“People forget the great and courageous things a man accomplishes. They remember his peculiarities. They remember that Nero fiddled while Rome burned. They may forget your philosophy and remember—your beard!”
He remained pensive. His eyes clouded as if someone had drawn a film over them. Only the perverse glitter pierced through like the sharp fine edges of stilettos.
Kotikokura pulled at my sleeve. “Ca-ta-pha! Ca-ta-pha!” His nostrils shivered, and his teeth chattered.
“What is the trouble, my friend? What has happened?”
A dog that followed him was munching a large bone, tearing the shreds of flesh that clung to it.
“Look, Ca-ta-pha!” He pointed to the animal.
The bone was the arm of a child! I was seized with nausea.
“Ca-ta-pha—come!” He pulled my arm and preceded me. From time to time, he looked back to see if we were observed. He led me to a trap-door hidden behind a rock. He opened it. We descended several steps. He opened another door. An intolerable stench struck my nostrils like a fist.
“Look, Ca-ta-pha!”
When my eyes became accustomed to the dark, I saw strewn about piles of bones, skulls in which an eye still persisted to glare like a bit of porcelain, legs torn from their sockets, arms placed upon each other in the shape of crosses, flesh over which enormous flies buzzed and rats munched. In phials, blood coagulated like frozen cherries.
“Come, Kotikokura. This is too horrible! Too horrible!”
I breathed many times deeply, as if to smother the memory of what I had seen.
“How did you discover this, Kotikokura?”
He told me how for days he had been smelling something strange; how the dogs, their muzzles to the earth, discovered the rock. His curiosity was greater than his prudence. He opened the door and discovered the holocaust of children.
“We have seen much death and we are not pure-handed ourselves, Kotikokura—but have you ever seen such a loathsome thing?”
He shook his head vigorously.
“During the Crusades, we splashed through blood, but the deeds of the followers of Christ never were half so monstrous as the work of Anti-Christ…!”
I rubbed my heart as if to remove all traces of the hand that had been placed upon it in sign of friendship and allegiance. This must stop! No friendship could survive this! No promise could bind!
LX: THE LOVE OF ANNE—ANNE PROPOSES—I BETRAY A FRIEND—POWDERS AND MASKS
ANNE entered,—an exquisite phantom in white.
“Catherine is happy today.”
“Happy?”
“She has felt life! She says that never—not even when Gilles thrilled her with his first kiss—did she experience such joy. Besides, my brother-in-law told her that he would show her his laboratory, initiate her into his great secret,—and ever after she would have nothing to fear.”
I stood up with a jerk.
“He would show her the true meaning of life and birth.”
“Anne!” I exclaimed, “don’t let her go to him! Never, do you hear? She must not.”
“What is the matter, dear?”
No friendship could endure this! No brother could be forgiven for such a crime! It was Catherine, then—the beautiful, the exquisite Catherine whom he meant to sacrifice to his insane illusion. When it was an abstract idea, woman in general, I could tolerate it,—but Catherine whose face was like Spring and whose body like a young tree!
“It shall not take place!” I shouted.
“What is the trouble, Cartaphilus? I beg you to tell me!”
I related to Anne the Maréchal’s insane obsession, omitting, however, the gruesome things I had witnessed.
She buried her head into the pillow and sobbed, “Poor Catherine! Poor Catherine! Cartaphilus, can you imagine what she has been suffering? She pretends to believe nothing—the rumors, the cries, the complaints of mothers. Even the strange lights and shadows at midnight did not convince her. ‘Gossip, sister,’ she says, trembling the while. I am sure she will not believe or pretend not to believe what you have told me, Cartaphilus. Even if she saw the glittering knife in his fiendish hands, she would continue to love and trust him. She may even allow herself to be sacrificed.”
“We must not let her, Anne! She is too beautiful…”
“The monster! The monster!” she shouted.
“Not a monster, Anne. Gilles is a remarkable man. His face, at times—have you not noticed?—is like a child’s. But he is mad. He does not mean to do a murderous deed. He thinks he is serving God—his God—in his own fashion.”
“The monster! The monster!” she continued. “He denies God and man and murders innocent children. He allies himself with the powers of evil against our Lord. Cartaphilus, how can you deny he is a monster?”
She knelt before the painting of the Holy Virgin that hung upon the wall. “Holy Mother, help us save my sister from the clutches of the fiend! Mother Mary, help us save her unborn. Mother of us all, protect us! Amen!”
She rose and seated herself next to me. “Cartaphilus, what shall we do? How shall we proceed to stop this foul deed? How escape?”
“You have spoken to me of your brothers, Anne. Can we not implore their help?”
“They are strong and courageous. They would do anything for Catherine, but he will not permit them to enter his castle.”
“So great a castle must have some secret gate.”
She knit her white smooth brow. She placed her mouth to my ear, as if fearing that someone was overhearing. “There is a gate, dilapidated and hidden by bushes to the left of the field. One man can pass through it at a time. No one watches it.”
“That is good. And how many men can your brothers muster?”
“I do not know—a thousand fighting men, if needs be, who would fight to the death to save Catherine.”
“They will not have to fight once in the castle if we explain their mission to the Maréchal’s soldiers. They come on a peaceful errand.”
“On God’s own errand,” she added, looking at the Madonna.
“Have you a trusted servant who could carry our message to your brothers?”
“I think so, Cartaphilus. A young man who is in love with Madeleine, my chambermaid. He would go into the fires of hell for her and she would do as much for me.”
“Send him; but one messenger is not enough. Something may happen to him on the way. He may miscarry our orders…”
“I have a carrier pigeon, Cartaphilus—a most beautiful and intelligent bird. My mother gave us several at our departure. The monster permitted the birds to escape. One returned. He can carry a message under his wings.”
“Splendid!”
She pressed my hands, her eyes filled with tears. “Cartaphilus, the Lord Jesus has sent you to us.”
‘He will always get the credit,’ I thought.
“Cartaphilus, supposing the man loses his way and the pigeon is slain? Perhaps my brothers may not be able to come at once. They may be at war with their neighbors. What—what will become of Catherine?” Her despair heightened her loveliness.
“Then—Anne,” I said, caressing her head, “then, Cartaphilus will save her single-handed.”
She stared at me. “Single-handed?”
I nodded.
“Who are you?” she asked, breathing heavily.
“Cartaphilus, my dear,” I smiled.
“You are a messenger from Heaven, Cartaphilus. I know it.” She looked at the crucifix on the wall.
“Anne, I am betraying my friend.”
She placed her head between my knees.
“Promise me one thing, Anne.”
“Yes, Cartaphilus—anything.”
“Gilles must not be subjected to torture. He must not be abandoned to the rabble which, hound-like, tears its victims to pieces.”
“The Church can deal with her erring children, Cartaphilus,” she added. “You will recognize her beneficence and her wisdom if you accept baptism! Let my love persuade you.”
I raised her and with my lips I made the sign of the cross on her body.
“We might marry then, Cartaphilus, and remain together forever.”
‘The eternal woman!’
I seated her upon my knee and caressed her. She sobbed lightly. Gradually, her sobbing subsided. She placed her arms around my neck. The perfume of their pits delighted me like the deep drinking of an old wine. I laid her gently upon the bed. She offered her treasures as gracefully and as beautifully as flowers open their petals.
At dawn, she left the bed. Shivering a little from the morning chill, she returned once more. “Love me again, Cartaphilus. I have a premonition that this is our last embrace. Love me!”
“We shall meet again, Anne.”
“You will go away. Your eyes are restless. They are seeking a far-off gate.”
‘Asi-ma,’ I thought.
“How shall I live without you, Cartaphilus? How can another man’s embrace delight me after this?”
“One forgets.”
“Man forgets—but not woman—not Anne.” The sun made a lake of gold upon the bed.
“Kotikokura, you play the Devil.”
He grinned.
“Play your part well, but above all keep the mask I gave you.”
He touched his belt.
“If the brothers do not come and if I cannot dissuade him from slaughtering his lovely wife, I shall throw the powder into the air. One breath of it will paralyze all except us if we wear the masks. We can then carry the victim away and escape. Remember the sign, Kotikokura. Put your mask on and I shall do likewise, or else we shall suffer the general fate.”
Kotikokura nodded.
“Meanwhile, cause no suspicion. Obey whatever the Maréchal commands.”
LXI: WHITE MASS—BLACK MASS—BLACK PRAYER—RITES OF SATAN—BEAST OR GOD—THE SACRIFICE—THE BAPTISM OF HOMUNCULUS—JUDAS—I SEND A PRESENT TO ANNE
THE people entered, dipping their fingers into the holy water, and bending their knees before the altar. Those of rank seated themselves in the front pews, the peasants in the rear. A box in the manner of the theaters was reserved for the Maréchal and his guests of honor.
The chapel was like an enormous jewel, carved and chiseled into the shape of a room. The altar was of gold and lapis-lazuli, the pillars of red-veined marble. The walls and ceiling were frescoed with magnificent paintings.
The organ played and an invisible choir chanted a beautiful litany. The Bishop, accompanied by two priests, entered slowly. The canopy which covered them was of white silk, embroidered with gold. The Bishop held in his hand a crucifix—a mass of precious stones. Six young boys, dressed in black velvet, scattered incense from censers of jade.
The Bishop mounted the steps of the altar and knelt. He rose and with his back to the worshipers chanted short verses, at the end of which he shook a tiny gold bell. The people responded: “Ora pro nobis.” “Ora pro nobis.” The organ played a melody so low, it floated about the place like the vague perfume of a god.
The Maréchal and Catherine knelt, pressing their heads against the balustrade of the box. Anne closed her eyes. Her hand clasped mine tightly.
“They have not come, Cartaphilus,” she whispered.
“Do not fear, Anne.”
“My messenger has not returned. Do you think he has reached my brothers?”
“If not he, the pigeon.”
“I tremble lest– —”
“Fear not, I am ready.”
She knelt and in kneeling, kissed my hand.
The Bishop uncovered the ciborium. The worshipers approached one by one, in silence, took a tiny wafer—the body of Jesus—and bending their knee, left.
The music ceased. The priests removed the ciborium and the bell.
The Maréchal rose and whispered into Catherine’s ear. She rose also and bowing, said: “Whatever my lord desires.”
He kissed her forehead and descended to speak with the Bishop.
“Do not go, sister!” Anne implored. “Do not go!”
Catherine looked at her reproachfully. “Anne, is he not my husband? Should not a wife obey her husband?”
“He is a– —”
I pressed her arm. Anne stopped short.
“Catherine, in the name of our Lord Jesus, do not go today.”
“Anne, shall I be false to my vow?”
“He is false to his.”
“Do not speak thus, sister.”
The Maréchal took my arm and bade me descend the steps. “Contrasts thrill me, Cartaphilus. To go immediately from the worship of Adonai into the Temple of Lucifer, from the White Mass to the Black Mass, to pray fervently in both places!”
The steps turned in a spiral. When we reached half way, I listened intently. It seemed to me that I heard hoofbeats in the distance. But the noise died out and there was a deep silence. There was still time to dissuade him from the hideous deed he was contemplating.
“Gilles, why should man seek truth since truth is infinite and man is finite?”
“You are younger than I, Cartaphilus, and yet you consider me in the light of your junior. You need not fear for me. Adam ate of the Tree of Knowledge but only one apple. I shall wrest from God the seed!”
“Mortal eye cannot gaze at truth full-faced. Be content if you lift a corner of the veil… !”
“One glance—and death—I am satisfied.”
The Maréchal knit his brow.
“Cartaphilus, you speak like a Christian. We are now in the house of him who is greater than Adonai. The ignorant call him the Prince of Darkness, but he is Lucifer, the bearer of Light.”
From the middle of the ceiling hung a large candelabrum whose shape was a phallic caricature of the one in the Temple of Solomon and which spread a yellowish light, resembling the pallor of a jaundiced eye.
The walls were painted with grotesque figures,—goats with the heads of men, bulls with bodies of goats, elephants whose trunks and legs suggested colossal organs of procreation, snakes, stallions, bats revolving about naked figures that were partially women and partially beasts.
In the center of the Temple glowered a large marble statue of Pan: a giant priapus protruding from his belly, like a strangely shaped arrow hurled by an insane hunter.
The altar, marble encrusted with gold and jewels, was partially surrounded by a velvet curtain of a deep scarlet embroidered with the triangle of Astarte.
The worshipers were assembled. Their faces were painted with phallic symbols or covered with masks of animals.
The Maréchal’s face acquired a beatitude which was incongruous with his eyes, wide open as an owl’s in the dark and as ominous. His beard glittered like a cataract of amethysts.
The organ played a strange hymn, a co-mingling of solemn notes and a dancing medley. A hooded person, whose sex was difficult to determine, shook a censer, scattering an incense which resembled a decayed perfume mixed with human excretions.
Gilles de Retz invited me to sit with him.
“We need not take part in the common prayers. For us is reserved the Great Moment.” He looked at me triumphantly, his gray eyes assuming their demoniac glitter.
I waited for a sign from Catherine’s brothers, but I heard no sound. While I trusted my magic powder, I did not desire to display my power. I was already too conspicuous as the friend of Bluebeard. I did not wish to be compelled to explain the scientific device which produced a gas that paralyzed every muscle.
The priest entered, gorgeously attired. Upon his chest he wore upside down, an immense crucifix, studded with many diamonds which glittered like lamps.
He knelt before the altar and chanted. “Our Father which art in Hell, hallowed be Thy Name.”
The worshipers responded: “Amen.”
“Thy Kingdom come.”
“Amen.”
“Thy Will be done on Earth as in Hell.”
“Amen.”
“Bring us this day our daily light.”
“Lead us into temptation.”
“Amen.”
“That we may be free from desire.”
“Amen.”
“Deliver us from good.”
“Amen.”
“Which maketh men weak.”
“Amen.”
“Which bringeth pain and falsehood into the world.”
“Amen.”
“For Thine is the Kingdom and power and glory forever.”
“Amen.”
The priest uncovered the ciborium, The worshipers approached, one by one, forming a circle.
“Partake of the body of the Enemy,” the priest repeated at intervals. Each person took a wafer, desecrated it, and cast it upon the floor.
“Partake of the body of the Enemy.”
Was it a bugle in the distance or the triumphant note of the organ? I listened, my eyes wide open.
There was perfect silence again.
The circle of worshipers was completed. A black-draped acolyte filled the large cup which each one drank and turned upside down to prove that nothing had remained within it.
“Drink the sacred blood of our Lord Lucifer,” the priests chanted.
Three times the circle turned. Three times they drank the full cup. Their legs became unsteady and their eyes glistened. Many laughed.
The organ played: Gloria in Excelsis backward.
The worshipers began to dance about Pan, swaying, contortioning, moaning, howling.
I became more and more impatient. Would Kotikokura remember the sign? Would he have the mask with him? I touched my cloak. Mine was safely hidden.
The worshipers danced on. Their clothing hung from their bodies. Their mouths were covered with foam, like galloping horses.
A stench which was more than mortal struck my nostrils. Human excreta mingled with a strange odor that seemed to be a permanent exhalation of Lucifer’s Temple. Was this the ultimate corruption? Was it the stench of Second Death…?
The choir sang a beautiful litany in a minor key. The dance degenerated into obscene gestures. The worshipers tore their clothing, exhibiting their nakedness. Some inflicted wounds upon themselves with tiny spears and knives. They screamed, whether in pleasure or pain, I could not tell.
My First Two Thousand Years; the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew Page 33