Nearly a year and a half passed, marked notably by the birth of the Duke of Orléans’ son. In political circles, the lacklustre triumvirate of Guizot, Thiers, and Odilon Barrot(118) proved utterly incapable of wresting control of the government. The Marquis de Cluses, meanwhile, held fast to his secluded way of life, his legitimist allegiances fixed firmly overseas, even as his religious beliefs fled his mind all at once.
One day, as he dozed lightly in the library, leaning against the table with Count Rochefort’s memoirs open to the account of the Marquis de Rambouillet—who had died in the Flanders war and appeared before Monsieur de Préci to reveal his fatal injury before vanishing—he felt himself suddenly possessed by a familiar force. It was the same power that had once drawn him to this very table. Instinctively, he reached for a pencil, pulled paper close, and with surprising agility began tracing letters in Thérèse’s unmistakable hand.
Leaning forward with neck extended, he tried to read along as his right hand raced across the page. Yet it moved with such frenzied speed—palm held high, arm stretched out like a rigid bar—that he could scarcely make out what was being written.
“Is that you?” he breathed.
“Yes. All will become clear soon enough,” came the answer.
Agénor felt his anxiety melt away as he returned to his reading, watching with wonder as the freshly written pages moved of their own accord, floating through the air to stack themselves, one by one, beside the blank sheets.
The abrupt entrance of Monsieur de Caristy, demanding certain directives, did nothing to halt the flow of writing. Instructions were given, conversation ensued, matters were debated—all while the pen moved ceaselessly. The spectacle left the good fellow utterly dumbfounded, so much so that he completely forgot to fidget with his treasured cornelian snuffbox.
After the chevalier had taken his leave and some hours of undisturbed solitude had passed, here follows a condensed version of what the manuscript revealed:
“As we approach the time when you must recognise me in a different form, in a new embodiment, I wish to dispel your misconceptions and make certain written revelations. You must preserve these, return to them, and never doubt their truth when you see them written as though I had penned them myself.
“I cannot reveal everything, for you dwell in flesh and must live within a certain veil of ignorance—this limited awareness being your very reason for existence here below. But I implore you: do not fear these truths. Instead, weave them together with your existing knowledge and those deeper yearnings that your physical body resists. They will prove sufficient, fortifying you against much hardship.
“There is but one God, eternal, unchangeable, all-powerful, supremely good and just in every action.
“His first act was to create the Spirits, bringing forth the invisible world—the normal state of being that predated all else and will outlive all. Later, He drew together the dispersed matter floating in the void to form the globes, bringing into being the solid world of matter around us—a subordinate creation whose existence is not essential, for it could vanish or never have been without affecting the fundamental nature of the spiritual world.
“Thus the universe came to be, embracing beings of every nature—the living and the lifeless, the tangible and the intangible.
“Endowed with equal intelligence, free will, and intrinsic knowledge of good and evil, the Spirits were given the potential to glimpse greater truths, to learn by degrees, to better themselves, and to journey upward toward the Creator through persistent effort and endurance of hardships. The various globes, each physically unique, serve as way stations—intermediate testing grounds that become ever more hospitable as one climbs the spiritual ladder.
“So you see, there is no hell. The soul—or spirit, if you prefer—is never eternally punished simply because it was associated with theft, crime, or any depravity. Instead, it simply stops progressing for a time, sometimes for centuries. This explains why, on Earth as on other worlds, we often find the same spiritual identities returning, though clothed in completely different physical forms.
“One either pays for past wrongs, lingers to finish incomplete work, or, having nearly reached purity, assists in carrying forward God’s beautifully orchestrated designs.”
With visible trembling, Agénor stopped reading, clearly disturbed. Yesterday’s devout Catholic in him couldn’t simply brush aside the religion that had, until this very day, so fully met his spiritual needs. Yet after a brief pause, his thirst for understanding drove him back to the text, and he resumed reading, eagerly absorbing each word.
“Since Earth sits well below the summit of the divine ladder of worlds, you have certainly experienced several past lives already—and you should prepare yourself for others yet to come.
“Between one life and the next, before rejoining the vast cosmic swirl, the soul recovers its true nature, regains all its memories, enjoys far greater freedom, becomes a pure force, and never ceases to influence both moral and physical aspects of existence.
“We spirits possess what you might call a semi-material component—a spiritual casing that enables us to engage with physical matter, to release ourselves when our material form decays, and to manipulate it even after we’ve departed. This extraordinary essence, unaffected by air, fire, water, or earth, grants us the power to take any form we desire and to move as quickly as thought itself.
“It is during these times, if nothing holds us back, that we can make ourselves known to the living, sometimes even becoming tangible, appearing precisely as we were when we died—wise or foolish, good or wicked, not yet free from our earthly attachments, yet fully empowered by the extraordinary capabilities of our ethereal being.
“For those still in physical form, strong desire and persistent effort are all that’s required to draw us near and convince us to communicate… But beware the domination of spirits from beyond! Especially when a person becomes the slave or accomplice of a base, unworthy, or spiritually backward entity.
“Do you wish to grow in spiritual merit? Do you need assistance through your suffering? Call out to us, or better yet, let your quiet acceptance speak for itself… The way Spirits influence you isn’t always evident… Some are forever ready to help… They’ll remind you—speaking in a voice you’ll take for your own—that self-centredness and sensual indulgence reduce human beings to beasts… Apply yourself, seek to advance, make yourself useful with your gifts… Never undermine your character: pride is mere stupidity, and disrespecting yourself is surrender… Offer justice and shelter to those who suffer. To love them is to love God… Have you stumbled? Remember: there is no fault beyond repair. Such consoling hope! Such a treasure-house of joy!”
The first lesson was merely a summary, a basic outline. Many points remained to be clarified. The following day’s teachings would return to the subjects of the Creator, His qualities, space, infinity, the peopling of worlds, and the primordial eras—with new variations and clarifying commentary. Future sessions would delve into the passage from physical to spiritual life, omnipresence, the visual nature of Spirits, the liberation of the soul, sleep and dreams, the three kingdoms, moral laws, and countless other mysteries.
The Marquis de Cluses applied himself intently to these thoughts. It was as though someone had lit a fire at the very centre of his mind, a blaze that burned through his thoughts and turned them to vapour. Agénor began to see himself as part of a greater spiritual family, at last breathing freely in twilight regions less encircled by darkness, moving beyond death without dread. He felt an extraordinary lightness, as if he had grown wings, and experienced a rush of delicate, swift, unfathomable emotions. He was perceiving what every spiritual novice believes they glimpse from afar and sense around them in their early days: truth itself, a promising future, and something powerful yet intangible that makes all things possible.
“What if I’m deceiving myself! What if I’m being misled!” he ventured aloud.
Nagging fears seized him once more, refusing to release their grip.
“Courage, my dear! Fear nothing… What more do you need to believe I’m real?” Thérèse murmured from the astral radiance.
He swivelled his head abruptly, eyes darting to the mirror. A shadow had flitted across it as he’d been listening.
Indeed, by the door panels, two soft white forms were materialising, swelling with the breeze, shifting subtly, gradually assuming the appearance of flowing veils draped over mannequin-like figures. The veils seemed to teem with life, as if concealing living beings. Arms began to stir within their whitish folds; hands stretched out and rose upward, revealing a pair of pale, grave faces of chilling strangeness! Close to fainting, his face drained of colour, Agénor recognised his mother, then his father with his battered face and forehead slashed by a deep wound—just as he must have looked when they found his broken body after his horse had bolted.
“Have faith! Have faith!” one apparition urged.
“We’ve come to implore you to believe,” said the other.
Their voices remained exactly as he remembered.
A cry escaped the Marquis: “Mother! Mother!”
But only the wind answered. Rain was falling, whipping against the library windows, as the soft purple of evening merely glinted off the gold lettering of volumes scattered throughout the room.
For three weeks thereafter, Agénor stayed away from the small domain chapel where, every Sunday, he had previously been such a reliable and model worshipper during mass and vespers—where he had regularly received communion.
The curate of Juvigny, rather dim-witted, assumed his best, wealthiest, and unfailingly generous penitent must be nursing some ailment. So one post-luncheon afternoon in late autumn, he set off toward the château.
Neat and tidy, with his skullcap placed just so, he pleasantly traversed the short distance separating the presbytery from the sumptuous dwelling.
What fresh gift might he obtain for church upkeep… for his poor parishioners… for religious necessities? he mused as he walked.
Marvellous clouds glided through the sprawling savannahs of sky; the earth beneath still smelt pleasantly sweet.
“I say, Monsieur le Chevalier, has our noble lord been under the weather? Any news to share?” he questioned.
Astride his horse, the Chevalier de Caristy appeared from a side trail.
“Under the weather? Not that I’ve noticed,” came the reply.
“Could he have gone away on travels?” the priest wondered.
“No,” the chevalier answered simply.
“Most strange… I was given to understand… Well, never mind! Care for a pinch?” He offered his snuffbox.
“I’d enjoy that very much,” replied the chevalier with a nod.
The men partook of their beloved snuff with visible enjoyment—the walking man from the back of his hand, the horseman catching it between thumb and index finger.
Then, with brief farewells, they parted ways.
Reaching the château’s entrance, the priest rang at the gate.
But what a transformation had come over his face and bearing after just an hour’s visit, as he headed back toward the presbytery! His eyes never left the ground; his beaver hat seemed screwed down over his brow.
With stubborn resolve and clear certainty, the Marquis de Cluses had just renounced his faith in Jesus Christ and the Virgin, apologising that he could no longer believe and would no longer attend any house of worship.
Every so often, he would receive correspondence from his daughter or from Monsieur or Madame de Montégrier. It was thus he learnt, on 20th March 1840, that the young Viscountess de Prahecq was with child.
More often than not, he wrote at the behest of the force commanding his arm, chronicling most of his deeds whilst being initiated into laborious teachings and carefully shepherded through philosophical complexities—purely spiritual in nature—all the way to heights where eternal flowers bloom.
Under a stagnant moon, during one of those futile night-time hours when shadows fail to summon sleep and eyelids, seemingly teased, shut only to reopen, a sudden commotion broke the silence, rising and dispersing throughout Agénor’s chamber. Someone was walking on the garden’s heavy gravel; the low hum of voices in discussion could be heard.
What’s that? What’s happening? Is it something to do with Octave, the gamekeeper? He’s been wasting away these past four months!
A servant rushed in: “Master… Master…”
“Yes, I’m up.”
“It’s about Octave, my Lord… He’s dying…”
“I’ll dress at once.”
The moment he was ready, Agénor hastened down to the vestibule and out into the grounds, skirting the edges of the lawns, making his way along the forest groves before veering beneath their canopy until he reached the gamekeeper’s cottage.
As he walked, however, his gaze was drawn upward to dizzying heights, where unfamiliar glowing orbs and twinkling lights appeared to blossom behind the enormous, furrowed moon and familiar star clusters—the common heavenly fires appearing more beautiful and grander on this particular night. A tremor ran through him as he became aware, amidst the tree trunks, branches, and leafy domes, of bizarre shapes, wandering diaphanous entities, and an otherworldly assembly.
Reaching his destination, Agénor pushed open the door to the gamekeeper’s lodge.
He found himself facing a double line of tousled servants in hastily thrown-on clothes. Beyond them, in a cramped room heavy with the stench of fever, the dying man lay in the shadowy recess of his bed, struggling for air, mouth wide open against yellowed sheets dimly lit by a single candle.
With red-rimmed eyes and wet cheeks, his wife looked on, bewildered with grief.
“Octave,” she called, “his lordship is here!”
She acknowledged Agénor’s arrival, then nudged her husband’s shoulder, almost angry that he couldn’t acknowledge such an important visitor. Octave, unresponsive, continued his tortured breathing, his emaciated face partially obscured by an unkempt auburn beard.
“Octave! The master has come—our master!”
Against the walls hung a mirror, a weathered hunting pouch, weapons, and a holy water font of painted earthenware.
The Marquis remained standing, facing the sickbed.
All eyes were trained on the alcove, focused on the dying man’s heaving chest and the rhythmic rise and fall of his abdomen, which wheezed and groaned like a blacksmith’s bellows.
“Oh, my Octave!” cried the gamekeeper’s wife. “Dear Lord! Dear Lord! He’d eaten his beef at dinner… Drunk his glass of wine…”
Weeping now, she abandoned all efforts to contain her sorrow—anxious that those present might already have deemed her cold-hearted.
“I was just readying myself for sleep… The poor soul seemed at ease… I brought him his tea… And then it came over him… My blood ran cold…”
Reflecting on Thérèse’s daily teachings, Agénor observed with unwavering attention the unfortunate man whose throat and airway were clogging with mucous secretions.
A semblance of peace settled over him, with only a few faint, irregular rasps remaining. His eyes turned wholly white, his jaws tightened to force out his final breath—then complete silence and stillness. Octave, the gamekeeper, was no more.
Inconsolable yet finding strange comfort in having someone of importance witness her grief, his widow displayed a deferential sorrow. Meanwhile, uneasiness settled upon the assembled servants; the Marquis de Cluses remained transfixed in acute observation. He was barely breathing.
Another apparition—a sort of shape wherein colours coalesced and billions of particles joined together—appeared to him to be emerging from the lifeless body.
Gradually, the form became more spherical, enveloping itself in soft aureolar luminescence. It finished forming with a harsh face that proved, upon inspection, to be the twin of the hardy face now motionless on the bed, as if stunned by infinity.
A handful of servants broke the silence with hushed conversation; the newly widowed woman continued her subdued lamentation with small, economical movements, her eyelids bluish. Agénor became aware that he alone could distinguish what others could not see.
The spirit of the dead man, possessing an almost tangible exterior yet ignorant of the secret binding it, bubbled with disturbance, feeling itself possessed of immeasurable lightness. It scrutinised its physical shell, slowly realising it no longer dwelt within, bewildered by this severance, searching for meaning without understanding that freedom lay imminent.
No saints appeared, nor angels, nor God, nor hellish creatures to usher it into the new Jerusalem or consign it to flames. None of the Christian teachings or everyday platitudes had given it any notion of the being one transforms into. Just four partitions—the four walls of his home, exactly as they had always been—the castle domestics, many once his fellows—his tearful wife—and the inscrutable Marquis de Cluses. The hour had not yet struck when mortal ties loosen, when celestial gates open.
The guard’s spirit became disoriented in its novice state. It drifted, indistinct among the onlookers, attempting in vain to touch them, to divine their thoughts, wishing desperately to speak yet creating no sound, trying to elicit speech without understanding how to hear the living. This prompted Agénor to leave the scene and head back to his bedchamber.
Empty of presence, the leafy bowers slumbered in the moonlight, the stellar dome appearing shallower than before.
A rainy season had begun.
Léon Hennique Novel 