Martyrs of Science

by S. Henry Berthoud

  Now, the marriage request had been made by Master Mathias, who had once been a poor hermit spending day and night in prayer in a cave near the gate of the town of Ypres. Everyone praised his devotion and everyone took him for a friendly arbiter in pleas and disputes; he always did so with wisdom and justice, such as is no longer seen nowadays.

  One day, Mathias had been very surprised to see Comte Robert come to his pitiful lodging, who had, after conversing with him for some time, requested him to come and reside in his palace in order to render justice there and help him to govern his estates.

  It was not easy for the holy man to resolve to do what was requested of him, for he rightly regarded as great wealth, worth more than palaces and power, sleeping peacefully on fresh straw, eating his fill of black bread, drinking fresh water, days without any cares and the ineffable joy of prayer. In the end, however, he gave in to the seigneur’s persistence, and all the townsfolk of Ypres, on hearing the news, set forth to escort the new administrator of justice to the Comte’s palace, shouting loudly: “God bless Monseigneur Robert and the holy man Mathias forever!”

  The hermit performed the duties of his position as best he could, and by way of recompense, the Comte de Flandres gave him the mission mentioned above.

  Madame Iolente de Bourgogne was brought to her fiancé, enclosed in a rich litter drawn by eight white hacks. A hundred men-at-arms marched in front and rear, to defend her against highwaymen and other vagabonds. The hermit Mathias followed, mounted on a benign horse, reciting paternosters and threading the beads of his rosary through his fingers one by one.

  One evening, when Madame Iolente was lodging in the domain of a suzerain dependent on Monseigneur Robert, Père Mathias encountered one of the most renowned astrologers in the world, Master Bauderic de Nozenback, German by nationality, so old that it was said that he had predicted the future of King Philippe Auguste in the days when he was still a child.21

  The astrologer was surrounded by people marveling at his science, so great that no one else knew as much as he did, and the suzerain himself, at supper, gave Bauderic the place of honor, much higher than that of Mathias the Hermit.

  The hermit was secretly annoyed, for until that time, he had always seen everyone give preference to Madame Iolente herself, and had always heard his own virtues and sanctity praised at length. The next day, he was even sadder, because Madame Iolente invited Bauderic to accompany her to the town of Ypres, and instructed Mathias to make the savant astrologer welcome, professing in a loud voice that such great science was worth as much as sanctity. “If not considerably more,” she added in a low voice to one of her ladies in waiting, who were ever ready to frolic at the expense of the hermit’s critical expression and disapproving comments.

  On the other hand, the astrologer felt envious of the respect and renown that the hermit enjoyed. He therefore brought his horse into step with Père Mathias’ hack, not with the intention of edifying himself with the latter’s pious speech, but rather to find fault with him and try to bring about his fall.

  “Thrice blessed are you, Father,” he said, passing a withered and sinewy hand over his bald and wrinkled brow, “for you’ve never known any of the cares of study and the fatigues of science. Yes, by the seal of Solomon, I’ve wished many a time to be a placid and ignorant hermit—and yet I have the secrets of great works, demons obedient to my orders, and people would pay immense treasures for the least of my secrets.

  “It’s necessary to say, although it’s prideful, that there’s a great and beneficent joy is saying that one is superior to other men, and that one owes that superiority entirely to one’s studies and the force of one’s determination. One burning regret pursues me, however—which is that no one will inherit my science, and that my gravestone, which will not be long delayed in falling upon my body, for I’m older than any living mortal, will bury forever secrets that no one will ever rediscover.”

  At these words the hermit’s heart beat rapidly. “A human life would not be sufficient,” he said, “to learn those beautiful secrets.”

  The savant read the thought in the depths of the hermit’s heart. “A week would be long enough,” he said, “for all my science is enclosed in a parchment that I carry rolled up at my breast. But there are mysteries to accomplish—mysteries that would make the bravest of men tremble.”

  “A week would suffice?” asked the hermit.

  “A week, and even less than a week—but then, it would be impossible to find a disciple capable of supporting the necessary ordeals, and paying for my science the price that I have paid, for I bought it from the Demon.”

  The hermit shuddered and crossed himself.

  The astrologer smiled pityingly. Then he took out the parchment hidden in his bosom and began to read the secrets that it contained:

  “The sancturum regnum, or the veritable manner of making pacts with the names, talents and power of superior spirits, and also the manner of making them appear by the force of the great appellation, which forces them to obey whatever operation one whishes them to carry out.

  “Fortunate and unfortunate days.

  “The composition of death, or the philosopher’s stone.

  “To charm weapons...”

  “One week! One week!” the hermit repeated, anxiously,

  Without paying any heed to the interruption, the astrologer continued:

  “To speak to spirits on St. John the Baptist’s Eve.

  “To make oneself beloved by whatever maiden or woman one wishes.

  “To render oneself invisible.

  “To make seven-league boots.”22

  “And it’s at the price of your soul, of eternal salvation, that you’ve bought this science!” murmured Père Mathias, after a profound reverie.

  “And who tells you, earthworm, that you have a soul?” replied the astrologer, ironically. “Before birth, what were you? After death, what will you be? Nothing. You were formed from atoms scattered in the air, combined with water, hidden in the earth; they will return after you to air, water and earth. The soul is the heat of the limbs; it is the principle that makes grass grow plants bud and animals live.

  “Tell me, you who speak of the other world of the soul, have you not been engendered like all other beings? Have you not been carried like them in the loins of a female? Have you not remained, like them, feeble and imbecile until the atoms wandering in nature have nourished you, and you have grown and developed? Is your existence not like theirs? Is it not sustained as theirs is? Eating and rendering excrement, sleeping and reproducing: that is their life, and it is yours. Do they also have an immortal soul, then?”

  A few hours earlier, this miscreant speech would have made the hermit cry anathema, but he heard them almost without horror, because he was going open-mouthed after the hook of pride and the knowledge of what the first man had lost in the terrestrial paradise.

  “Why,” he asked, although he as almost entirely convinced, “if that is the case, would the Demon wish to purchase our souls?”

  “In the formula and prayer of invocation, the great Adonai means by the soul the sap of the body; it is also necessary to add that he is given the heart, the entrails, the hands, the feet and the sighs. It is a trivial homage, which he desires to be rendered to him by the vassal, who releases it to him in exchange for knowledge, magical power and the mysterious secrets of nature.”

  “And God? What about God? Jesus Christ?”

  The astrologer shivered and paled at that thrice holy name.

  “Error! Lies! Two spirits dispute the universe, Adonai and Jehovah; I serve Adonai, for Adonai has science and the spirits of the Inferno in his power.”

  “Would it please you, Master Bauderic, to receive me as a disciple?”

  A joy that was harmful to behold shone in the astrologer’s red eyes.

  “Sign this pact with your blood, to be my faithful disciple, discreet to any proof, and before the dark of the moon you will be like me; I swear it by Adonai.”

  P
ère Mathias, in the greatest emotion, submissive to a strange power, as if he were having a bad dream, allowed himself to be pricked on the wrist by the point of a dagger and signed his name on the vellum inscribed with red letters.

  “As soon as we reach Ypres,” said the astrologer, “come to find me. It will be the first quarter of the moon, and you will not be long delayed in entering the way of life.”

  While everyone in Ypres was rejoicing at the arrival of the new Comtesse, and the betrothal was being celebrated with ostentation at countless feasts; the oaths of guilds were representing mysteries by the light of thousands of torches; and young women, nude in the fashion of sirens, were singing languorous motets and throwing flowers at noble husbands when they passed close by on returning from the moustier to their palaces, Père Mathias went in secret to meet Master Bauderic in a wood.

  The astrologer was waiting, dressed in bizarre fashion. He was on a large stone sitting in the middle of a forest crossroads. After meditating for a long time he said the following words to Père Mathias:

  “Gird yourself, my beloved disciple, with the courage of the lion and the prudence of the serpent, in order to be able to bring to a worthy and appropriate conclusion the great work on which I have spent sixty-seven years of my life, working night and day to arrive at the success of that admirable objective.

  “Listen, then, and do as it will be said.

  “You will spend an entire quarter of the moon without frequenting any woman or maiden.

  “You will promise the great Adonai, the chief of all the spirits, only to take two meals a day, or every twenty-four hours, of the aforesaid quarter of the moon, which you will take at noon and midnight, while saying the prayer that I shall teach you.”

  And he recited a mysterious prayer replete with strange words that it was impossible to comprehend.

  “Do not undress yourself and sleep as little as possible, thinking continually of the great work. Go my do, and do as it is said. Conserve with care this bloody stone called ematille,23 and come to meet me here on the first night after the first quarter of the moon.”

  A fortnight having passed, the hermit came to meet the astrologer again at the same crossroads in the wood where he had met him the first time.

  Bauderic was holding on a leash a goat-kid whose head was dressed with verbena, and had a red ribbon around its neck in the guise of a necklace. Without saying a word, he bared his right arm to the shoulder, brandished a blade of pure steel, and killed the kid with a single stroke, saying: “I make you this offering, O great Adonai, great Eloim, great Arcil, to the honor, glory and power of your being, superior to all spirits; may it please you to accept it!”

  After which he skinned the kid, and put its flesh and bones on to a large fire. When everything was reduced to ashes, he brought them out and threw them in the direction in which the sun rises.

  Then, with the dagger with which he had slain the kid, he cut a forked hazel branch, cut a circle from the skin of the victim, traced a triangle in the middle, and mysterious characters and signs, lit two candles, and poured a yellow-tinted liquid, incense and camphor into a bowl where willow wood was burning. Finally, he threw a silver coin on the ground and murmured long invocations.

  The hermit, pale, his hair bristling, stood in the circle, greatly excited and white with fear.

  Suddenly, he felt the earth quake. A fiery figure sprang from the forest and cried: “Here I am! What do you want of me?”

  “Science for this man, in exchange for his soul, his heart, his entrails, his dexter and his sinister, his feet, his sighs and his being.”

  The hermit felt a dolorous quiver in all his limbs; the voice roared: “I accept!” and darkness and solitude returned to the crossroads in the forest.

  From that moment on, Mathias—for it is no longer appropriate to honor him with the holy name of Père—did not have a singly good thought in his soul. He sold justice, judged cases not on the weight of evidence but on the weight of gold, and paid no heed to the distress of orphans and the tears of widows.

  The townsfolk of Ypres began to murmur, and even addressed remonstrations to the Comte, but the latter paid no heed to them, saying that they were troublemakers and only acting thus out of jealousy of the holy man.

  In consequence, Mathias became more powerful than ever, and it did not take him long to display the science for which he had paid with the salvation of his soul. As he was careful not to say that it was the work of darkness, but claimed, on the contrary, that it came from the heavenly spirit, his renown increased in proportion, and, in spite of his prevarications, it was said throughout the region that he must be a very holy man, because the good God had suddenly granted him knowledge that many years would not have sufficed to amass.

  The spirit of the Inferno rejoiced in seeing him yield to the impious joys of pride, and put into his heart a worse design than all those with which it was already filled. That was to make him feel the impure spur of the flesh for the young Comtesse Iolente, the wife of his suzerain and benefactor.

  In order to succeed in his vile objective he employed every trick that a debauched hypocrite devoid of a soul can invent, but to no avail. He put diabolical invocations and exorcisms to work, but to no avail. And the fire in which he was burning roasted him more and more every day, driving him in his unhealthy desires.

  In the meantime, Monseigneur Charles, Comte Robert’s son, had returned to Ypres, and the first time he found himself in the presence of his stepmother, with whom he had been in love before Comte Robert had taken her in marriage, the poor young sire could not help weeping, and Madame Iolente did likewise.

  Jealousy promptly divines secrets that wound it, and Mathias read in the aforesaid tears both love and regret.

  She’s mine! He thought, inwardly. And that night, putting her ladies in waiting, varlets and pages to sleep by means of his magic powers, he obtained entry to Madame Iolente’s bedroom.

  She was still weeping, and writing on a parchment, for she had learned that base and vassal science from an old cleric, even though her father had scolded her for it many a time.

  Mathias, who had arrived stealthily, seized the vellum, where there were words of love addressed to Monseigneur Charles, and a plea that he should depart in exile.

  He demanded that Madame Iolente grant him amorous mercy, or he would tell Comte Robert everything.

  The lady bravely picked up a dagger with a golden hilt and tried to fight Mathias off. The latter was forced to retreat, because he was a coward and only had the heart for crimes devoid of danger. As he fled, he found a means to introduce a small packet into Madame Iolente’s pouch, which she did not notice because of the emotion that was agitating hr.

  After that, Mathias ran to Prince Charles’ apartment, saying that he needed to speak to him as soon as possible. Admission was immediately granted to the sovereign Comte’s favorite and dispenser of justice, and a page took him to the room where the young Sire Charles was asleep.

  On seeing the prince, Mathias cried: “The revelation that I have just had in a dream is all too true! The young sire has been poisoned! Quickly, fetch water as fast as you can, milk if you can find it. It’s a matter of life and death!”

  And while the prince, pale and stupefied, remained motionless and everyone ran around, bewildered and not knowing what to do, Mathias presented a cup to Monseigneur Charles, into which he had secretly put poison.

  The prince drank, in the belief that he was receiving relief for the malady that he did not yet feel but which Mathias had prognosticated. He drank, lay down, and died.

  Feigning great despair, Mathias dropped the cup that he was holding, kicked it away and said: “Blessed Virgin! I’ve arrived too late!”

  And, surrounded by the prince’s servants, he went to find Comte Robert, whom he found preparing a chamfron with his own hands for his favorite horse. As he went in he crossed his arms over his breast, lowered his head and pronounced he name of Prince Charles.

  Comte Robert
understood that mute admonition. “Dead!” he cried. “He’s dead!”

  “May Jesus Christ and the Holy Virgin be your aid and consolation,” the hermit said, “For he died a martyr rather than commit the deadly sin of incest.”

  As he pronounced these wicked words, he handed over the parchment he had snatched from the Comtesse’s hands, in which, by means of his perfidious art, he had caused a few words to vanish and added several others, thus envenoming evidence that was weak but not criminal, and enabling the belief that she would have the love of the young Sire Charles or his life.

  As the Comte’s chaplain, more dead than alive, finished reading the fatal parchment, the Comtesse came in, crying for justice against the hermit, who had tried to rape her during the night.

  Far from listening to her, however, Comte Robert, struck her a mighty blow on the head with the chamfron he was holding, and struck her again and again. She fell without uttering a moan, and rendered up her soul,

  The hermit ran to the cadaver, opened her pouch and took out the poison, saying: “This is righteous justice!”

  And everyone repeated: “That is righteous justice!”

  The Comte’s courtiers and the townspeople marveled at the admirable revelation that Our Lady had made to the saintly hermit regarding the fatal poisoning of Monseigneur Charles, and he was even more venerated than he had been before.

  Four years later, he disappeared one evening in a whirlwind of flames, at the crossroads in the forest. No one had the slightest suspicion that it was the Devil who had taken one of his own to Hell; on the contrary, the general belief was that the angels had taken him to Heaven, like the prophets Elijah and Elisha, and ever since, the hermit Mathias has been invoked as a benevolent and powerful intercessor.

  The cadaver of Comtesse Iolente was not buried in holy ground, but for pity’s sake she was put in a corner of the garden of an abbey whose benefactress she was.