"Wasn't the Phantom opposed to the King of Carcosa?"
"He was once. The King used the Yellow Sign to enslave the Phantom. You saw that symbol of subjugation on the Phantom's chest."
"What happened to Philip?"
"In order to make me suffer, the King fed Philip to the hungry waters of Hali. I was forced to watch Philip's torment."
"How did you bring me here?"
"The Phantom of Truth resents his servitude. He secretly undermines the King in Yellow. See that bowl on the wooden table? It contains water that the Phantom brought me from the clear depths of Demhe. The Phantom instructed me on how to use it to glimpse events on Earth. I saw you struggling in the Seine. I used my mystic skills to draw you into Demhe. At my request, the Phantom brought you to my abode in Hastur."
"Why do you want me in Hastur?"
"Only a man like you can remove the Pallid Mask."
"How?"
"The Phantom of Truth has long known the method. In Hastur, a great artist can look into a person's eyes and see the soul beneath. If the artist then paints that person, the subject will be transformed into the image in the painting."
"What is the source of this power?"
"Only the Phantom of Truth knows for certain, but he refuses to tell the full story. He merely hints at the existence of a great artist imprisoned by the King of Carcosa. This unknown genius exudes the mystical energy that other artists in this world can draw upon."'
"Why didn't the Phantom tell the people of Hastur about this cure?"
"He did, but the King of Carcosa blinded all the artists inside Hastur."
"Couldn't an artist from Alar be brought here?
"Alar is the sworn enemy of Hastur. Neither city would help the other."
"But why me? You observed me through the water of Demhe. You must know my past?"
"I do indeed, Gaston."
"Then you know I'm a wanted murderer."
"I witnessed all your killings - from Jeanne Le Beau to Francine Lutien."
"Aren't you repelled by me?"
"You aren't responsible for your actions. I understand your true nature as well as I understand that of the King in Yellow. The real monster is the master of Carcosa. He planted the seed of murder inside you. If you had never read Le Roi en Jaune, those women's lives never would have been extinguished.
"When I found Philip, he told me that his landlord would one day be a great artist. We had never met, but I had observed you in my enchanted bowl for months. I witnessed your torment as you metamorphosed into a killer."
"Why didn't you bring me to Hastur earlier?"
"I could only cause you to materialize in Demhe. To appear into that Lake, you had to be transported from a large body of water on Earth. I was hoping that you would take a swim at a beach along the French coastline, but you never did. When you fell into the Seine, you were finally in the proper alignment with Demhe."
"Does the Phantom want me to cure him too?"
"He has no need for a cure. You mistake his true face for a mask. Only my visage is a mirage. Gaze into my eyes, Gaston. Tell me what you see."
The artist lost himself in the depths of Jacqueline's blue orbs. "I see the epitome of feminine beauty. I see Aphrodite. I see a goddess!"
"You can make your vision a reality." She pointed to an easel supporting a canvas. "You can paint my portrait."
"I shall on one condition, You do not gaze on the picture until it is finished. It will take me days of toil to do full justice to your true form. I'll concentrate better without the fear of failing to meet your expectations."
"I agree to your terms. You should rest tonight before beginning this arduous task. I have prepared a room for you."
In the days that followed, the Pallid Priestess let Gaston toil in solitude. The artist put all his soul into capturing Jacqueline's beauty with a paint brush. He had never felt happier in his life.
At night, he always had dinner with the Priestess. She regaled Gaston with tales of her native Brittany. The artist learned of the living shadows that crept through the sunken corridors of Ys, the Sabbaths of the dreaded cat people, the werewolves dominated by Le Meneur des Loups, and the brutal murders attributed to the Cursed One.
"The Breton legends are quite wonderful," commented Gaston one evening. "Do they all have a basis in reality?"
"Yes, but some of the stories actually happened in other places," explained Jacqueline.
"Do you mean other countries, or other parts of France?"
"Both. In fact, one Breton legend originated outside Earth."
"What legend is that?"
"The legend of the Cursed One, the violent tale that we discussed earlier. I only learned of that fable's true origins from an Arabic scroll that once belonged to the Black Priest. In fact, it was in order to gain possession of that manuscript that my deplorable ancestor betrayed the Crusaders. History claims that the Black Priest was in league with Saladin. This is a falsehood. Saladin was a virtuous Muslim. My ancestor really conspired with Sinan, the overlord of the Assassins in Syria. There is a gory tale of how the Black Priest identified the true source for the legend of the Cursed One."
"I do not wish to hear any further tales of horror tonight. Let us talk of more pleasant matters. I am nearly finished, Jacqueline. Only the face remains to be completed on your portrait."
"There is something that I must teach you, Gaston.” She showed the artist a scroll with words written in French. "This is a new Ritual of the Signum Veneris that I conceived while you've been painting. It will bring us back to Earth. I must teach you the Ritual in case anything happens to me."
"What could possibly happen to you?"
"The King of Carcosa is the embodiment of cruelty. He might learn of our plans and try to forestall us. I don't want you to suffer Philip's fate."
"Is that the only reason, Jacqueline? You wouldn't do this for any ordinary man. Why not admit the truth? You're in love with me."
"Please, Gaston, let us not talk of love," pleaded the Pallid Priestess.
"You forget that I can see into your soul, Jacqueline. I know that you love me. Once I free you from the Pallid Mask, there will be no obstacle to the consummation of our love."
Jacqueline's blue eyes filled with tears. "Gaston, do you remember the tale that I told you two nights ago?"
"The tragic story of Anne of the Isles."
"What was Anne's oath?"
"She took a vow of celibacy. Anne was a high priestess of the Druids."
"I too am a priestess of the old religion of Brittany."
"You claimed that your title of Black Priestess was a malicious lie!'
"That falsehood labeled me a Satanist. I do not revere the Devil or any of his avatars. My life is pledged to the benign gods who tutored humanity centuries ago. My mother made me swear by the golden sickle to be a virgin all my life. I love you, Gaston. I love you with all my soul, but my love can only be of the spirit. It can never be of the flesh."
The following evening, Gaston stood behind his easel. The Pallid Priestess stood before him. The artist wore the clothes that he had been wearing when he had materialized in the lake of Demhe. Gaston made his final brush stroke.
"My masterpiece is finished," announced Gaston. "It is my greatest work."
Jacqueline looked down at her naked body. The second skin caused by the curse of the Pallid Mask had completely vanished. Touching her flowing hair, Jacqueline turned to see her reflection in a wall mirror. She screamed in horror. Her face was that of a rotting corpse.
The artist shifted the easel around, Jacqueline's horrible visage matched her portrait.
"Gaston, what have you done?"
"Merely finished my masterpiece, my precious Jacqueline. It is a true masterpiece of horror. I have done with a brush what Poe achieved with a pen."
"It was the King of Carcosa! He forged a mental link with you when you read his play in Paris!"
"You overestimate the power of Carcosa's monarch. I couldn't make any s
ense of Le Roi en Jaune when I read it a year ago. My sole reaction was that it was as poorly written as the Book of Revelations. The King in Yellow bears no responsibility for my actions. I, Gaston Morrell, have always been my own master!"
"Why did you do this?"
''I thought you were different, but you're like all the others! A deceiver! A liar! You beguiled me with your bewitching eyes! You raised my hopes that I would share your bed! Then you dash my desires by invoking a childish vow of celibacy? You have no idea of my true nature! I am more than Gaston Morrell. I am Bluebeard!"
"Gaston, I love you! I will never love another!"
Removing his necktie, Gaston twirled it around Jacqueline's throat.
"Yes, Jacqueline, you shall never love another," prophesized Gaston as he slowly tightened his makeshift noose.
The lifeless body of the Breton maiden slumped to the ground once Gaston finished his allotted task. Lifting the corpse, Gaston carried it to the window overlooking the Lake of Hali. He gently pushed the body through the portal. The cadaver fell into the waters below. As Jacqueline's remains sank, Gaston stared into the dark depths below.
"Let me compose your epitaph, my celibate priestess:
Pray for the Soul of the
Priestess Jacqueline
Who Died
In her Youth for Love of
Gaston, a Strangler
A. D. 1878."
Gaston studied the scroll that Jacqueline had given him the night before. Before he could perform the Ritual of the Signum Veneris, he was interrupted by a harsh voice.
"Murderous scum!" shouted the Phantom of Truth. His arms held the drenched body of Jacqueline the Bold. "I sensed her danger, but wasn't able to escape the scrutiny of the King in Yellow until it was too late. I couldn't save her life, but I rescued her soul from the ravenous waters of Hali. You marred her face in life, but I can restore her beauty in death."
The Phantom waved his hand over Jacqueline's face. The decaying flesh was replaced by the radiance of her true visage frozen in death. "Your portrait is an obscenity. Let its vile imagery be completely erased." The Phantom raised his hand. The canvas was now blank.
"Gaston Morrell, suffer the penalty for your blasphemous act! By the hounds of Yeth and the black star of Yrimid, I curse you for all eternity! The Pallid Priestess is dead. Long live the Pallid Priest!"
Gaston felt a strange tinkling over his entire body. He looked down at his hands. They were encased in a white chalkiness. Touching his face, he looked at his reflection. The Pallid Mask covered not only his face but his entire body.
"I now leave you in solitude to contemplate your destiny," announced the Phantom of Truth. "Return to Earth if you dare. Before my departure, you should know that a certain memory is now forever lost to you."
Still gripping the deceased Jacqueline, the Phantom of Truth vanished.
"Fool!' snarled Gaston. "The means of my salvation are well within my grasp!"
When he had gained the power to glimpse the human soul during his first night in Hastur, Gaston had stared into his own eyes in a mirror. He had seen only the stark blackness of night. If that was the true nature of his soul, so be it! He knew that his hands possessed the same power to alter his physical form just as they had Jacqueline’s. Picking up the brush, he prepared to paint his self-portrait.
Gaston soon realized part of his memory remained shrouded. The artist couldn't recall his real physical form. The Phantom of Truth must have blasted that memory from his mind.
The artist laughed grimly. Jacqueline's ordeal had proven that the subject of Gaston's art could be transformed into any shape painted on canvas. There was only one image that Gaston could remember vividly enough to use as his new physical body. Working long into the night, Gaston labored with a fierce intensity. When dawn broke, Gaston had completed his work.
The artist scrutinized his hands. They were now fully flesh. He looked at his face in the mirror. Satisfied with what he saw, he removed all his clothes. The mirror divulged that his body was a flawless duplicate of the new painting,
"I was wrong, Jacqueline. This is truly my greatest work. My ultimate masterpiece."The artist spoke with a new voice. Befitting his altered flesh, Gaston's voice matched perfectly the enchanting tones of Jacqueline the Bold.
The most respected art collector in Paris was the Duc de Carineaux. Living inside the nobleman's house was his mistress, Feliciana Sorelli, the lead dancer for the Paris Opera House. Normally, the Duc would be spending the evening locked in the arms of his charming paramour. However, Feliciana had left Paris that evening to visit her ill mother. The Duc feared that the dancer was deceiving him. He suspected her of cheating behind his back with the Comte de Chagny. Her mother's health could merely be serving as an excuse to mask an assignation with the Comte. Being in a bad mood, the Duc was reading Baudelaire's Les Fleurs de Mal in his study.
Therewas a knock at the door.
"What is it, Georges?"
The Duc's butler entered the room. "There is a young man downstairs. He wishes to sell you a portrait."
"Tell him to go away. It's late."
"Your Grace, as you have remarked on more than one occasion, I have no knowledge of art. Nevertheless, even a simpleton such as myself can see that this painting is a true masterpiece. I believe that it surpasses every item in your collection."
"Based on that recommendation, my loyal servant, I shall see this gentleman immediately. Did this fellow give his name?"
"Hastur d'Ys, Your Grace."
Upon reaching his study, the Duc discovered a visitor attired in male clothing. The individual was smoking a cigar. Smoke from the cigar obscured Hastur's features.
The Duc's eyes focused on a portrait reclining on the wall. He raised it from the ground. Holding it in both hands, the nobleman savored its majesty.
"Did you paint this?"
"Yes," answered Hastur.
"Do you think me a fool? Months ago, I purchased a work painted in a similar style from an unscrupulous art dealer. Like this portrait, it was unsigned. Eventually the police traced the portrait to Gaston Morrell, the maniacal killer. He had painted the poor girl in the picture before throttling her."
"If Your Grace will indulge me, I can easily quell any doubts about the authorship of this work. I can offer two pieces of evidence to verify its origins."
"Proceed."
"I assume that other artists have visited your abode. They must have drawn sketches for you. If you can bring me a sketchbook and a pencil, I can quickly draw the woman in the painting. Then you can compare my sketch with the portrait."
The Duc summoned Georges to bring the appropriate materials. Once Hastur had completed his drawing, the Duc inspected it.
"I admit that your style greatly resembles that of the portrait's author. You alluded to another piece of evidence."
"As you noted earlier, all of Morrell's models experienced the misfortune of becoming corpses. The young lady in the portrait is among the living. Would you like me to introduce her to you?"
"Could such a rendezvous be arranged for tomorrow?"
"You need not wait that long. We have been discussing a self-portrait. I am both the artist and the model."
Hastur's hands reached behind her head. She plied loose the pins holding her hair in place. Her ebony hair fell on her shoulders.
"I see a resemblance," acknowledged the Duc, "but only a thorough inspection would completely verify your claims."
"Is there a room where I could disrobe, Your Grace?"
"There is one upstairs. Let me take you there."
Hastur followed her host up the stairwell. On the upper floor, the Duc showed his guest into the bedroom of the absent Feliciana Sorelli.
After stripping off her clothes, Hastur stood before the Duc, totally naked.
"Tell me, Your Grace, have I passed inspection?"
"With flying colors." The Duc kissed Hastur passionately on the left shoulder. Embracing the artist, he lowered her gently into Fe
liciana's bed.
As her back touched the bedside, Hastur whispered into the Duc's ear."
"I have a confession to make. Your Grace, I'm a virgin."
"Not for long," the Duc replied.
When Feliciana returned to the Duc's establishment, she was told to pack her belongings and leave. Her room was now occupied by Hastur d'Ys.
The Duc de Carineaux immediately assumed the role of patron to the artist formerly known as Gaston Morrell. Identifying herself as a native of Brittany, Hastur announced her intention to launch a series of paintings based on Breton myths. Once she had completed several paintings, the Duc made arrangements for an exhibition to showcase his new protégé.
Hastur's self-portrait was enshrined in a room that housed the Duc's most valuable paintings. With his new mistress by his side, the nobleman commented on the prized jewel of his collection.
"You really should sign your self-portrait."
"I don't want my painting altered in any way. I arrived in your home with a purity that the portrait represented. I want the painting to remind me always of the voluntary surrender of my virginity."
Hastur was lying. She really feared that any alteration to the painting could adversely affect her. Hastur wondered if she was supernaturally linked to the painting for the remainder of her life. She had heard of mystical paintings that preserve the youth of their subjects. Would she ever age? Would she always have the appearance of a twenty-five year old?
The ability to alter the appearance of others through her artwork had been lost by leaving the city near the Lake of Hali. Hastur had painted a portrait of the middle-aged Duc that made him appear ten years younger. The painting had failed to rejuvenate the Duc.
"The exhibition is in two days," said the Duc. "There is one point about it that I don't relish. Gazing on your beauty has been my exclusive pleasure since you arrived. Now I must share that ecstasy with others."
Lovecraft Ezine Mega-Issue 4 Rev1 Page 17