Now he was walking with his head high, with his advantage.
He walked in this way to the Boulevard Montparnasse and went up in joy the six stories of his new house. Katarina, playful and delighted, enjoyed a race. They climbed laughing and jostled like schoolboys. But she was quick and limped without remedy ...
Katarina first saw the knife in the door. The blade was red and the handle marked the fateful “666”. A repulsive terror prevented him from seizing him. Johan, pale as death, made him disappear. Imagine a certain condemned man of his grace and whom the executioner comes to seek.
The sun had disappeared for a long time.
Regina opened them. She had seen nothing, heard nothing. Katarina had told him the story of the knife in the door of the Rue Lesueur. The piquant brunette had marveled at it as a sensational episode of novel-cinema; but she had not concealed her contempt for the three servants who could not see or hear anything. Today was his turn. Peeved and stupefied, she listened to her boss tell him the circumstances that had accompanied the last manifestation of the terrorists, and could not provide the slightest clarification on it. It was the third time the sign of the knife had appeared to Katarina.
She had seen him for the first time in Johan's externalized nightmare. As for him, everything led one to believe that if he had dreamed that night of a knife marked with an “666” and dripping with blood - a knife that he was to find on the road to real life - It was that this knife had already gotten involved with his business before the nightmare. In what circumstances? Could this sign be anything but an impressive reminder, a dismal memento, inexhaustibly renewed, the image, the facsimile of a knife that had once played a more terrible role than that of a scarecrow? And the melodramatic, fantastical character of this sign, what was it to think, except that mysterious literature had inspired some of its admirers?
By the way, today, "Demonoplasm" did not show itself concurrently with the knife ...
All this tormented Katarina's mind painfully. Too many clues made him understand that the persecution kept digging his mine under their feet. More than ever it would have been necessary for the two spouses to become allies closely united by confidence; but more than ever, Johan had retired to the depths of himself, plunged into a frightful sadness.
At the same time, the rage to recover his lost talent undergoes an upsurge. His fancy was bordering on madness. The unfortunate man left the electrician only to put himself on the silent keyboard. He multiplied the massage sessions. Traders exploited it without scruple. He bought, all over the place, all kinds of drugs, devices and books. The room dedicated to her healing solitudes - which in turn became the "Hand's Room" - remained carefully closed; he had not yielded to anyone the task of installing his motley equipment, and he kept the key in his pocket. At last the fixed idea assumed such proportions that Katarina called M. de Varmand to his aid.
"It is," said she, "ruin and madness in the near future.
The excellent Marquis flattered with a careful hand his shimmering skull, which was for him the gesture of perplexity; and his pleasant face took on an expression of wisdom which seemed not to hold on and which took advantage of the slightest wink to save itself.
He says, however, sagacious and unforeseen:
"Have you noticed how much Johan has been like his father for some time? Neurasthenia, which momentarily ages it, accentuates its features in the hereditary sense. The attitudes too, the silences, the shadow that covers it ...
- Well?
It will be necessary for me to point it out to the author of his days, by exaggerating it.
– I can’t see any link…
- Hey! I know my notary! This resemblance will count in the success of a design that I form, which is to mend Johan with his father. And then, if I mend them, you will not have to worry about your husband's expenses anymore ...
- His expenses are not what worries me the most.
- I would like ... I would like Johan to help me with this rapprochement. You think that a question of resemblance is not enough! ... Ah! if he only wanted ...
Malice was wrinkling the Marquis' crow's feet.
- What? Katarina said.
- If he wanted to be initiated into spiritualism ... or pretend to be interested in the occult sciences! That would disarm the dad!
- But, my good friend, Johan has always treated swing occultism! And if you imagine that he has the mind to play comedy! ... I would never dare to offer him such a company ... And then, that is not what would heal him.
- Hey! eh! I do not agree with you Between us, when we have tasted the things of the beyond, even by play, even by pretense, it is very difficult to do without it. And one nail chases the other ... Let's try, will you? My little finger tells me that Johan will let himself decide more easily than you think.
That little finger, that old little finger ringed with a pentagram, he was holding it against his ear, and seemed to listen to his revelations. Katarina suddenly had the intuition of a superior insight and ulterior motives for her ... Without suspecting the price of blood to come.
- So ..., she asked hesitantly, so that exists, your spirit beyond? The Marquis, quietly, replied:
- Yes. And besides, I'm pretty versed in the knowledge of occultism and occultists true or false for - how to say? - to facilitate the manifestations of spirits, to solicit them by sorts of calls, which imitate them to be mistaken.
- You have an idea behind your head ...
- Do you trust me?
- Oh! fully.
- Let me do it. If I fail, no damage. But if I succeed, Johan is saved. Saved, you understand! … The light. All the light ... Through the darkness. Johan is ... how to say ... a kind of magnet. I feel it.
As the Marquis weighed his voice on these rather unexpected words, Katarina read a blame in her sparkling eye. She lowered her head, then, taking her part with the suddenness of a culprit touched by remorse, she recounted all she knew, all that she had hitherto concealed from the only being who was devoted to her without measure. She went back to the day of the catastrophe, spoke of the specter, enumerated her apparitions, traced the theft and the restitution of the jewels, and forgot nothing about the knives. She thought about the dagger cursed by the demonic seal ...
As she completed by this total revelation what the Marquis already knew of the great misfortune in which Johan wrecked, the psychic painter gave the marks of a growing interest, which consisted in making flowing on his desert head the curls absent of a leonine mane.
When Katarina had finished this story which was a confession, he took a few minutes to think, and said only:
- The knot of this adventure is Luciferian.
He escaped, as in a cloud of humor.
- I suffered, go! Katarina said sharply.
"Madame," said he, "it is a hagiographer who will write your story.
She realized that he wanted less to scoff at her than cheer him up and for the moment hide behind an appearance of gaiety.
"Your explanations," he went on, "do not change my plans. Send me Johan. I'll confess it, my way.
He left her with these words, hurriedly, as if he was longing to be alone and able to meditate at ease on all that she had just taught him.
A few days later, he received from Madame Bansberg the letter we are going to read:
"My good Marquis,
Expect to receive Johan earlier and prepare your charms.
Our last interview left me indecisive about what I had to do. In spite of your assurance, I feared the effect of your devilishness on the imagination of my poor obsessed man. But his condition is getting worse. Everything will be better than inaction. My duty is to assist you. He now has fits of anguish that make me fear the most atrocious denouement. Suddenly I find him plunged into a dismal depression, or I surprise him who walks and gesticulates, exalted, a prey to the most painful excitement. He departs from me. I cannot get anything out of it. Even his nightmares do not teach me anything. The nights he spends are torture. He often pre
fers not to lie down, and stays until the dawn locked in the "Hand's Room". Or, to amuse himself, he brings back some comrades of the Purple Orchestra, and they make music until late.
I suggested him to go to see a doctor, but he does not want to hear about it. He claims that he is not ill, that he suffers only from regret for having been and no longer being! … It's possible! ... And yet ... In the morning, when he did not watch, he worries about what he could say while sleeping. It looks like he dreads the betrayal of dreams ... It looks like he sees the mysterious circle of persecution tightening around him. I feel it - wait until I find my terms ... - I feel it invested by invisible forces whose convergent course translates for me only by the anguish of their victim. Are you there?
Receive him as a friend, before receiving him in spirit; for he must not fan our plot. But be aware that you will not find it hostile to your projects. I touched him two words of your science. Incredibly, I did not meet the contemptuous opposition I was expecting! " Everything is possible. Do not swear anything. We cannot talk about what we do not know. Such were his remarks. They proved to me your penetration.
I thought it wise to warn you of the state of mind where our Johan is. He is about to go to your place. Not being able to anticipate it, I entrust this ticket to the diligent Regina.
Your hell bound disciple,
KATARINA BANSBERG.”
13 – NECROMANTIA
But Johan was not without knowing the kind of research and experiments that the two spiritualists of the Rue d'Assas were engaged in.
No branch of occultism was foreign to them. But they had made it a specialty to keep up frequent business with the dead. They were necromancers. But beyond their obvious obedience, their true master was revealed in palimpsest ... The Prince of Lies. The Marquis consumed himself with a singular desire ... To acquire his letters of nobility from the devil himself ... His apothecary necromancy could no longer bitterly satisfy his hidden desires ... And in the metaphorical circle that surrounded Johan, he saw it as a liberating springboard.
Mr. Edgar Bansberg evoked the deceased by means of tables and pedestal tables, or by means of these privileged persons, well-known under the name of mediums. He had published much appreciated works on the subject, signed with the pseudonym Robert le Diable; The shadow of Ismael, “Mysterium”, maximum, Precise incantation and Six Experiences of communication with the hereafter, using the medium Ignacio Viera. This last work was authoritative. It is true that Ignacio Viera had mysteriously disappeared the same day when the six experiments were to be repeated under the eyes of scholars committed for this purpose. But the author swore, as ministerial officer, that his book was an expression of pure truth, and Master Edgar Bansberg supporting Robert le Diable, the notary saved the spirit.
The Marquis, in his capacity as sorcerer painter, used other ways to communicate with the shadows. He had not seen fit to publish his method. Moreover, necromancy interested him less than painting, to which we will see that he had associated it in a curious and subtle way.
And, in his heart, he had always wanted to paint with blood. Human or animal, it did not matter to him. Even if he refused to admit that the latter had easily acquired his favors ...
It may have been an hour since Regina had handed over to M. de Varmand Katarina's letter when Johan entered the studio in the Rue d'Assas. He found it as he had seen it during his last visit, several weeks before.
- You! exclaimed the Marquis, expressing the most joyful surprise. You at home! What happiness!
"What do you want," said Johan, with a pale smile; Are not you with my father whenever I come to this house? I see you at the same time as him, and I am far from complaining! ... Nevertheless, it's a real pleasure for me to find myself in the middle of your works. I love this workshop ... Ah! Ah! what does that represent?
He pointed to a canvas begun, placed on an easel.
M. de Varmand, clad in a black smock, was holding a large palette covered with a fresh multicolored daub. His thumb kissed a bundle of brushes, the tips of which lit up the brightest hues. The oil painting exhaled its smell. And he identified another sweeter ... blood.
- That, said the painter. Do not you understand?
- Uh ... An aurora borealis? ...
- Boeotian! It's called “Pleasures of the Flesh”. And the master of voluptuousness is also the greatest of muses
He watched Johan, and noticed his efforts to look comfortable. He poured him a glass of malaga, and they smoked Turkish cigarettes and drank the Spanish wine.
Honored, the skeleton was still shaking with the jig that Johan's entry had shaken. In front of him, the mannequin caught the attention of the visitor:
- Hey! That's Isidore! Always nice, Isidore. Why did you dress him as a baker? It looks like the doll of the clothes merchant.
M. de Varmand, placed in the shade a little behind Johan, did not take his eyes off him.
Isidore, well enlightened, was no longer the yogi of old. A suit-suit, brand new and all white, dressed him in the European style. A travel cap showed his green eyes. His wooden hands were adorned with violet glass.
Johan regarded him without giving the slightest sign of alarm.
- Pastry chef? exclaimed the Marquis. You have good ones! It's flannel, boy. Isidore is a gentleman! ... What intrigues you?
- But nothing! replied Johan.
He had not blinked! Perfectly calm. They were standing; With a familiar gesture, the painter girded the boy's torso, pretending to drag him to a canvas, and could see that his heart was beating unhurried, with perfect regularity.
The Marquis was extending his hand towards the painting.
- What do you think of this Melancholy? He asked. Your father is crazy about it. And without waiting for the answer:
- You know, he's furious, your father. His mediums give him no satisfaction. The dead no longer obey as before ...
- He regrets the time of Ignacio Viera! said Johan willingly engaging in the path offered him. So, he was an extraordinary man? ... a little joker, is not it?
- And how! said the Marquis, who reprimanded himself to say hastily: "But all mediums are not jokers, as all occultists are not dupes!
- Hum!
- You can do well: "Hum! ", it's like that. I have known large enough figures in occultism: Eliacin Ramadan, Jules Python, Sir Melchior. Ah! Sir Melchior, here is a beautiful type of spiritism, look! It was my friend. We have succeeded, your father, he and I, in admirable experiences. Did not you know him, Sir? Melchior Chadiot, you know ... But our prophet is probably this British, Aleister Crowley. He will bury us all! We are laughable next ...
"I do not go to the mages," Johan apologized with a smile.
- This one was a dandy, a genius, a visionary. You could have met him in the world. He would have convinced you!
Johan, perhaps suspicious, evaded this direct blow.
"Mediums," he said, "what are these people in society?
M. de Varmand took good care not to counterfeit the surprise that such a question from Johan should have caused him. He says casually:
- We meet all the ways. Most are not renowned enough to live on their psychic abilities. Ignacio Viera had done all the trades, I knew him orthopedist. Lydia Puchot became a sleepwalker after being a midwife. John Smith, said Ethelred, was once a magician, but he would like to be ignored ... Do not take that air knowing, Ethelred is more loyal than many others. Moreover, Antonini, who is a cartonnier, exteriorizes human forms, tangible and photographable, and the florist Thérèse Panard, whom we call Stella, sketches admirable portraits when the spirits guide her hand. And Crowley ... He will take us to hell. Because my friend ... The devil is your friend.
The Marquis gave an enigmatic smile ...
- Cannot we do without their intermediary?
"I do not care," said the Marquis, much satisfied with the turn of the conversation. I do not need anyone to connect with the spirits. And the first comer can do the same, if he uses my system. Do you want to call, or rat
her telegraph in the realm of shadows? It will not cost you anything!
- What! I could, like that ... What a joke!
- It's a word we sometimes say before the experiment, rarely after. Let's try, to see! ... you're scared, eh!
- Fear! You want to laugh. Me? I'm afraid of being a booby.
- Yes, Da! You are all the same. You are afraid of the dead!
- You will not have the last one! Johan said. Let's give it a try.
Small red spots inflamed his cheekbones, his eye shone with a feverish glow; worry returned to his face.
M. de Varmand closed a dark curtain on the large bay window and spent the night in the studio.
Devil's Score: A Tale of decadent omen…. Page 12