he whispered. "Please help me." The girl gasped as his cold shaking hand touched hers. She wasn't used to being touched by the inmates. She said nothing but did not break eye contact with him. "Please bring me a quill and a piece of parchment." "They tell me you are in league with the devil and you know spells that would summon him here," she replied. "I am a man of God," replied the Abbé. "Why should I be in league with the devil?" "You are not a man of God, Sir, you are a murderer." The words stung him more than any of the treatments that had been inflicted upon him during the day. "I have murdered no one!" he exclaimed, alarmed. The girl got up, shocked by the sudden rise in his voice. She closed the hatch and left him alone, where he just tried against his knees, and wished that God would grant him forgiveness by letting him die sooner rather than later. |