Catherine sighed. “Sister, I am weary. I must go back.”
“Very well, dear. I shall accompany you.”
“No, no, I beg you. Remain a while longer with the Prince. You need air…and conversation.” She smiled.
She kissed Anne, bent a little her knee before me, and left. I was not displeased. The matter that interested me most at the moment could not be discussed in the presence of so ethereal a being…
“Shall we take that road, Madame? It seems to lead away from the smoke and the noisy merrymaking that takes place in the castle.”
“My brother-in-law will never be persuaded to abandon his whim of being the provider of the riff-raff of the world.”
“Riff-raff?”
“Alchemists, charlatans, visionaries, gypsies, what not. Is it well for a Maréchal of France to associate with such people?”
I did not answer.
“My poor sister is distressed. She occupies the tower to escape the din. Even there she finds little rest. All night she is awakened by red lights moving about in the castle and by huge shadows behind curtained windows. In her condition the excitement is most untimely.”
“Is she ill?”
“No, but she expects a baby…”
“She could pose for the Madonna…”
“She is worthy of the comparison. There was never a purer soul than hers. She was intended for a nun.”
“Why should not exquisite delicacy dedicate itself to love?”
“The Maréchal is too busy with other things. Men of his type should not marry.”
“Your sister loves the Maréchal?”
“She loves him too well…”
Anne bent over a bud and smelled it. I caught a glimpse of the magnificent valley that separated her breasts. An irresistible impulse to grasp and crush them in my hands possessed me. I tightened my fists until my nails cut into the flesh. I remembered the Bath of Beauty. I remembered Ulrica and Asi-ma and Flower-of-the-Evening,—round breasts and pear-shaped, tiny and full. Why should I tremble before the invisible breasts of this woman? Was it merely Youth and Spring? Or was it because I could only see the valley that divided their loveliness?…
Anne looked up. “Smell this bud, Prince. It is intoxicating, as if the whole spring were encased in its tiny body.”
I bent. My face almost touched hers. I breathed deeply, but not of the bud. I moved my head, until my lips met hers. I pressed into them. She did not withdraw. I lowered my face until it touched her breast. Anne uttered a stifled cry. She straightened up. I grasped her in my arms. “Anne,” I whispered, “Anne, I love you.” Her face was flushed. She breathed heavily, her eyes nearly shut.
I placed my arm around her waist and we walked in silence to a bench hidden among the bushes. She stretched out upon it. Her white gown and her immobility gave her the appearance of a statue.
“Anne,” I whispered. “Anne.” Her name thrilled me. My heart beat violently against my chest. “Anne.” I covered her body with kisses.
“It is time for me to go to the tower,” she whispered. “Catherine is waiting for me.”
“We must meet again, Anne.”
“Yes.”
LVII: THE LABORATORY OF GILLES DE RETZ—GILLES CHALLENGES GOD—BIRTH PANGS OF HOMUNCULUS—THE FEARS OF CATHERINE—THE SECRET LOVE OF GILLES DE RETZ
THE Maréchal invited me into his laboratory. Francis Prelati at Padua, assisted by six apprentices, was engaged over ill-smelling crucibles. The laboratory, except that it was much larger, resembled very closely that of Trevisan.
Prelati greeted me cordially, but somewhat pompously. It was our first meeting since Master Bernard had coaxed roses out of the snow. Prelati was still a young man, clean-shaven and tall. He talked about alchemy and physics with the same tricks of language as his friend Trevisan.
He convinced the Maréchal that before long fabulous riches would leap at his command out of the crucible.
Gazing out of the window I saw Kotikokura, followed by several dogs, dash by.
“Your friend the High Priest,” Gilles remarked, “prefers the company of my animals to mine.”
“His vow not to speak for a year, upon which depends the expiation of a great sin, makes him fear the company of man. If he utters one word before the time, he will have to resume his penance from the beginning.”
“Cartaphilus,” he said suddenly, “in your company I have a curious sensation. I feel,” he placed his palm upon his forehead, “I feel…as if all the ages were surging about me. Have we lived once before, and were you then my friend…?”
“It is possible.”
“Are we born or reborn, Cartaphilus?”
“We are links in a chain…”
“I want to destroy—that chain, to begin life anew, without the superstitions of our ancestors, without inevitable decay and old age and death. I want to create new life…that owes nothing to progenitors.”
He grasped my arm tightly and looked at me intently. His eyes rolled a little backward. His beard seemed so blue, I almost believed he dyed it in some strange chemical.
“You are competing with God…”
“Why not?”
He raised his forefinger upon which shone an amethyst the shape of a serpent. “Within ten more days Homunculus will be ready for the arcanum. The spagyric substances I imprisoned in a glass phial are beginning to pulsate. Come!”
He unlocked a door which led into a small room like a monk’s cell. Upon one of the walls was a crucifix upside down; upon another, the signs of the Zodiac. In a corner, a heap of dung over which large flies buzzed. The air was stifling like that of a stable.
“My Homunculus,” he said proudly, “is prospering within it.” He pointed to the heap of manure.
“How can man be born out of dung?”
“Why not? It is the womb of the earth. But heat and manure are not sufficient, Cartaphilus. That is true. For forty days I shall feed him on the arcanum of…human blood. I have discovered the perfect combination. Maimonides failed because he could not obtain the pristine, the virginal blood of children… I, Gilles de Retz, Maréchal de France, obtain from God or the Devil whatever is needed…”
What did he mean by the virginal blood of children?
We walked out. I breathed deeply, many times.
“Cartaphilus, who are you?” the Maréchal asked again suddenly.
“I am—He Who Seeks.”
“Seeks what?”
“What the Lord de Retz seeks—a newer and more beautiful life, only I seek more slowly… I wait.”
“I am impatient, Cartaphilus. I cannot wait.”
He looked at me perturbed.
That was the difference between us. We were brothers in spirit. But I could develop slowly, remaining sane and balanced. The Maréchal’s feverish endeavors must inevitably prove futile. His ideas burst the bands of reason. A thousand generations of alchemists might discover the Philosopher’s Stone, and create a new humanity… I could wait and see. Poor Gilles must hasten, he must force the lock of mystery or perish without baring the secret. Whatever of truth there might be in each generation, I could learn. Whatever of falsehood, I could unlearn in the next.
We reached the bench upon which Anne had stretched out in all her beauty. Gilles bade me sit. I was as thrilled as if Anne lay under my touch again. The Maréchal patted my hand and pressed it. His face at that moment, if shaven, would have looked almost like a boy’s.
“Cartaphilus,” he whispered, “you are he whom I have sought—he who understands—he who knows.”
He knelt, and taking both my hands, pressed them to his lips. “Stay with me always. Be my brother. Let us take the blood bond between us. Call me Gilles.”
“Gilles.”
In the tower, a shadow moved from one window to another, slowly, ceaselessly.
Gilles looked up. “It is Lady de Retz, Cartaphilus. She is very restless. Frequently, the whole night through, she walks as she does now.”
“Perhaps she fears you,
Gilles.”
“She fears my beard.” He laughed a little. “Everybody fears it. I know they call me Bluebeard when my back is turned.”
“Your beard is characteristic of you.”
“I think so too. A black or a blond beard would not be compatible with my temperament. Perhaps my beard determines my life! Demosthenes became the greatest orator because he stammered. Cæsar became the most fearless of generals because he was an epileptic. The maid Joan saved France—because—because—she was not really a woman.”
“Not really a woman? “I asked.
“She never paid the bloody sacrifice that nature exacts every month from woman. She was not a slave to the moon…”
His brows contracted. From his eyes darted the curious fire that bespoke the strangeness of his mind. He stroked his beard, and combed it with the tips of his delicate fingers, covered with jewels of fantastic designs.
“She was a witch, a white witch, but a witch, Cartaphilus!—She confessed that she was!” he exclaimed suddenly. “Afterwards she recanted and lied, but once I caught her performing magic rites. She made the spirits speak and obey…” He covered his face with his hands and placed his elbows upon his knees.
I had heard of the Maid. People spoke of her indifferently or as some half-crazed girl, who claimed to hear voices.
He placed his palm upon my shoulder. “Cartaphilus, you have loved much. Your very name bespeaks it. Have you not discovered that a man yearns always to recapture again and again the thrill of his first infatuation?”
“It is true, Gilles.”
“I love Catherine my wife… She’s beautiful and charming, a delicate bud. But my heart seeks the boy-girl, the witch, Joan of Arc…”
At the windows of the tower, the shadow continued to pass to and fro. What fear, what anxiety made Catherine so restless? Did she guess the secret of Bluebeard’s love? Had she heard the whispered rumors about his pact with the Evil One? Did she understand the duality of his motives? Was she really afraid of his beard? Were fear and love bedfellows in her heart?
“I love Joan of Arc, and I, by Hermes, shall snatch her out of heaven or hell.”
I sympathized with Gilles. His unhappiness resembled mine—Salome, though, not dead, like the Maid, was equally unattainable.
Gilles de Retz stood up suddenly. He seemed even taller than he was. His beard against the background of his black velvet dazzled like amethysts.
“She will be mine, Cartaphilus! I shall conquer death…!”
I looked at him inquiringly.
“I shall invoke her spirit and capture it. She will be mine! She was too proud to accept me in life. She must accept me in death. Her spirit,” he continued, “is obstinate. It is the counterpart of her body. But I am stronger. Francis Prelati, the greatest magus will assist me. We have made our pact with the Prince of Darkness…”
“I shall be with you, my brother.”
He grasped my hands and pressed them to his lips.
I determined to expose the charlatans who had deluded the Maréchal and who devoured his substance.
“Cartaphilus, I know you are more powerful than my magicians. If they fail, you will not… Meanwhile, I must prepare for the tournament. The Count of Dorsay has challenged me this day to a bout…”
He smiled. His face assumed a boyish expression. His eyes twinkled mischievously. Which was his true personality? Was his strangeness due to his thwarted love for the Maid? If Joan had reciprocated his affections would he be merely the charming philosopher, the elegant knight?…
I begged to be left alone to meditate. My meditations were most uplifting.
I expected Anne.
LVIII: I BREAK THE MAGIC CIRCLE—THE WHITE WITCH JOAN OF ARC—I CRASH A MIRROR—I WITNESS A MIRACLE—THE FLIGHT OF THE FALSE MAGICIANS
THE vault was hung round with black curtains. There was no light, save a torch fixed in a high candelabrum. A triangular tripod in the center was surmounted by a bowl out of which a thin smoke, like a line drawn with a hair, arose, filling the air with a strange odor. An altar of white marble supported by four columns terminating in bulls’ feet stood at the left. It was surmounted by a cross upside down, placed upon a serpent in the shape of a triangle.
Master Prelati was dressed in an ephod of white linen clasped with a single emerald. About his waist was tied a consecrated girdle, embroidered with strange names; upon his breast the talisman of Venus hanging from a thread of azure silk. He wore a high cap of sable. His assistant was dressed in a priestly robe of black bombazine. Gilles de Retz, handsome and defiant, was resplendent in his uniform of Maréchal de France.
We remained at the vault’s mouth. The magus walked to the altar, knelt and prayed in silence. Then he walked to the tripod and stirred the smoke with a fan of swan’s feathers.
He motioned to us to approach. He described three circles, one within the other, with his long ebony staff.
“Remain within the circle. Never budge no matter what you see or hear. He who breaks the circle breaks the bond that unites his body to his soul.”
He waved his staff to the four cardinal points of the earth, calling out four names, then remained silent, his head upon his chest, his eyes closed.
Slowly, he lifted his right fist within which he held a bundle of fagots snatched from the flames.
“Joan of Arc! Joan of Arc! Joan of Arc!”
There was no answer.
“Joan, this wood has fed the flame that consumed your body. Your ashes dropped upon it and impregnated it. I am holding your body! Joan, I command you, in the All-Powerful Name, to appear before us!”
There was no motion.
He stamped his staff. “Joan! Joan! Joan!”
Again no response.
“Do not disobey my command. You know the torment of the spirit who disregards the summons compelling alike the living and the dead! Joan! Joan! Joan!”
The light of the torch flickered a little and the smoke broke in two.
“Joan, tarry not. I command you to appear at once!”
There was a rumbling noise, like the roar of a lion which gradually increased and became a hideous mixture of sounds. The smoke in the tripod turned a thick black, and a sulphurous stench filled the place.
The smoke dispersed. The torch was blown out, and against one of the curtains appeared the shape of a young woman, white and trembling like a light.
“Joan!” the Maréchal called out. “Joan!”
The apparition made no answer.
“Joan, you have come to me!” He started toward the apparition, but the magician’s assistant restrained him.
“Joan, I may not come near to you. I may not touch the hem of your robe. Listen to me, Joan. I love you. I can love no other woman, Joan. You scorned me in the flesh—give me your love in the spirit!”
The apparition did not stir. Her lips tightened as if in defiance.
“Joan, by the gods we both adore, my spirit may join yours without leaving its earthly bondage. Speak! Tell me you desire this union.”
The apparition shivered a little as a light shivers in the wind.
The Maréchal grew indignant. He rose. “I command you to speak! I, Gilles, Lord of Retz, Maréchal de France!”
He drew his sword from its scabbard.
Fearing he would do himself some injury, I determined to put an end to the trick. Deliberately I walked out of the magic circles. Before the magician realized my intention, I was beyond the reach of his hocus-pocus.
The three men within the circle uttered a cry of horror. The roaring of the wild beasts commenced again, and out of the tripod rose a choking smoke. I continued my steps undaunted. I had seen too many invocations of spirits. I knew that the apparition of Joan of Arc was merely a play of light and shade upon mirrors. I walked to the spot where, according to my calculation, the magic mirrors were hidden, and crashed them with the hilt of my sword.
“Bunglers!” I exclaimed. “If you wish to invoke spirits, learn to improve your art.”
&nbs
p; The magicians rushed out of the vault, the Maréchal following them with his bare sword.
“Gilles!” I called out. “Do not pursue them.”
He continued his pursuit of the tricksters.
Suddenly, against the white curtains, the spectral image of the Maid appeared. I had smashed the mirror but the apparition remained! I bent my neck forward until it ached and opened wide my eyes. The Maid lingered on…
“Joan,” I called, my voice trembling with awe, “Joan, speak to me!”
Joan tightened her face in pain or abhorrence, made the sign of the cross and vanished, slowly like a light that is carried away…
Had I labored under an illusion? Was this more than a trick? Had I left intact one mirror which now mothered the mirage of Joan, boy-maid, witch woman and saint?…
I drew the curtains aside. Every mirror was crashed!
Gilles returned.
“Cartaphilus,” he said, placing his sword in its scabbard, “I am grateful to you beyond words, for more than all things else, I seek truth. I want no happiness based upon fraud and illusion.”
He grasped my arm. “Come out, this place oppresses me.”
But my thoughts still revolved around the pale wraith of the Maid.
By an irony of the fateful goddess, the Maréchal had missed the only genuine miracle of the evening, inexplicable to me then as it is today.
Kotikokura was looking out of the window of my room.
“What? Not asleep yet, my friend?”
He shook his head.
“You were watching for Ca-ta-pha, were you not?”
He nodded.
“Does it matter so much to you if he is in danger or not?”
He took my hand and kissed it.
“But now you must go to your room and rest. Ca-ta-pha has returned. The universe is saved.”
“Look!” he said.
I looked where his forefinger indicated. The shadow in the tower walked to and fro, rhythmically, accurately like a pendulum.
He was about to tell me something when the door opened slowly and a figure in white appeared. She entered and placed her finger to her lips.
[The Wandering Jew 1] - My First Two Thousand Years the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew Page 32