Free The Witch of Painted Sorrows by Rose M J Page B

have felt what I felt, but first wanted to hear what I thought it was before he acknowledged it.
    “As if . . . someone just flew in . . .”
    “Or maybe flew out. Certain cultures used bells to chase away unwanted spirits and negative energies, especially from a place of worship.”
    The bell’s last reverberations surrounded us, embracing us in a final melancholy echo.
    “Do you believe in unwanted spirits?” I asked.
    He had a faraway look in his eyes. “I don’t believe in spirits, wanted or unwanted, but fascination in the occult and the supernatural has exploded, and we hear about such things all the time. A few years ago more than forty thousand occultists attended a Congrès Spirite et Spiritualiste here in Paris. On the one hand it’s a phenomena. On the other, it’s nothing new. There have been mystics and Freemasons in France since the 1700s, but interest does seem to be greater than ever.”
    “Do you think there’s a tangible reason?”
    “I’ve read it’s not unusual for people to become overly superstitious and nervous at the end of a century—perhaps that’s all there is to it. Or perhaps we are experiencing a backlash against positivism, naturalism, and secularism. It’s possible the occult movement has escalated because we are searching for answers that we can’t find through science, reason, and facts. Sometimes I think this preoccupation with the supernatural demonstrates the real tensions wrestling for the soul of France.”
    From his expression and the tone in his voice, even I, who didn’t know him well, knew that all this was troubling him.
    “Let’s see what is under this dirt.” I picked up a rag and swiped the wall. “Aren’t you supposed to be here inspecting the rooms and making an inventory? This is definitely something that should be included in the museum.”
    As I spoke, I felt a burst of chill air blow through the windows. Itseemed to reach down, as if it had arms, and press against me, almost as if it were trying to communicate.
    “Yes, let’s see what we have,” he said as he grabbed another rag and began helping dust off the murals.
    Under the layers of grime brilliant colors appeared, fresh and vibrant as if the fresco had been painted just weeks ago. The painting was High Renaissance, lush, evocative, colorful, and extremely eroticized, even more so than the Ingres, and I was embarrassed to be looking at it with a man I didn’t know.
    “It’s the story of a woman . . . and a man with wings . . . ,” I said.
    “It appears to be an illustration of the myth of Psyche and Cupid,” Monsieur Duplessi said in a faraway voice, as if transfixed by the beautiful and strange allegory we were uncovering.
    “I think you’re right.”
    Cupid had strong limbs, penetrating eyes, and was well endowed. Psyche was voluptuous and sensual. I could almost feel how soft her skin was, how seductive the perfume was that she was wearing.
    We made our way around the room, revealing more of the story, until we eventually found the spot where, in a darkened bedroom, the artist had painted the doomed lovers in a deep embrace, coupling.
    I was riveted to the lovers’ scene. I’d never known any desire that strong in my life.
    “I wonder why the style changes here . . . and here,” Monsieur Duplessi said, in what I was sure was an effort to distract us, practically strangers, from the intimate nature of the paintings themselves.
    We had reached the corner of the room where two tall objects loomed. Covered, it was impossible to guess what they might be. Pulling the sheet off the first, I exposed an easel holding a painting, its back to me. There was a brush on the shelf with dried ruby-red paint on its bristles. I picked it up. Holding it, I knew I’d found what I was looking for. I had no doubt. Here, right here, was the heart of the house.
    I pulled off the other covering, revealing a second identical easel. Also with a painting on it, also with its back to the