The Devil's Reward

by Emmanuelle De Villepin

  “And your family?”

  “I love being with my daughter, even if she’s a bit crabby, and with my granddaughter. The problem is they live far away, in Italy.”

  “One has to defend oneself by holding on to very simple things, because life is extremely complicated.”

  “And when it stops being complicated, when it loses its richness, which is also the source of the bumps and burrs, and its contradictions, when it’s only a smooth plane, then life really stinks.”

  That night I had a lot of trouble falling asleep. I was thinking of Catherine, and I couldn’t stop feeling as though I were somehow responsible for her sadness. A mother’s sense of omnipotence is irrational, but it is true that we give life to our children. That’s no small thing, therefore it’s understandable that we puff ourselves up, and especially that we think even after they’ve left our womb that they’re little pieces of our flesh that belong to us. Whereas in reality we’ve only ferried them across the uncertain river of existence, helping them pass from spirit to matter, as Aunt Bette would say. But it’s also true that when they disembark, it’s a little piece of our living flesh that goes out into the world. We owe them that at least, they didn’t ask to be disturbed, that’s for sure. So we can’t complain, even if it hurts.

  After watching a little television, we turned off the lights and continued talking for a while in our nearly totally dark room. Soon I sensed that my friend was answering less and less and falling asleep. But as soon as I stopped talking, she would pick up the thread. In fact she was doing what children do, she wanted to fall asleep while I told her a story.

  Josephine’s slow breathing, interrupted now and then by deeper breaths, gave me a tender feeling and yet I was also afraid. During the night in the hospital there are little sounds of light steps, metallic sounds of thermometers dropped in bowls and medicine bottles placed on trays. At night one hears sickness better. Doors open and close, letting silence circulate. A light green ray, impossible to extinguish, led me back to ancient fears. What I fear most in death is the solitude, because even without a soul and without consciousness, that stiff isolation crushes my heart. When Epicurus claimed that we never encounter our own death, it was the dumbest thing he ever said in his philosophical career. Life rests completely on this encounter.

  Chapter Sixteen

  In the early morning hours when Papyrus opened his eyes and gazed at Bette’s porcelain body caressed by the pale light of the moon, he did not feel remorse but rather a painful happiness. He did not think of Geoffroy, nor of my mother, nor of the terrible scandal that all of this would give rise to. He caressed her as in a dream where nothing real can interrupt pure desire. She opened her almond eyes and caressed his cheek. So she had not acted out of drunkenness. He read no sign of surprise in her beautiful features. She knew why she was there naked in Papyrus’s bed.

  “I’m going to return to my room and pretend nothing has happened. We’ll be together again tonight after the lecture. Organize for us a fun New Year’s party. I would like all of this to last all of next year, and the next, and the next one after that.”

  He was relieved to see that she was completely untouched by any feeling of regret. Later he went downstairs in a sweet euphoric state to have breakfast. He still smelled Bette’s pulsing body under his hands and the scent of her skin. Papyrus was totally prostrate before this love, which I believe he had not really been conscious of before that day.

  The weather was clear and cold again. The car was waiting to take him to Colmar where he was to meet up with the Count de Redan. Along the way, while he looked out on a snow-covered pine forest, behind which lay a succession of tranquil peaks and deserted valleys, the frost on his window held in place snow crystals as though trapped in a spiderweb. He put his nose up to the window to get a closer look. Each in its delicate beauty was a portion of the infinite.

  Colmar is a beautiful small medieval town with narrow streets and lots of cute shops and brasseries. Many buildings in the center feature the characteristic Alsatian architecture with exposed wooden beams in latticework patterns. The Count de Redan was waiting for him at a table in a café on the main square.

  “I propose we begin with a little walk around the city center, then we’ll have lunch somewhere and finish with something quite extraordinary that I’ll keep a secret.”

  “Why not begin with the surprise?”

  “Because if we do that nothing else will seem worth your time.”

  “Sounds like a death knell.”

  “You must have a troubled conscience to say such things!”

  The Count de Redan had a good laugh at his own joke, but Papyrus felt a little upset.

  Papyrus thoroughly enjoyed the Count’s company. Of all his friends, he was probably the most difficult to get a handle on. He was a worldly sensualist, but also solitary, educated, and loyal to the few principles he cared about. In fifty-plus years of life he had never married. It was often said that a horribly disappointing love affair had deeply marked him and led to his prolonged libertine bachelorhood. Under a swashbuckling exterior, therefore, it was generally supposed that the Count de Redan was at heart a wounded romantic.

  While they were dining on their sauerkraut and draft beer, Papyrus asked if he would like to come and celebrate New Year’s Eve with the ladies, and the Count was happy to accept.

  “But tell me, if it’s not indiscreet, you’re interested in the Princess, I suppose?”

  “No, not in the least.”

  “Ah, well, that doubles my motivation to join you for this New Year’s celebration then.”

  “Don’t make any trouble for me. The Princess is damn pretty, I’ll grant you that.”

  “And yet she doesn’t interest you?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Pardon me. My poor Louis, I simply hoped that amid all this gentlemanly chaperone work you would have found yourself some modest compensation, but no! I really feel for you, old boy. But if you’re not too overwhelmed by all these distractions, I assure you that you’ll be deeply moved in your soul. This is my treat, by the way. Don’t be silly now and follow me.”

  They went back out into the freezing cold and walked in the direction of the Musée Unterlinden. When they arrived at the heart of the museum church, the Count said in a voice trembling with excitement, “Here is something that you will never forget — the Isenheim Altarpiece.”

  At first, Papyrus was unable to take in the sumptuous grandeur of the polyptych. He was not very cultured and he thought this was merely one more example of scenes of the Crucifixion that can be found in many churches.

  “All these panels that you see were painted in the early sixteenth century by Matthias Grünewald. The panels articulate out and reveal this central area of sculptures by Nicolas de Haguenau. It’s called the Isenheim Altarpiece because it comes from the monastery of Saint Anthony in Isenheim, not far from here. Now we can just look on in silence if you like.”

  Papyrus walked around the panels while taking care not to stick too close to his friend, for he saw that the Count was overcome by deep and strong emotions just then. He tried therefore to be discreet and respectful while at the same time giving some thought to why the Count might be so absorbed in contemplation of this work of art. He began by studying the Crucifixion and the Deposition of Christ. Something infinitely powerful emanated from these images. Jesus’s bony tense hands posed against the wood attracted his attention. He stared at them intently. Mary in a white robe that looks like a shroud is on the verge of fainting. John the Baptist’s know-it-all pose irritated him, but on the whole the representation threw him into a state of high anxiety. He continued his examination of the piece with increasing attention. As he was contemplating a hermit being attacked by horrible monsters, he heard the Count’s voice behind him: “This is Saint Anthony entangled with his demons, so you understand why this painting speaks to us so powerfully.”r />
  “You believe in sin then, Charles?”

  The Count did not answer and walked away. Papyrus sat on a bench and continued to gaze at Saint Anthony and the monsters while thinking about the question he had asked his friend. The fact that the Count didn’t suspect that he could feel any attraction for his sister-in-law proved that he had thereby committed a worse fault than a depraved person could imagine.

  Saint Anthony, lying on his back and undergoing the assault of a number of abject, well-fed creatures, has the face of a terrified, defenseless child. This scene certainly incited belief in sin.

  The memory of Bette’s skin returned to him along with a light shiver. He imagined himself in the place of Saint Anthony helpless underneath Bette as succubus, an expression of ravishment on her face, wild with mouth open, and he felt uncomfortable. He thought again about all that Walpurgis Night stuff and how Bette had so often spoken of it in relation to Rudolf Steiner. What if all of a sudden everything stopped and his soul was ripped from his body and he found himself in the company of Mephistopheles in the spiritual world? What would still be on his mind is Bette’s body, not Geoffroy’s disappointment and suffering. Sin was located there, in his total abdication, the total surrender of his standing as a man, brother, and friend. There’s the sin, the look of incredulity in the gaze of the person cheated and cast aside, and there’s the indelible mark of passion that erases everything including the person we really are. But it’s our conscience that makes us guilty, thought Papyrus, and not so that we collapse into abject resignation without the least resistance.

  “Saint Anthony is sinning because he’s struggling,” he murmured.

  “No, old boy, don’t try to sugarcoat it. It’s not by ignoring our own abject behaviors that we can ever avoid the torments of conscience.”

  “You are a merciless old fellow, my dear Charles.”

  “And you are too condescending toward us.”

  “And what if I were worse than you?”

  “I’d find that surprising, but why not?…It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Very beautiful. You were right to have our visit conclude with this wonder. The only bit that I dislike is John the Baptist with his finger-pointing. Don’t you find his pose somewhat self-righteous-looking?”

  They arrived in Dornach in the late afternoon. The young ladies were still at the Goetheanum listening to a last Steiner lecture in a series devoted to “The Spiritual Communion of Humanity.” Papyrus and the Count used the time to plan out a more luxurious New Year’s Eve feast. They ordered the best available wines to be opened, and supervised decorating the table with pinecones and sprigs of holly. Charles de Redan reserved a room for himself and they both retired to take a rest. Bette and Natasha eventually returned with pink noses and frozen hands. They went up to change and came down again to the small salon thirty minutes later. They then all had some champagne and ate some petits fours with sausage prepared especially for that evening. The two women were delighted to rediscover their friend Charles de Redan and everyone had a very pleasant time over the course of the meal.

  Papyrus and Bette, however, mostly avoided looking at each other. Papyrus felt safe in this parallel world at the table — there wasn’t the least friction with his past life, the only link between all that and the present was Bette, and that gave the moment they were living the aura and lightness of a dream. When one was speaking, the other kept eyes lowered. All of this mutual evasion ought to have alerted the suspicions of Charles and Natasha, but they too were probably allowing themselves to be gently rocked by a spirit of euphoria with no sense of time or limits. Papyrus was waiting for the moment when he’d be alone in his room and Bette would come knock on his door. He knew she would be even more daring than the night before and that the limited amount of uninterrupted time they could spend together would make them even more desperately happy. He enjoyed waiting in anticipation of all this.

  Fire engine sirens resounded in the starry, snowy night. Papyrus and the others heard them and were startled. Dornach was a tiny village and everything that happened was of general concern.

  “Louis, go ask our host what’s happening,” said Bette nervously.

  Louis stood up and went off to meet the hotel owner just as he was coming back inside looking very upset.

  “What’s going on?”

  “The Goetheanum!”

  “What about the Goetheanum?”

  “It’s on fire!”

  “Oh my God!”

  “I’m going there. Do you want to come with me?”

  “Yes, but wait, I have to let the others know.”

  Papyrus went back half running to the dining room, where the two women gave him a worried look. No one knows what was going through their heads but it’s certain that both already sensed some disaster was unfolding. Natasha, looking pale as a sheet, then burst out, “Bette! I told you this would happen! Do you remember my premonition?”

  At that point Papyrus was seriously troubled because he also remembered, and he hated to acknowledge the notion that we can receive messages in any other way than by purely material communication!

  They all put on their coats and went outside to follow their host up the hill. What they saw looked less worrisome than what they had feared. The west-facing wall was totally destroyed and the interior of the structure was in flames, but long hoses were already in position and spraying the fire with heavy flows of water. Men had climbed onto the terrace and the fire seemed as if it would soon be under control. The firemen of the area had been quickly assisted by hundreds of men and women. Papyrus and Charles de Redan joined in offering their help. The smoke from the southern wing of the building did, however, continue to thicken.

  Papyrus and other men hurried into the room of the great cupola, but they were met by the growl of flames that lashed out from between the walls. They attempted to save whatever they could by forming a human chain that included Bette and the Princess at the end of it. Charles de Redan couldn’t stop coughing as the smoke got worse and worse. Bette realized he was not well and rushed to help him. The smell was intolerable, but Papyrus and the others battled to put out the flames, which raged higher. When Charles seemed to be suffocating, Bette, with the help of a few men, managed to bring him outside. A forceful man’s voice relayed the order from Rudolf Steiner to abandon the building, but no one paid attention and they continued their labors until they were exhausted. Papyrus attempted still to do the impossible and despite the cries from the others continued his battle against the enormous fire. But he also eventually felt short of breath and had to turn back. No sooner was he out of the building than the two wooden cupolas crashed to the ground. A clock struck midnight and the year 1923 was born.

  Rudolf Steiner ran about in all directions encouraging the men to abandon the fight. He didn’t want to see anyone harmed. The lawn was filled with sculptures that he had set out for a production of Faust, so they were saved. Lying on the grass, his head resting on Natasha’s knees, Charles de Redan was recovering slowly. Papyrus, seized by the idea that she was in some danger, was looking for Bette. In the distance he saw a woman’s silhouette that he thought was hers, but it was an old woman with gray hair; then she turned and he saw that it was her. He was deeply startled.

  “Bette, my poor Bette, what’s happened to you?”

  She broke down sobbing and threw herself into his arms like a child.

  “Louis, Louis, they’re going to kill him. They’ve already set about killing him. He’s so good, so generous, Louis. I’m so afraid. And you, my poor Louis, you’re all burned. You must have your burns looked at. Look at the palms of your hands.”

  In fact Papyrus had felt nothing. He was coughing a lot but felt no pain whatsoever. He held her against his chest and let her cry. They remained like that, holding each other, as the spectacle of the fire raged on. The insidious and hypnotic dance of Ahriman had managed to overcome t
he last pieces of resistance — everyone now looked on feeling conquered and resigned.

  A single shadow could be seen among the ruins of the Goetheanum, the shadow of Rudolf Steiner, sad and silent, contemplating his work reduced to cinders. Papyrus deeply pitied this reserved man with his intelligent and good-natured demeanor. He’d only crossed his path twice, and each time in a perilous situation. Why was it that he found him so unsettling? Steiner approached them like a phantom. Bette straightened and held out her arms to him. He kissed her gently.

  “Lots of work and long years,” he said.

  He delicately pulled away from Bette’s hug and walked away in silence. His spectacles dangled from a piece of string. He was slightly stooped over.

  As the sky lightened in the east, the men withdrew to their homes. Steiner let it be known that the conference would continue: “We will continue to accomplish the inner work we have yet to do in the premises that are still available to us. I will wait for you in the woodshop.”

  Papyrus, Bette, and the others returned to the inn exhausted. The look of their faces and hair covered in ashes caused them to smile in spite of themselves.

  Papyrus was not very sophisticated, or perhaps he was overly sophisticated, but in any case he understood that it was now time for his love for Bette to end and with it all his loves.

  He accompanied her back to her room and softly closed the door behind him. She did nothing to make him stay.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Luna often listens to a song that says, “Drink for thirst, I don’t know.” I like that line. I like the whole song. Luna has countless songs stored on a little device smaller than my identity card. She places it on this pink thing that’s like a stereo.