The Nyctalope and The Tower of Babel

by Jean de La Hire

  “It’s all right!” said Saint-Clair, satisfied, when a few minutes later, Laure reported to him the first contact between the nurse and Basilie.

  And he added:

  “You know, I was sure of it. With her great energy, which she’s careful not to show when it’s not necessary, Nurse Large is charm itself. All her male patients adore her, and her female patients can’t help but love her.”

  Laure, who knew that, from the next night, she and Madeleine would begin the same “convalescence” that her brother and father had enjoyed the night before, smiled widely. Taking the hand of Saint-Clair with a lively gesture, she quickly kissed it and said:

  “You are a magician!”

  “So I am! Working only for the forces of good!” said the Nyctalope, with a laugh.

  At lunchtime, only Basilie was absent. She remained in her room, in the company of her nurse.

  The meal, though without sadness, lacked a certain spark of joy, despite the new wellbeing felt by Jacques d’Hermont, and the marvelous hope that now animated Laure and Madeleine, still exhausted by the nocturnal evil. As for Saint-Clair, serious and meditative, he spoke little.

  This was because he was conscious of the possible precariousness of his “defensive tactics,” as well as undecided as to the efficacy of the “offensive tactics” he was going to put in motion in a few hours.

  His reasoning and intuition were on alert, and he made many varied observations of the castle and its surroundings, from human beings to material things. Based on these, he started to believe that he possessed most of the facts that could help him solve the “Mystery of Beech Grove.” But what would happen to all the beings and things he observed when he would take direct action against the source of the evil?

  “If I have not been mistaken during the last twenty-four hours,” said the Nyctalope to himself, “direct action will be both difficult and dangerous, and even more so for Jacques, Laure and Madeleine than for myself.”

  At 3 p.m. on Friday, January 23rd, his bags in the trunk of the car, accompanied by Vitto and Soca, Léo Saint-Clair left Beech Grove.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER I

  The Sunday Gathering

  A seven-kilometer country road led directly from Saint-Christophe-sur-le-Nais, in the département of Indre-et-Loire, to Dissay-sous-Courcillon, in the Sarthe. Narrow and winding, it was little frequented, as cars usually took a short-cut three kilometers to the west of Saint-Christophe, since the national road from Tours to Le Mans crossed Dissay.

  At its halfway point, the country road accentuated the picturesque quality of the landscape by rising alongside the hillside, where it overlooked for about five hundred meters, facing East, the pretty valley of the Nais. There was a rounded depression where the railway tracks were hidden behind rows of trees and bushes, and the little river winded with a hundred little twists and turns between elms and poplars. Then, at last the water spread out into a lake and gardens, watered by the Nais. To the north were two magnificent columns of poplars, the oldest and most beautiful in the whole region, and before them rose the buildings of the Cross of Blood.

  Bordering the hills, a path ran alongside the gardens of the Cross of Blood. Tall thickets of trees rose up here and there from the slopes, knocked down by the saws and axes of woodcutters. On precisely the east-west line, where the manor of the Logreux d’Albury was located, the hill was hollowed by the roadside into a sort of half-moon of about twenty meters in diameter.

  This small esplanade between path and wood was the preferred spot for vagabonds, Roma gypsies and small-time caravans of journeymen of various origins. A very old tolerance maintained by the current municipal council of Saint-Christophe authorized them to stay there, for free and in peace, for at most a week.

  This place had a very pleasant view, from which one could look at the most beautiful part of the valley of the Nais, stretching from north to south, with the Cross of Blood in the background. In the foreground, there were wooded hills, and far to the right, on a very tall rise, the pepper-pot towers and white façade of Beech Grove.

  On Sunday, January 25th, at around 10 a.m., the half-moon esplanade was occupied in a few minutes of rapid and skillful installation by two caravans. These were led by two very handsome Catalan mules, animals that were well cared for and never ran out of good feed. The caravans, without being luxurious, new, or even recently repainted, were in very good condition and kept clean.

  As for their occupants, any passer-by who might have stopped there a moment out of curiosity could have admired them as pure samples of the Romani race, whose modern kingdom, with its headquarters at Seville, extends to Granada, Toledo, Saragossa, Barcelona, Perpignan, Beziers, Arles and the Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, with extensions to Lyon, Paris and Lille. Having arrived in Dissay in two wagons, this little tribe of Romani gypsies was on its way back to the south of France, Catalonia and Spain.

  Four men and three women—one very old, one dark-skinned and one very young—as well as two children of seven to nine years-old—a girl and a boy—made up the tribe. The four men were about the same age, ranging from forty to forty-five years-old. One of them, whose name was Andrès, was the husband of the dark-skinned woman, named Joachina, who was herself the daughter of the older woman, Luisa, and the mother of the little boy and little girl. The three other males, Pedro, Juan and Anton, were single and not related to the Andrès family. The three of them occupied the first caravan, half the size of the second. This belonged to the grandmother, who lived there with her daughter, son-in-law and grandchildren, as well as with the young woman, for whom a kind of independent compartment with private door had been set aside, opening onto the left side of the car between the wheels.

  A simple passer-by, somewhat observant, would have understood all this in two minutes. At least, he would have, if he understood the language of the Romani, who, while attending to the ordinary labors of setting up camp, did not deprive themselves of speaking and chatting while helping one another. During that time, the little boy and little girl amused themselves by running and chasing each another along the road.

  This language was the pure Catalan idiom of the province of Barcelona, which is also spoken in a less accentuated and very French manner in the area of the Pyrénées-Orientales, the administrative district of the old French Roussillon region.

  If the passer-by had also been somewhat familiar with the Corsican language, which resembles it very much, he would have noticed that Juan and Anton mingled with their Spanish-French Catalan many words that belonged to the homeland of Napoléon.

  The men were dressed quite comfortably in solid shoes and shirts, without collars, waistcoats, trousers or jackets of whatever kind, used but in good condition. The two women wore caraco-style jackets 10 and traditional skirts, in violent colors faded by wear and time. The two little children were half-naked, in spite of the sharp cold of that dry winter morning, a cold they did not feel when playing in the sun.

  But the most remarkable personality of this nomadic group was the young woman, or rather young girl, named Nieve, which in Spanish means “Snow.” By some kind of anomaly, Nieve was fair-haired, a pale blonde with the silvery reflections of the Nordics. One could guess that, under the tan of her life in the open air, her skin was white, as it appeared furtively when the movements of her body between the edges of the bright red scarf she had over her shoulders, revealed her back or the start of her breasts.

  Nieve was a coquette: her beautiful hair, long and well-combed, was twisted into a high and heavy bun like Minerva’s, and held in place by silver pins and brilliant combs studded with rhinestones. Under the blanket, her white, immaculate bodice was made of satin, and her skirt, red like the scarf, was short and pleated, cut from a section of pure wool. Although her legs were bare, her feet were covered in socks also made of red wool and Greek laced-up leather shoes with a thick sole and flat heel. Nieve’s face was extremely beautiful, with lips in the arc of Cupid and big slightly-slanted green eyes, but aloof
due to the straight line formed by her forehead and nose. Her medium-sized body was at once slender and full, supple and muscular, but with the broad shoulders and narrow hips of an Egyptian statue. This accentuated the strangeness of her whole being.

  A singular detail: when speaking to her, only Pedro addressed her with the familiar “tú.” All the other members of the tribe, including the old woman Luisa and two children, spoke to her in a very respectful ceremonial Spanish, in the third person and often repeating “usted,” which means “you,” with a very clear shade of reverential consideration.

  While, with the exception of the girl and boy, everyone was working on the set-up of the camp, the outside fireplace for the kitchen and the preparations of the meal itself, young Nieve gathered various objects into a large, light basket with a handle, a small and very fine work of wicker and matting, a delicate art that was ingenious and miraculously free of vulgarity.

  When the basket was full, she hung it from the crook of her left arm. Then, approaching Pedro, who was caressing one of the two mules, she said:

  “Capo!”

  The word “capo” means “chief.”

  The man interrupted his work, turned around, smiled at the young girl and said with gravity:

  “You are more beautiful than ever, Nieve!”

  “Thank you, Capo!” sighed Nieve, blushing a little under her tan.

  “You have forgotten nothing of what I prescribed you?”

  “Oh! Nothing, I am sure!”

  Pedro, still smiling, nodded.

  “Me too, I am sure!” he said.

  And with a gesture, he brushed the tips of his fingers over the smooth, straight forehead of the young girl:

  “Go then, Nieve. But today, even if the circumstances change, do not be delayed. Do you have your watch? Yes? Well then! Come back by noon, for after the meal, we have much to do. Go!”

  Nieve smiled and bent her knee a little, in a sketch of reverence. Then she set off down the road with a balanced, quick step.

  The whole tribe, immobilized for a moment and turning in the same direction, watched Nieve move away, until she disappeared down a side road hidden by a tall hedge of wood-thicket bare in winter.

  The country road was on a gentle slope. Fifty yards after it branched off, it passed under a sort of monumental doorway, dilapidated and without doors, from which ruined walls forked away to the left and right. Still rather high in places, they were the neglected remains of an enclosure that, in the sixteenth century, must have been a sight to see.

  Beyond this were the fields of the gardens of the Cross of Blood. Lawns and groves, flowerbeds bare at the moment, but that, in the spring, would be lined with flowers, for even now, in full winter, everything showed the constant care of industrious gardeners. The groves were composed of many trees of different species, and the pines, fir trees and cypresses of other families were colored in deep shades of green.

  Still walking with her harmonious and rapid pace, Nieve soon arrived at a large space all covered with pink gravel. Beyond this stood the castle itself, whose flanking towers and main building did not completely conceal the tops of the buildings, no doubt standing behind an inner courtyard.

  Without hesitation, Nieve stepped onto the gravel, which she crossed with her light steps. She went straight to a stone double staircase, which between the two branches of her horseshoe halfway, circled a basin, in the middle of which sprang a stone nymph from a dripping pedestal, a dolphin of cast iron in her arms, with an open mouth that projected clean water gleaming in the sun.

  The two staircases led to a terrace that stretched from one side of the façade to the other, between the huge walls of the two square towers. A large central door stood between four mullioned windows and nine windows on the second, and the building was topped by slate roofs with round skylights and tall chimneys.

  Nieve thought: It is grand and very sad. Although the valley is large, this feels like being in a hole. I wouldn’t like to live here.

  Since crossing the threshold of the front yard, she had been looking for a human being, but in vain. If the windows had not had their shutters open, one might have thought that the main body of the castle contained no one to see the unusual arrival.

  At the foot of the right branch of the staircase, Nieve hesitated a brief moment. Then, with ease, she moved up the steps. Arriving at the terrace, she crossed it so as not to stop before the door, a single leaf of solid wood, on which old fittings and big headed-nails, very shiny and without the slightest trace of rust, were arranged in a Moorish design.

  No doorbell, no knocker. But on the middle of the door, a siren of wrought iron sounded its tail into a round hammer. Nieve lifted the siren and let it fall. The blow sounded loudly and echoed in a vestibule that must have been of great dimensions, for the sound was hollow and went on for a long time. Silence followed for a few seconds, and then the door began to open slowly without the slightest sound: the hinges were oiled well.

  The man who appeared in the broad, high frame of the door did not show any surprise at the sight of the visitor. And Nieve, whom Pedro had prepared for all manner of strange things, remained as impassive as the servant. He was evidently more than a domestic servant, this old man with a thin yellow face and shaven head, a black robe closed over his hips by a cord, and bare arms and feet.

  For a good half-minute, the old man and the young girl observed one another. At last, Nieve spoke in a soft but fearless voice, in French with a light Spanish accent:

  “I read hands and know the language of the tarots. I deliver the possessed, comfort the depressed, and soothe the worried. I also sell small works which my hands have crafted to the rhythm of my dreams.”

  With a brief pause and a penetrating look into the attentive eyes of the man, Nieve added with a sort of natural pride:

  “All that I sell is worthy only of the masters. That is why I do not go where only servants are lodged. Are there masters here, and will they receive me?”

  The old man was not surprised. Without turning his eyes away, he replied in a French oddly distorted by an indefinable accent:

  “I saw you coming. There is only one master here, and he does not receive visitors. But he will receive you, if I describe to him your face and body, and repeat to him your words not of this country.”

  With just as much ease, Nieve replied:

  “You don’t belong to this country either. That is why I spoke to you in my true language. If you had been only a servant, before you I would have been no more than a merchant of pretty and useless things. Go to the master of this house, describe me, and repeat to him my words. I will wait.”

  “Sit here, please,” said the old man.

  He pointed out four oak armchairs covered in leather, around a large low table of black marble. They were in the middle of the immense hallway of the castle, and refracted the rays of sun that entered through a window with little squares.

  Without a word, Nieve went to sit in an armchair and placed her basket on the table.

  The man followed. He leaned toward her and asked:

  “What is your name?”

  “Nieve,” the young woman replied simply, and immediately added: “And yours?”

  “Hambad Sin.”

  “I am a Romani from Spain, from a family with roots in ancient Egypt,” she said.

  In the same tone, he said:

  “I am a Tibetan from Lhasa.”

  For the first time, Nieve smiled, and with a sort of caressing sweetness, she said:

  “Hambad Sin, Grandfather, I thank you.”

  And he, also smiling, said:

  “Nieve, young one, you are welcome.”

  He placed his two hands flat on his chest and bowed. Then he turned and disappeared through a dark door, which he opened and shut without noise.

  For several minutes, Nieve remained there, motionless, impassive, her gaze lost in the sun that was sieved and divided by the small window into little squares.

  A few minutes pass
ed. Nieve was less absorbed than she seemed. With a subtle movement, she raised the frills of her left sleeve just slightly enough to reveal a tiny wristwatch. The young woman counted the minutes that she waited, for she was to make a detailed account of her visit to the Cross of Blood to her chief Pedro.

  When Hambad Sin reappeared, without noise, another movement made the white satin fall over the watch. The sharp face of Nieve lost none of its impassiveness when she heard the old man say:

  “The Master has gone out—I didn’t realize. Often he leaves his apartment by a door to which he alone has the key, and which lets him see the sunrise from the most heavily wooded area of the park. I saw that he has saddled his horse. It’s likely that he won’t return until just before noon, and that immediately afterward, he will dress for his meal. If time doesn’t matter to you today, Nieve, I advise you to wait. But if it does, return before sunset. On Sunday afternoon, the master never goes out. You’ll be announced. I promise you that he will receive you, and that he’ll buy whatever you bring. Perhaps he will even give you his hand to read, and consult you in the science of the tarots. In any case, he will be generous, for he’ll feel, just as I do, that his soul has the same essence as yours, beautiful Roma of Egypt...”

  All these words were spoken slowly, with an infinite gentleness and an almost paternal tone. The tiny, very black eyes of Hambad Sin seemed to rejoice. At the last words, he put his long dry hand on one of the girl’s shoulders and gave her a sort of furtive caress.

  After a brief silence, Nieve replied:

  “I will not wait. The family of the tribe I travel with is celebrating a ritual meal, with a sacred feast. I must not be late.”

  She stood up, delicately looping the basket onto the handle of her left wrist.

  Smiling, she went on:

  “I’ll come back when the sun is halfway down. Tell your master I came because from the place where we camp, I saw the weathervane on top of one of the towers, and recognized the figure of the Pentacle. Do you understand me, Hambad Sin?”