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.”
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.
“Anne!” I whispered.
Kotikokura discreetly bowed himself out.
Anne approached me. I clasped her to me with the joy of one who has suddenly recovered a long lost treasure.
“Cartaphilus,” she whispered, “my sister is very much perturbed”
“More than usually?”
“Yes. She has seen strange sights in the garden and in the forest this evening,—men with enormous lamps that blinded the eyes.”
‘The mirrors,’ I thought.
“Why should lamps perturb her so?”
“Lamps and torches and black-gowned people and one who looked like a ghost…”
‘The reflections,’ I thought.
“Gilles has not entered her room for days. She is consumed more than ever with longing and with fears…”
I laughed. “Does she fear him or his beard?”
“Have you not noticed,” she said trembling, “how much bluer it is of late… ?”
I seated myself upon the edge of the bed and drew her upon my knees.
I smiled. “Color, my dear, depends upon the sun. The sun may be stronger these days. We are in the midst of Spring, as those who love should know.”
“No, no! There is something more significant in it all. His beard was almost black when I first saw him. It is becoming bluer every day.”
“Even if true—what could it mean, except that it changes as he grows older?”
“Older…and—”she opened her eyes wide, “more terrible.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ah, you do not know, Cartaphilus. There are horrible rumors about. I overheard many people. They say…he is in league…with…you know whom.”
I laughed. “People always spread false rumors, particularly about men who like Gilles de Retz, are daring and rich and unusual.”
“Cartaphilus, you are his friend. He says you are the wisest of all men.”
“He exaggerates, dear.”
“No, no—he does not. I know you are. It is not as if I had really met you for the first time some days previously. I feel that I have known you always.”
“You have known me, Anne. Centuries ago we were lovers.”
She looked scared.
“The Hindu religion teaches that the souls of people are reincarnated and true lovers meet again and again.”
“It is beautiful—but is it God or the Other One—who teaches this?”
“God, Anne. Why suspect the Othe
r One of all good things?”
“This place…this castle and forests and gardens…it is uncanny. My poor sister! She is as white as a ghost. I think she knows many things but she will not utter a word against Gilles. She defends him always. Love is terrible.”
“Love is beautiful.” I embraced her. Her lips tasted like fresh honey, and her breath was the perfume of the bud over which we had bent the first time. “In the morning we shall speak to Catherine and convince her that she has nothing to fear. This night you are my bride.”
She pressed me against her, trembling a little. “Am I not a wicked woman, Cartaphilus? I have come to you of my own free will—and yet I am not your wife, nor even your betrothed.”
“You are as pure as the rose is, Anne.”
“You said that we were lovers in centuries past.”
“And shall be again and again…”
Anne crossed herself and went to bed. Her body dazzled like a lake over which the moon shines. Her breasts rose and sank like the gentle flutter of doves’ wings. Her eyes were thin black lines underneath the long lashes which nearly touched.
I taught her the divers ways of love which I had acquired from Flower-of-the-Evening and from others. Anne learned readily the tender secrets of many lands.
“Cartaphilus, how strong you are!” she murmured, as she stretched to the tips of her toes.
LIX: SULLEN PEASANTS—A DROP OF BLOOD GLISTENING IN THE BLUE—THE NEEDS OF HOMUNCULUS—THE DREAM OF GILLES DE RETZ—KOTIKOKURA MAKES A DISCOVERY
I WALKED beyond the garden into the field. The peasants—men, women and children—were working feverishly. The scythes glittered ominously in the sun like scimitars, and the heavy pitchforks ripped into the hay like bayonets.
I approached one of the men who was wiping his forehead with his large horny hand, and bade him the time of the day. He glared at me and turned away, making the sign of the cross. Two women, becoming aware of my presence, uttered a stifled cry, then crossed themselves. Others looked up from their labor, and glared and pointed at me in silence.
Why were the farmers so enraged against the Maréchal and his guests?
I knew it was not a question of wages. Gilles de Retz was very generous, nor did he demand the right of the prima nox. Was it the lord’s dabbling into alchemy? Hardly. It was the universal passion. The peasants themselves would have crossed their chests with their right hand while the left tightened over the gold produced by a Midas-fingered adept.
I arrived at the gate that led to the left wing of the castle. A girl of about ten was knocking at it with her small fists. She looked at me, her eyes filled with tears.
“What is the trouble, my dear?”
“My little brother went inside a long while ago and he has not come out yet.”
I raised my hand to pat her. She withdrew her face and shoulders.
From within, a child’s sharp cry—the cry of an animal that is pierced by a knife– —
“It’s my brother, monsieur, my brother!” the girl sobbed. “My brother! My brother!”
The gate opened and the Maréchal emerged. His eyes were wide open and bloodshot. His hands trembled. He breathed heavily.
“Ah! My friend!” he exclaimed. His voice was husky.
The little girl screamed.
Gilles smiled. “They are all afraid of my beard—these little brats.”
“My brother,” she implored.
“Your brother? What about him?”
“He cried a while ago… I heard him.”
“Foolish child,” the Maréchal said tenderly. “He is probably playing and laughing with the rest of the children. Would you not like to accompany them?”
“No, no!” she screamed.
“Oh, very well. Here, take this gold coin and tell your mother to buy you a beautiful dress.”
Gilles looked after her. “A very pretty child,” he said slowly. “Very pretty.” He took my arm. From his mustache, a drop of blood trickled into his beard. I shivered.
He spoke quickly and enthusiastically about a book he had just read. I knew that he endeavored to make me forget the child. Gradually his eyes resumed their usual clarity. His lips lengthened into a smile. He looked like a boy again—a boy who has pasted on his chin a blue beard to scare his comrades.
“I am a little tired,” he said. “Would you care to drive with me?”
I nodded.
He ordered one of the coachmen to get a carriage ready.
We drove slowly through the garden and forest. He spoke of the beauty of nature, discussed Plato and Aristotle, and quoted poetry, including verses he had written himself. Suddenly, placing his hand upon my leg, he said: “Cartaphilus. I am happy today, for I have discovered the secret.”
“What secret, Gilles?”
“My Homunculus lives!”
“Ah?”
“A few days ago, I paid him a visit. He stirred!”
I looked at him, incredulous.
“He stirred for a second, then remained still again. The virginal blood was not virginal enough. There is always some impurity, even in the youngest blood once it has coursed through the body. What is needed is the blood of an unborn child, snatched from the womb…”
His eyes glinted. I thought of two knives. I heard a sharp cry and a little girl sobbing.
“Not a full-fledged one. The air must not enter its lungs. A child which has just received life, into whom the soul has stirred for the first time…”
“What woman would be willing to consent to this sacrifice?”
“What difference does it make whether she is willing or not? We cannot allow truth to be sacrificed for a woman. We must be strong, Cartaphilus. We must—if needs be—trample on human sentiments and emotions.”
He pulled the corners of his beard. Was it the influence of Anne’s words or reality? His beard was much bluer than when I had first seen it in Paris.
“Truth is beyond man and God and… Satan!” he exclaimed.
His brows knit and his fists tightened.
“Cartaphilus, I have observed your High Priest. There is something about him that symbolizes the earth. He is Pan—the reflection of the Earth, which is the magnificent palace of Him who rebelled against Adonai. God is in His Heaven. What is Heaven to us? We are the lovers of the earth. The earth is beautiful; the earth is joyous.”
His face, in contrast with his words seemed tortured, as if a powerful fist had pressed against it.
“I should like to have the High Priest appear as Lucifer at the Black Mass which must precede the birth of Homunculus. I dare not address him for fear of tempting him to answer in violation of his vow. He understands you, however, by a mere look or gesture.”
“Your hospitality is so generous that he will not refuse your wish.”
He pressed my hand. “Brother.”
“Does not the Black Mass mean, Maréchal, that you have decided to make final your covenant with Satan?”
He nodded. “There is no other way, Cartaphilus. One cannot serve two masters at once. Sooner or later, one must burn one’s boats…”
“Do you think the sacrifice will be efficacious?”
“I am convinced of it. The child created by passion is weaker than the child created by reason, just as a base metal is weaker than gold. Besides, with the High Priest present, Satan himself will come to baptize his son.”
Satan as godfather seemed so ludicrous that I could not refrain from laughing a little.
“And the godmother, Gilles? Who shall it be?”
“The godmother,” he answered solemnly, “is the woman whose womb will deliver the base metal which will be transformed into gold.”
“Have you found her?”
“The sacrifice will be ready when required.”
He closed his eyes and breathed quietly as a man asleep. His face had the dull placidity of old age. One long white hair glistened among the blue of his beard. Was it the drop of blood which had changed its original color? How much pain was Gilles destined t
o inflict? How many children would shriek before he discovered the secret of life or more likely, the futility of his efforts? Was truth really worth such sacrifices? Was Homunculus a boon great enough to justify the murder of a child ripped from his mother’s womb? Had not Yahweh discovered a simpler process to reproduce life? Had he not, also, perhaps, experimented for æons, to find at last nothing more beautiful, nothing more efficacious than the embrace of the male and the female? Perhaps it would be better if man, instead of attempting to create life himself, matched his ingenuity against God’s to frustrate creation…
Could I permit this monster to live? Yet Gilles de Retz was my intellectual kinsman. In his inhuman fashion, he loved me.
I sheathed the dagger that, for a moment, twitched in my hand.
Gilles opened his eyes, startled, and laughed. “I actually fell asleep, Prince, and dreamt—how silly and false dreams are!—that you stabbed me. But instead I see you placed your hand upon my heart in symbol of friendship. And now I shall place my hand upon your faithful heart, Cartaphilus, my brother, and swear eternal allegiance.”
‘How much truer a dream may be,’ I thought, ‘than reality!’
“Gilles, since you have granted me your friendship, may I speak freely to you?”
“Speak, Cartaphilus. Nothing you say can offend me since the purpose of your words springs from your heart.”
“Gilles, it is not possible to obtain truth in a lifetime. It is better to catch a glimpse of it and guess the rest, or to leave it unfathomed. You are endeavoring to compress eternity into one existence. It cannot lead to your happiness or the happiness of those about you…”
“Happiness? What matters happiness, Cartaphilus? What matter those about me? What matter I?”
“You axe treading a dangerous path.”
He laughed and, placing his palm upon my knee, said: “I destroy to build a newer and better world. I am the negation of the Creator who made a mess of creation. The world will never forget Gilles, the Lord of Retz, Maréchal of France who dared to face truth unflinchingly, and to rebel against God.”
My First Two Thousand Years; the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew Page 32
