The Angel Asrael

by S. Henry Berthoud

  Feigning an insouciant indifference, therefore, he lay down nonchalantly at the foot of the throne, propped himself up on one elbow, and started speaking in these terms:

  “Satan knows that about two years ago, the efforts of the spirits of the infernal empire to doom humans were obtaining no other result than bringing Christians who, sooner or later, could not fail to become the prey of Hell. No soul predestined for Heaven, no soul that was an object of predilection for the angelic slaves of Satan’s rival, were deserting the road of salvation to enter that of perdition. Paradise was triumphant over Hell, and every time that one of us, following the terrible conditions that you have laid down, exposed his spiritual nature and attempted, under the penalty of losing it, to seduce a privileged soul, he returned alone after the expiration of the term of his voyage. Then you stripped him of his wings and relegated him disdainfully among the souls of mortals suffering in our gulfs.

  “No demon any longer wanted to run such dangerous risks; I smiled with pity at their pusillanimity and the incompetence of those whom the example frightened so much, and I departed. You gave me three years to accomplish the work of the conquest of one human, and now, scarcely two years after I left, I am bringing you three victims. But as you have said, the work was so facile that truly, I admit, I was wrong to bring them with so much racket. I should have thrown them myself, without notifying you, into some obscure corner of Hell, and waited until hazard enabled me to talk to you and inform you of my success.

  “Two years ago, scarcely had I quit Hell and reached the atmosphere of the terrestrial globe than I sensed myself embalmed by a pure and sweet perfume of virtue, a perfume whose divine impressions human organs only experience vaguely, but which the rebel angels cannot mistake. In spite of my demonic wisdom, which makes me appreciate good and evil at their true value—which is to say, to comprehend that both are vain distinctions—that perfume of virtue produced in me a dolorous vertigo, which nevertheless did not lack a sort of charm. I immediately headed for the region from which it was exhaled, and I found myself above the Château de Beaumetz.

  “There, my eyes, whose rays do not know the obstacles that limit the sight of terrestrial creatures, perceived a young woman of rare beauty, who was on her knees reciting prayers. Three times I ought to have drawn away, quivering with rage, for three times she made the sign of the cross; and there were above her two angels who, with their white tunics, their blond hair and their sanctimonious manner, were receiving those prayers and bearing them to the feet of the master whose servile slaves they are.

  “That young woman was named Jeanne de Beaumetz.

  “She was expecting, in a few days’ time, her father, the old Sire Hugues de Beaumetz, who had departed ten years before for the Holy Land with the Sire de Crèvecoeur. Jeanne was thanking the mother of Jesus, “the Holy Virgin,” as she put it, for having finally returned her father to her, a poor orphan, whose dear mother, the chatelaine Catherine, had been lying in the tomb since the feast of the Kings. Now, the feast of All Saints was approaching. Poor mother! How tender she had been! With what bounty she had been kind enough to encourage the amour of her daughter and the young sire Daniel de Cantaing. Daniel had generously taken the side of Catherine de Beaumetz, defenseless and persecuted in a cowardly manner by the avid seigneurs of the vicinity, who had ravaged and pillaged her domain. Daniel, polite, timid and gentle, showed himself to be such a loving suitor, such a good Christian and, above all—which does no harm—a becoming youth skilful at playing the sistrum; he even composed virelays like a professional troubadour.

  “In three days, her father would return to the château; and in three days, the chaplain would hand to the Sire de Crèvecoeur a written document made by order of Dame Catherine de Beaumont on her death-bed. In that document, she recommended her noble spouse, if ever he returned from the Holy Land, to have the marriage celebrated of her daughter Jeanne to Sire Daniel de Cantaing, in consideration of their chaste love and the services that the said sire had rendered to his fiancée’s family. For, without him, not one stone would remain atop another of the Château de Beaumetz, and the veritable seigneur of that domain, on his return, would have searched in vain for its vast lands and high towers. He would no longer have found anything but vassals submissive to various sires and naked lands divided between avid predators.

  “Immediately after that discovery, which I owed to the chatter of the angels who were glorifying themselves in bearing such ingenuous prayers to their God and who repeated them joyfully, I planned the means of winning for Hell that woman, whose soul they were so certain of guiding to Paradise after having led an edifying life on Earth. I took flight in the direction from which the sires de Beaumetz and de Crèvecoeur were coming.

  “Truly, it is something to see, the manner in which God recompense his own. The two imbecilic knights, reduced by the sermon of I know not what bald Capuchin, who is roasting here among so many others of his species condemned to the fire, and inflamed with a fine zeal, melted down their gold and silver vessels, pledged four years of their income, removed from the exploitation of their lands the youngest and most capable vassals, and left their mothers, wives and daughters behind to go and deliver the tomb of their God—who does not care about it—by making war on the Saracens, who had never done them the slightest harm.

  “Six years later they were coming back without having liberated the Holy Land. In vain they had put on their banners: God wishes it! In vain they had battled like fanatics; in vain they had had themselves blessed and reblessed by the Pope, by bishops, by priests; in vain they had charged themselves with relics from the crest of their helmet to the guard of their sword. The Saracens, those heretics, remained the stronger, and the knights of the Almighty obtained nothing from their fine zeal but wounds, misery, fatigue and leprosy. Oh, I forgot something else: their domains were pillaged and their wives had gone off with a few handsome sires who were not such fervent Christians.

  “Is that not your story, Jacques de Crèvecoeur? On setting foot on the soil of Flanders, did you not learn that nothing in the world remained to you? That your château had been dismantled, that your wife had been seduced by Nicolas d’Oisy three years before, and that, on the news if your return, discarded by her seducer, she had thrown herself in the Escaut?

  “When he learned of the misadventures of his companion in peril, the old Sire de Beaumetz felt deeply moved, and began to shed warm tears. I took advantage of that ridiculous tenderness to slide into his soul a project no less ridiculous, and I had all the more influence of him because that morning, at breakfast, he had eaten an enormous piece of roast pork and emptied a large bottle of wine without taking the trouble to enquire as to what day of the week it was and whether it might not be Friday. I therefore set about breathing into him a spirit of vertigo that greatly troubled and obscured his ideas, which were already not very clear.

  “I caused him to recall, although he had had nothing to do with it, that the sire de Crèvecoeur had only taken up the cross for the crusade in accordance with his advice, that of the sire de Beaumetz. I caused to pass before his eyes a host of so-called services and so-called proofs of devotion that the sire de Crèvecoeur had lavished upon him, so effectively that the dull-witted dupe took that old warrior by the hand and said: ‘Jacques, we have fought side by side for a year; we have shared our bread more than once; we have supported the same sufferings for the same cause, and on your return you have found neither a wife nor a fortune. I want, my brother in arms, to render you a wife and a fortune. Therefore, within three weeks you shall espouse in legitimate marriage my daughter Jeanne, and I shall share with you, in equal parts my castellany of Crèvecoeur. In addition, I’ll aid you to combat the wretched felons who have profited from your absence to invade your property, and we’ll treat them as we did the Saracens.’

  “Jacques de Crèvecoeur, who was dying of the desire to accept—‘Say no if you dare, old hypocrite!’—feigned generosity and obstinately refused such fine offers.
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  “Then the sire de Beaumetz took his dagger, in the hilt of which there was a fragment of the true cross—at least, he thought so, although it was only an old splinter of oak taken from the forest of Mormal; a monk, a fabricator of relics, had found it more convenient to pick up the fragment of the true cross there than to go and look for one in Judea—kneeling before the relic, swore this oath: ‘On my share of Paradise and on the holy fragment of thee true cross that I am holding, I make an oath that what I have said will be accomplished, whatever might happen. May the Holy Virgin aid me to bring it to the end, and the Devil take me if I fail!’

  “Assured of my prey and having nothing more to do henceforth than let the results of my ruse unfold, I set about furnishing opportunities for mortal sin to fifteen or twenty Christians who could not fail to arrive among us sooner or later. Among that number it is necessary to count seven fornicating monks, four obscure honest men suddenly summoned to the delicate functions of judges or collectors of taxes, and a few other misdeeds that I no longer remember. As they were not men to repent but, on the contrary, to sink more deeply into sin and impenitence every day, I paid no more heed to them and am sure that not one of those who are dead is missing from here; the others will arrive at their leisure, I guarantee it.

  “Two days later, therefore, I went to the Château de Beaumetz, where a brilliant reception was being prepared for the seigneur who was coming back, after such a long absence and so many perils. I saw Jeanne everywhere, running around, going up and downstairs, and never leaving Messire Daniel far from her side, who was aiding her briskly, and divined her desires before she had formulated them fully.

  “Perched on the summit of a turret, I could not help laughing at their confidence in the future and a happiness that had escaped them forever. My bursts of laughter became so forceful that the tower shook and I had to fly away, else it would have collapsed. At any other time, crushing a few hundred peasants and sending them to another world without confession would have appeared to be quite a good joke, but the terror of such an accident would have spoiled the little joy that remained for our two lovers of savor, and I needed the blow already raised above their heads to strike them in the midst of a complete happiness; otherwise they would not have felt the impact as much.

  “Finally, the cries of vassals and their crowd, which ran precipitately out of the avenue of the château, informed me of the arrival of the sire de Beaumetz. Jeanne, her eyes full of tears, threw herself into the old man’s arms, covered him with kisses, and could not weary of clutching to her heart the father that Haven had returned to her…and who would give the name of son-in-law to the young and handsome sire de Cantaing.

  So, how the damsel longed to see drawing away from that father the knight with the gray beard and the face scarred by blows of the lance and sword, who no more quit the Seigneur de Beaumetz than his shadow quit him—a shadow that rendered so apparent a beautiful yellow sun, such as there are in the region of Flanders in winter. But the importunate old man, encased in his armor, remained there, marching in measured step, sniffing the castellany and the young woman and, so to speak, digesting them in advance. To the one he gave a smile, a veritable grimace apt to terrify the poor thing; he looked at the other from the corner of his eye, saying to himself: It appears to me to be in a good state, and there’s the high forest that it’s necessary to sell at a price of lovely golden angelots.

  “Already he saw himself as the father of a line of children and the possessor of a rich domain. For myself, I stood there laughing, jubilant at all the hopes and all the joys that were about to be disappointed.

  “When the crowd of vassals had shouted enough and testified to enough delights, they were given twelve or fifteen barrels of beer to slake their thirst and drink to the health of the lord and master. I took a drop of sweat from my brow and cast it among those drunkards, and they fought ne another so fiercely that twenty-nine fell in the melee and the next day the provost hanged four of those who had struck most rudely, one of them at his own brother and another at his son.

  “While they were drinking and building up to that battle, the sire de Beaumetz summoned his richest tenants to appear before him. When they had gathered, he set his fist on his hip, spoke for half an hour without saying anything, and concluded in these terms: ‘Now, then, there will be recompense for those who have done well during the crusade, and punishment, such as fines and confiscations, for the others who have acted as faithless vassals devoid of loyalty. In addition, I make it known that three weeks from today, on the day of the Feast of Saint André, our beloved daughter Jeanne will marry this noble knight here, Messire Jacques de Crèvecoeur.’

  “At those words, Jeanne, who, her eyes sparkling with joy, had expected to see her father’s speech conclude with the name of Daniel de Cantaing, uttered a piercing scream and fell unconscious. Daniel, more dead than alive, threw himself back into the crowd. As for this gross seigneur here, Jacques de Crèvecoeur, he strove to reanimate the damsel, whom his presence rendered sicker than ever. She might even have died of dolor, but as that would not have suited my plan at all, since she could be that means have gone straight to Paradise, I approached her ear and whispered into it mysterious words that attenuate the power of death. Jeanne therefore returned to life, and was carried away to her apartments.

  “While that was happening, the chaplain handed the sire de Crèvecoeur the parchment that he had written on the orders of Jeanne’s mother, which contained the lady’s last will. The seigneur had the contents of the vellum explained to him, and the almoner told him at length, after which the sieur de Beaumetz replied:

  “‘Master, I have made a vow on my share of Paradise, and I have sworn to accomplish it while kissing the pommel of my dagger, in which a holy and precious relic of the wood of the true cross is contained. There is no power either in Heaven or on earth that can release me from such an oath. It is therefore necessary that I accomplish it. In consequence, I am throwing this vellum in the fire. In order that my worthy and defunct spouse, who is, I hope, in Heaven, will not hold it against me that I cannot execute her last will, you will celebrate a mass every day for two years, for the repose of her soul, accompanied by appropriate prayers.’

  “‘Now, go tell my daughter Jeanne to be ready to obey me with good grace; otherwise I will give her my paternal malediction and, if necessary, will drag her to the altar myself. Finally, the sire de Crèvecoeur must know nothing of this secret; you will answer to me for that with your head. Remember that I have the right of high and low justice, and that your title of cleric will be worthless in this instance.

  “‘The sire de Cantaing was here a little while ago. Hey, young squire, will you not go in quest of him for me? Look, there he is, mounting his horse, and thinking of leaving us. Tell him that your master needs to speak to him for a few moments.’

  “Daniel came at a slow pace, and nevertheless with a sort of hope that I amused myself by inspiring in him. But he no longer retained that hope when he heard Jeanne’s father say: ‘Messire Daniel, seigneur de Cantaing, my very honored and defunct spouse Catherine de Cisoing, dame de Beaumetz, had resolved to unite you in legitimate marriage with my daughter Jeanne, but I have made a vow on the pommel of my sword, which contains a relic of the true cross, and no power on earth or in Heaven can release me from that oath. I have come, therefore to require you, as the good and loyal knight that you are, no longer to present yourself before my daughter and not to confide to any person in the world what had been resolved in her regard between my wife and you. In doing that, you will acquire unlimited rights to the esteem of an old knight who has fought for years to deliver the Holy Sepulcher from its infidel oppressors.’

  “Daniel promised all that the sire de Beaumetz wished and departed in an inexpressible dolor. I leapt on to the rump of his horse as he quit the château and whispered a thousand confused projects of despair and vengeance to him.”

  At this point the angel of darkness suspended his story briefly and attached
to his three victims, and particularly to Jeanne, a gaze full of pride. In fact, few young women as beautiful and endowed with so much candor had fallen until then into the gulfs of Hell. In spite of the terror that distressed her pure and naive physiognomy, and in spite of the despair that contracted her face, it was necessary to inhabit Hell to consider without pity the frail creature destined for the flames that are to burn forever.

  The unfortunate Jeanne shuddered under Astaroth’s gaze like a bird before the fascinating eye of a snake. Freed from the persecutions of the evil angel and not yet being marked with the seal of the reproved, the seal of ineffaceable fire that is attached to the forehead and endures forever, Jeanne experienced a sort of charm recalling the happiness of the early days of her amour. In spite of the sarcasms of the demon who was the cause of her doom, and in spite of the sardonic tone of his voice, which grated like the bite of a rasp, she allowed herself to lapse into prestigious memories; and in the face of damnation she dreamed again of tenderness. Love is so powerful! Hell itself cannot prevail against amour!

  Astaroth, after having considered his prey proudly again, resumed his story in these terms:

  “As I was saying, mounted on the rump of Daniel’s horse, I escorted him back to his château, where I left him to agitate a thousand confused thoughts, beside himself, devoured by jealousy, burning to avenge himself, and resolved, at no matter what price, to snatch Jeanne from his rival. Daniel already belonged to me body and soul; I therefore returned to Beaumetz, where I found Jeanne in complete prostration, annihilated by resignation and despair.

  “I tried in vain once again the power of the magic words that had succeeded so well the previous day. Those words could do nothing for organs broken by an excessively violent shock. Only one means remained to me of reanimating Jeanne, and that was to summon hope to my aid.

  “Then I gradually reassembled around her the memories of her childhood; I showed her images of her father playing with her; her father unhappy at a slight illness she had; her father complaisant to her slightest girlish caprices. With those memories, I led her insensibly and without difficulty to believe that the influence she had exercised in those days over the sire de Beaumetz she could still exercise today, and that he could not resist his daughter’s pleas. One conversation with him, caresses and sobs, and the old man, far from persisting in his cruel resolution, would criticize himself for his child’s dolor, and would deem it a crime to wait any longer to console her.