The Breath of the Rose. Andrea Japp

you know that I did not?

      My nights have become a graveyard where I meet you all, my beloved ghosts: Henri, my sweet love, my husband; Philippine, whose precious blood runs through our veins; Benoît, my dear Benoît; Clémence, Claire, my sisters, my warriors.

      And she who is one of us. What does she really know of her true destiny?

      I am tormented by anguish, Claire, by the thought that we might be mistaken, that it is all an illusion. What if there is no key, no door?

      We are like that game of tarot the Bohemians have recently brought back from Egypt, or China. We play our cards without knowing their real significance. For who can truly claim to know?

      I am afraid, Claire, and yet I cannot name my fears. There is a danger emanating from these stout walls, these sombre archways where I believed I would find peace. I sense it in every passageway, on every stair. An evil beast inhabits these places now. No one can see or hear him and few of us are aware of his presence. It would take Clémence’s courage or your foresight to defeat him. Or Philippine’s triumphant resolve. I am merely a frightened old woman, who has convinced herself she is erudite and therefore knows all there is to know about the human soul. And look at me now, alone, my limbs crippled with pain, plagued by visions I am powerless to comprehend, terrified by the depth of the abyss into which I find myself staring. I shiver with an inner cold that tells me evil is among us. It escorted Florin through these doors. It crept into our midst and has been spying upon us ever since, infiltrating our conversations, even our prayers. It is biding its time. Why, I do not know.

      Do you remember the small town in Tuscany our parents took us to when we were young? Do you remember the peasant children brandishing a devil made of brightly coloured cloth and how it petrified me? I screamed and sobbed and refused to move. You rushed over and snatched it from them, and they looked on in anger as you hurled it to the ground and trampled on it. Then you walked towards me smiling and said: you give him strength by believing in him. The devil is generous. He is the scapegoat for all our sins and accepts the blame at no great cost to us.

      You were right, dear sister, and I would be excommunicated if anyone were ever to find out what I believe. That there is no devil. That the eternal battle between good and evil exists in man alone. I have met one of evil’s willing adepts; I have touched him. He smiled at me and he was beautiful.

      I am afraid, dear Claire.

      Adélaïde Condeau, the sister in charge of the kitchens and meals at Clairets Abbey, scoured the contents of one of the cabinets in the herbarium, which was crammed with phials, sachets made of jute, earthenware flasks and a host of other receptacles. She almost felt guilty for being there without first asking permission from the Abbess or the apothecary nun, Annelette Beaupré, who treated the herbarium as if it belonged to her. She defended it jealously and at times with surprising vehemence. It was rumoured that Annelette, whose father and grandfather had both been physicians, had never accepted not being allowed in turn to practise their art and had joined the abbey because it was the only community that permitted her to do so. Adélaïde could not swear to the truth of these statements, though they might explain in part the apothecary nun’s arrogance and bitterness. Whatever the case, Adélaïde was in need of some sage with which to season the magnificent hares sent by a haberdasher13 from Nogent-le-Rotrou the previous day, and which she was planning to liven up with a purée made from plums picked after an early frost.

      Sage was a common remedy used in the treatment of headaches, stomach pains, paralysis, epilepsy, jaundice, swellings, aching legs, fainting fits and a host of other ailments. The apothecary nun must have stocked up on it during the summer months, especially since this medicinal herb also made a delicious sauce when mixed with white wine, cloves, ginger and black pepper. Adélaïde searched in vain for a large bag embroidered with the words Salvia officinalis. She found Pulicaria dysenterica, Salicaria, Iris foetida, nettle, borage and betony, but no sage. Exasperated, she wondered whether the apothecary nun had placed the bag on one of the top shelves. After all, she was as tall and robustly built as any man. The young nun dragged over a stool and clambered onto it. She saw no sign of any sage. Groping with her fingers behind the first row of sachets and phials, she discovered a jute bag that had fallen down the back. She pulled it from its hiding place.

      Adélaïde jumped off her perch and emptied the contents of the little bag onto the table used for weighing and making up preparations. The sour-smelling yellow-brown flour had to be rye, but what were those little black flecks? She leaned over to smell it and the pungent odour made her recoil.

      ‘Sister Adélaïde!’ a voice rang out behind her.

      The young nun almost leapt into the air and clasped her hand to her chest. She turned to face the apothecary nun, whose vast medicinal knowledge was no excuse for her tetchiness, not in Adélaïde’s eyes anyway.

      ‘What are you doing here?’ the other woman continued in an accusatory tone.

      ‘I just … I just …’

      ‘You just what, pray?’

      The young girl in charge of meals finally managed to stammer out an explanation as to what she was doing in Sister Annelette’s jealously guarded sanctuary.

      ‘In short, I was looking for some sage for my sauce.’

      ‘You could have asked me.’

      ‘I know, I know. Only I couldn’t find you anywhere so I decided to look for it myself. I even stood on a stool and …’

      ‘If you had a modicum of good sense, dear sister,’ remarked the other woman disdainfully, ‘you would know that I am hardly likely to keep a remedy I use so frequently in such an inaccessible place. Sage is …’

      Annelette paused in mid-sentence. Her eye had alighted on the mound of flour on the table top. She walked over to it, frowning, and demanded:

      ‘What is this?’

      ‘Well, I confess I don’t know,’ said Adélaïde. ‘I found that bag on the top shelf. It had fallen behind the others.’

      Incensed, Annelette sharply corrected the girl:

      ‘My bags and phials do not fall; they are arranged in perfect rows after being weighed and listed in my inventory. You must be aware that some of these preparations are highly toxic and I need to be able to identify their content and usage at a glance.’

      It was the apothecary nun’s turn now to lean over the small mound of powder. She pushed aside the blackish clusters with the tip of her forefinger. When she raised her head again, her face had turned deathly pale. Her voice betrayed none of its usual arrogance as she stammered:

      ‘D-dear God!’

      ‘What!’

      ‘This is ergot.’

      ‘Ergot?’

      ‘Ergot is a fungus that grows on rye - small kernels form on the ears. Ancient texts claim that it causes gangrene, giving the limbs the blackened and withered aspect of charred skin. The corpses look as though they have been burnt. Some scholars attribute “St Anthony’s fire”14 to it – the violent delirium accompanied by hallucinations15 we hear so much about, which some fools take to be visitations or possession. This powerful poison is probably responsible for wiping out entire villages.’16

      ‘But what do you use it for?’ asked the increasingly anxious Adélaïde.

      ‘Have you taken leave of your senses, Sister Adélaïde! Do you really imagine that I would prepare such quantities of a harmful substance like this? Admittedly, I always keep a small sachet of it – for it possesses excellent properties. It relieves headaches,17 incontinence and haemorrhages18 in older women. But never as much as this.’

      ‘How