Icons had once been a comforting gift. Those medals which were fashioned in the likenesses of saints were like talismans of protection--lending their wearer a symbolic reminder and presence of their own spiritual patron. The rosary had always been as common and as ubiquitous as wine at the dining table. Like any vaguely devout woman of her own class, the woman now styled Marguerite Larousse had happily taken up possession of many of these things. Even for a woman in her position, a leisurely communion with the Divine was accepted and indeed even expected. In her days of acting, before the Change, she had taken these symbols for granted. It was, after all, just as well to bedeck one's abode with religious iconography as not. And, well, if it helped save her soul in the end, so much the better. She'd probably be needing such salvation anyway, in the direction she was headed.
But the Change had destroyed all flippancy Marguerite had had about such objects. Indeed, in a strange fashion, after become a vampire, she had had something of a religious epiphany. She noticed the change when seated at her small dressing table. Into the frame of the mirror she had inserted a rather common paper icon of the Blessed Mother, and one of St. Jane Chantal besides. She scarcely noticed these things when making herself ready for the theatre. They were commonplace enough.
But today was different. When Marguerite toyed with her brazen locks, her eyes fell to the up until now blandly printed icon of the Blessed Mother. What had until today been an insipid yet kindly countenance engraved for the public consumption had now become something altogether other. Those blue eyes seemed to pierce into Marguerite's own. The hands clasped in prayer felt as though they had tightened around the actress's throat. She had seen a ghost, or worse. And Jane Chantal stood beside the Blessed Mother, on the opposite side of the frame, looking on in grim disapproval.
Without thinking, Marguerite reached out a finger to touch the icon of the Virgin Mary, as though to see if it were real. As soon as her finger hit the paper, she gasped silently. It were as though she had set the pad of her finger to a boiling kettle. Eyes wide, she tried to massage out the pain, and backed away from the icon.
The next week, Marguerite stood outside a small convent with a compact wooden box. She had arranged a meeting there with one of the sisters. The order had taken care of her education as a child, and she had often given gifts of her income to the convent. After half an hour of conversation, Marguerite left Sister Heloise with every bit of religious ephemera she possessed--"for the good of the poor and the convent," she said. After this, she never returned to the convent, though that place received the benefit of large, anonymous donations throughout the next many decades.
The Present
Marguerite found that in this case, she liked to hide more than anything else. She had tried for the past day to be as inconspicuous as possible, not wanting to give away anything. What had first been a jolly satire so as not to give away her identity as a woman of ill repute had becomes something dreadfully dire on the very sight of the priest. She was, as ever, convinced that he had had dealings with the Duc d'Enfrit. After all, how many French priests could there be in England, really? It could be no coincidence.
She had watched the others. The situation was driving them mad, to more or less extent. The house, she was convinced, had been created to torture the psyche of the individual, to punish them. And she knew well enough that she deserved punishment for her many crimes. She could not, however--would not--accept this. So she kept to the child's room, making her place of rest that miniature, creaking bed. She had read several of the little picture books on the shelf. She had found all of the child's secret hiding places. She even sang softly to one of the dolls. All to keep the dreadful fear which had threatened to well up from within her and burst forth into something quite dangerous.
The creak of the door frightened the poor vampiress. Her eyes widened, the beat of her deadened heart racing. John, let it be John, please. But she knew the slender, elegantly shaped hand which reached into the room before she saw its owner. Priests, she found, had very peculiar hands. They were unused to manual labor, and finely shaped, she thought, for the sole purpose of holding the Sacraments. Those of Fr Verdoux were no exception. Her own hands covered her mouth, stifling a scream which was silent nonetheless.
"Good heavens, Mrs. Stoker!" cried the priest, having completely appeared in the threshold. He saw the expression on her face, and it was strange, to say the least. It was such that he feared her fainting in a fit. "Please, take comfort! It is only I."
Only I! It were as though he had said it was only a great earthquake, only the destruction of a city, only the worst performance she had ever given in her career, only the Apocalypse itself! But she forced herself to act. After over eighty years as an actress, it would be perfectly daft to not use her talents in a manner which might save her skin.
"I am so very sorry, Father!" she cried, rising from the bed where she had beens seated. Her finger dug nervously into her skirts. "When you reached into the room, I thought I had seen some sort of spirit or the like. I can tell you, it gave me quite the fright!"
"I do apologize for startling you, Mrs. Stoker. I was not aware that you had remained here. Indeed, I do not wish to perturb you, but it would be best, I think, if you retired downstairs with the other ladies, would it not? I am concerned for your safety, as this is a very peculiar situation in which we have all been placed." It seemed to the priest that the supposed matron's frightened demeanor had not at all dissipated, but rather had been augmented by his words. His brow furrrowed, but he made no verbal note of it. It might have been that she was one of those multitude of overly nervous women, expected to act irrationally as a result of various societal mores.
"I-I," Marguerite--that is, Elizabeth--stuttered. He didn't seem to know who she was, but then, so many people were good at pretending to be other than what they were. It could have been that he had refused to reveal his intentions, or would use this opportunity to draw out her fear, in a sadistic manner similar to that of the Duc himself. "I found that I was hoping to remain here. It is such a charming room and reminds me of my own daughter. She is only five, you know. I hope that all is well."
"I am sure she is well taken care of, Mrs. Stoker," replied the priest. Even such an astute observer of human nature as Fr Verdoux could only be aware of so much. For all he knew, the woman's improvisation of a child was as true as the black of his cossack. "However, we seem to be in an unenviable position, no? You were brought here under some delusion or other, I suspect?" It was a question, yes, but from intervieiwing other parties in the house, he had gathered that she would answer in the affirmative.
"Oh yes," she replied instantly. "I had thought I saw a dog that looked rather like my own. I had wondered what poor Bram could be doing this far from home. You see, I am rather attached to the little beast, and I broke my heart when I saw him trapped in this house."
"A dog, you say?" Fr Verdoux raised an eyebrow. For some reason it seemed that women of a certain class loved coddling their animals. He had even come across some cases in which these ladies took better care of their dogs than they did their own children. Of course, he disapproved of the practice, but there were, he imagined, worse sins.
"Oh yes!" Marguerite said with feigned enthusiasm. She, too, had come across such matrons in Paris. One particular lady liked best to dress her pug in a little gentleman's suit. Poor creature! "You see, Father, Bram is such a small puppy. He is a lap spaniel--oh, I don't know what I would have done if he had been trapped here!"
"Well, it seems there are some small blessings to come of this," replied Fr Verdoux, smiling indulgently. "Now, I am afraid I must leave you for the moment. Please, do come downstairs when possible. If you are in need of any necessities (other than food, alas), please do come to me with your problems and I will try my best."
"God be with you, Father!" Marguerite cried enthusiastically. His kindness was so unlike the nature of the Duc that she was almost certain that she had been wrong on the first occassion--she felt it were so.
"And also with you, Mrs. Stoker," Fr Antoine rejoined conventionally, nothing of malice in his smile or eyes. He took Marguerite's hand and patted it in a comforting gesture, then retreated to the rest of the house, closing the door quietly behind him.