Down There (Là-Bas)

by Joris-karl Huysmans

  "Of a canon, for instance."

  "Precisely."

  She crossed her legs, very coolly. "That young woman undoubtedly had reasons for keeping still. But perhaps that young woman is really eager to oblige the person who cross-examines her; perhaps, since she last saw him, she has gone to a great deal of trouble to satisfy his curiosity."

  "Look here, Hyacinthe darling, explain yourself," he said, squeezing her hands, an expression of joy on his face.

  "If I have made your mouth water so as not to have a grouchy face in front of my eyes, I have succeeded remarkably."

  He kept still, wondering whether she was making fun of him or whether she really was ready to tell him what he wanted to know.

  "Listen," she said. "I hold firmly by my decision of the other night. I will not permit you to become acquainted with Canon Docre. But at a settled time I can arrange, without your forming any relations with him, to have you be present at the ceremony you most desire to know about."

  "The Black Mass?"

  "Yes. Within a week Docre will have left Paris. If once, in my company, you see him, you will never see him afterward. Keep your evenings free all this week. When the time comes I will notify you. But you may thank me, dear, because to be useful to you I am disobeying the commands of my confessor, whom I dare not see now, so I am damning myself."

  He kissed her, then, "Seriously, that man is really a monster?"

  "I fear so. In any case I would not wish anybody the misfortune of having him for an enemy."

  "I should say not, if he poisons people by magic, as he seems to have done Gévingey."

  "And he probably has. I should not like to be in the astrologer's shoes."

  "You believe in Docre's potency, then. Tell me, how does he operate, with the blood of mice, with broths, or with oil?"

  "So you know about that! He does employ these substances. In fact, he is one of the very few persons who know how to manage them without poisoning themselves. It's as dangerous as working with explosives. Frequently, though, when attacking defenceless persons, he uses simpler recipes. He distils extracts of poison and adds sulphuric acid to fester the wound, then he dips in this compound the point of a lancet with which he has his victim pricked by a flying spirit or a larva. It is ordinary, well-known magic, that of Rosicrucians and tyros."

  Durtal burst out laughing. "But, my dear, to hear you, one would think death could be sent to a distance like a letter."

  "Well, isn't cholera transmitted by letters? Ask the sanitary corps. Don't they disinfect all mail in the time of epidemics?"

  "I don't contradict that, but the case is not the same."

  "It is too, because it is the question of transmission, invisibility, distance, which astonishes you."

  "What astonishes me more than that is to hear of the Rosicrucians actively satanizing. I confess that I had never considered them as anything more than harmless suckers and funereal fakes."

  "But all societies are composed of suckers and the wily leaders who exploit them. That's the case of the Rosicrucians. Yes, their leaders privately attempt crime. One does not need to be erudite or intelligent to practise the ritual of spells. At any rate, and I affirm this, there is among them a former man of letters whom I know. He lives with a married woman, and they pass the time, he and she, trying to kill the husband by sorcery."

  "Well, it has its advantages over divorce, that system has."

  She pouted. "I shan't say another word. I think you are making fun of me. You don't believe in anything-"

  "Indeed. I was not laughing at you. I haven't very precise ideas on this subject. I admit that at first blush all this seems improbable, to say the least. But when I think that all the efforts of modern science do but confirm the discoveries of the magic of other days, I keep my mouth shut. It is true," he went on after a silence,-"to cite only one fact-that people can no longer laugh at the stories of women being changed into cats in the Middle Ages. Recently there was brought to M. Charcot a little girl who suddenly got down on her hands and knees and ran and jumped around, scratching and spitting and arching her back. So that metamorphosis is possible. No, one cannot too often repeat it, the truth is that we know nothing and have no right to deny anything. But to return to your Rosicrucians. Using purely chemical formulæ, they get along without sacrilege?"

  "That is as much as to say that their venefices-supposing they know how to prepare them well enough to accomplish their purpose, though I doubt that-are easy to defeat. Yet I don't mean to say that this group, one member of which is an ordained priest, does not make use of contaminated Eucharists at need."

  "Another nice priest! But since you are so well informed, do you know how spells are conjured away?"

  "Yes and no. I know that when the poisons are sealed by sacrilege, when the operation is performed by a master, Docre or one of the princes of magic at Rome, it is not at all easy-nor healthy-to attempt to apply an antidote. Though I have heard of a certain abbé at Lyons who, practically alone, is succeeding right now in these difficult cures."

  "Dr. Johannès!"

  "You know him!"

  "No. But Gévingey, who has gone to seek his medical aid, has told me of him."

  "Well, I don't know how he goes about it, but I know that spells which are not complicated with sacrilege are usually evaded by the law of return. The blow is sent back to him who struck it. There are, at the present time, two churches, one in Belgium, the other in France, where, when one prays before a statue of the Virgin, the spell which has been cast on one flies off and goes and strikes one's adversary."

  "Rats!"

  "One of these churches is at Tougres, eighteen kilometres from Liége, and the name of it is Notre Dame de Retour. The other is the church of l'Epine, 'the thorn,' a little village near Châlons. This church was built long ago to conjure away the spells produced with the aid of the thorns which grew in that country and served to pierce images cut in the shape of hearts."

  "Near Châlons," said Durtal, digging in his memory, "it does seem to me now that Des Hermies, speaking of bewitchment by the blood of white mice, pointed out that village as the habitation of certain diabolic circles."

  "Yes, that country in all times has been a hotbed of Satanism."

  "You are mighty well up on these matters. Is it Docre who transmitted this knowledge to you?"

  "Yes, I owe him the little I am able to pass on to you. He took a fancy to me and even wanted to make me his pupil. I refused, and am glad now I did, for I am much more wary than I was then of being constantly in a state of mortal sin."

  "Have you ever attended the Black Mass?"

  "Yes. And I warn you in advance that you will regret having seen such terrible things. It is a memory that persists and horrifies, even-especially-when one does not personally take part in the offices."

  He looked at her. She was pale, and her filmed eyes blinked rapidly.

  "It's your own wish," she continued. "You will have no complaint if the spectacle terrifies you or wrings your heart."

  He was almost dumbfounded to see how sad she was and with what difficulty she spoke.

  "Really. This Docre, where did he come from, what did he do formerly, how did he happen to become a master Satanist?"

  "I don't know very much about him. I know he was a supply priest in Paris, then confessor of a queen in exile. There were terrible stories about him, which, thanks to his influential patronage, were hushed up under the Empire. He was interned at La Trappe, then driven out of the priesthood, excommunicated by Rome. I learned in addition that he had several times been accused of poisoning, but had always been acquitted because the tribunals had never been able to get any evidence. Today he lives I don't know how, but at ease, and he travels a good deal with a woman who serves as voyant. To all the world he is a scoundrel, but he is learned and perverse, and then he is so charming."

  "Oh," he said, "how changed your eyes and voice are! Admit that you are in love with him."

  "No, not now. But why should I n
ot tell you that we were mad about each other at one time?"

  "And now?"

  "It is over. I swear it is. We have remained friends and nothing more."

  "But then you often went to see him. What kind of a place did he have? At least it was curious and heterodoxically arranged?"

  "No, it was quite ordinary, but very comfortable and clean. He had a chemical laboratory and an immense library. The only curious book he showed me was an office of the Black Mass on parchment. There were admirable illuminations, and the binding was made of the tanned skin of a child who had died unbaptized. Stamped into the cover, in the shape of a fleuron, was a great host consecrated in a Black Mass."

  "What did the manuscript say?"

  "I did not read it."

  They were silent. Then she took his hands.

  "Now you are yourself again. I knew I should cure you of your bad humour. Admit that I am awfully good-natured not to have got angry at you."

  "Got angry? What about?"

  "Because it is not very flattering to a woman to be able to entertain a man only by telling him about another one."

  "Oh, no, it isn't that way at all," he said, kissing her eyes tenderly.

  "Let me go now," she said, very low, "this enervates me, and I must get home. It's late."

  She sighed and fled, leaving him amazed and wondering in what weird activities the life of that woman had been passed.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  The day after that on which he had spewed such furious vituperation over the Tribunal, Gilles de Rais appeared again before his judges. He presented himself with bowed head and clasped hands. He had once more jumped from one extreme to the other. A few hours had sufficed to break the spirit of the energumen, who now declared that he recognized the authority of the magistrates and begged forgiveness for having insulted them.

  They affirmed that for the love of Our Lord they forgot his imprecations, and, at his prayer, the Bishop and the Inquisitor revoked the sentence of excommunication which they had passed on him the day before.

  This hearing was, in addition, taken up with the arraignment of Prelati and his accomplices. Then, authorized by the ecclesiastical text which says that a confession cannot be regarded as sufficient if it is "dubia, vaga, generalis illativa, jocosa," the Prosecutor asserted that to certify the sincerity of his confessions Gilles must be subjected to the "canonic question," that is, to torture.

  The Marshal besought the Bishop to wait until the next day, and claiming the right of confessing immediately to such judges as the Tribunal were pleased to designate, he swore that he would thereafter repeat his confession before the public and the court.

  Jean de Malestroit granted this request, and the Bishop of Saint Brieuc and Pierre de l'Hospital were appointed to hear Gilles in his cell. When he had finished the recital of his debauches and murders they ordered Prelati to be brought to them.

  At sight of him Gilles burst into tears and when, after the interrogatory, preparations were made to conduct the Italian back to his dungeon, Gilles embraced him, saying, "Farewell, Francis my friend, we shall never see each other again in this world. I pray God to give you good patience and I hope in Him that we may meet again in great joy in Paradise. Pray God for me and I shall pray for you."

  And Gilles was left alone to meditate on his crimes which he was to confess publicly at the hearing next day. That day was the impressive day of the trial. The room in which the Tribunal sat was crammed, and there were multitudes sitting on the stairs, standing in the corridors, filling the neighbouring courts, blocking the streets and lanes. From twenty miles around the peasants were come to see the memorable beast whose very name, before his capture, had served to close the doors those evenings when in universal trembling the women dared not weep aloud.

  This meeting of the Tribunal was to be conducted with the most minute observance of all the forms. All the assize judges, who in a long hearing generally had their places filled by proxies, were present.

  The courtroom, massive, obscure, upheld by heavy Roman pillars, had been rejuvenated. The wall, ogival, threw to cathedral height the arches of its vaulted ceiling, which were joined together, like the sides of an abbatial mitre, in a point. The room was lighted by sickly daylight which was filtered through small panes between heavy leads. The azure of the ceiling was darkened to navy blue, and the golden stars, at that height, were as the heads of steel pins. In the shadows of the vaults appeared the ermine of the ducal arms, dimly seen in escutcheons which were like great dice with black dots.

  Suddenly the trumpets blared, the room was lighted up, and the Bishops entered. Their mitres of cloth of gold flamed like the lightning. About their necks were brilliant collars with orphreys crusted, as were the robes, with carbuncles. In silent processional the Bishops advanced, weighted down by their rigid copes, which fell in a flare from their shoulders and were like golden bells split in the back. In their hands they carried the crozier from which hung the maniple, a sort of green veil.

  At each step they glowed like coals blown upon. Themselves were sufficient to light the room, as they reanimated with their jewels the pale sun of a rainy October day and scattered a new lustre to all parts of the room, over the mute audience.

  Outshone by the shimmer of the orphreys and the stones, the costumes of the other judges appeared darker and discordant. The black vestments of secular justice, the white and black robe of Jean Blouyn, the silk symars, the red woollen mantles, the scarlet chaperons lined with fur, seemed faded and common.

  The Bishops seated themselves in the front row, surrounding Jean de Malestroit, who from a raised seat dominated the court.

  Under the escort of the men-at-arms Gilles entered. He was broken and haggard and had aged twenty years in one night. His eyes burned behind seared lids. His cheeks shook. Upon injunction he began the recital of his crimes.

  In a laboured voice, choked by tears, he recounted his abductions of children, his hideous tactics, his infernal stimulations, his impetuous murders, his implacable violations. Obsessed by the vision of his victims, he described their agonies drawn out or hastened, their cries, the rattle in their throats. He confessed to having wallowed in the elastic warmth of their intestines. He confessed that he had ripped out their hearts through wounds enlarged and opening like ripe fruit. And with the eyes of a somnambulist he looked down at his fingers and shook them as if blood were dripping from them.

  The thunder-struck audience kept a mournful silence which was lacerated suddenly by a few short cries, and the attendants, at a run, carried out fainting women, mad with horror.

  He seemed to see nothing, to hear nothing. He continued to tell off the frightful rosary of his crimes. Then his voice became raucous. He was coming to the sepulchral violations, and now to the torture of the little children whom he had cajoled in order to cut their throats as he kissed them.

  He divulged every detail. The account was so formidable, so atrocious, that beneath their golden caps the bishops blanched. These priests, tempered in the fires of confessional, these judges who in that time of demonomania and murder had never heard more terrifying confessions, these prelates whom no depravity had ever astonished, made the sign of the Cross, and Jean de Malestroit rose and for very shame veiled the face of the Christ.

  Then all lowered their heads, and without a word they listened. The Marshal, bathed in sweat, his face downcast, looked now at the crucifix whose invisible head and bristling crown of thorns gave their shapes to the veil.

  He finished his narrative and broke down completely. Till now he had stood erect, speaking as if in a daze, recounting to himself, aloud, the memory of his ineradicable crimes. But at the end of the story his forces abandoned him. He fell on his knees and, shaken by terrific sobs, he cried, "O God, O my Redeemer, I beseech mercy and pardon!" Then the ferocious and haughty baron, the first of his caste no doubt, humiliated himself. He turned toward the people and said, weeping, "Ye, the parents of those whom I have so cruelly put to death, give, ah give me, the
succour of your pious prayers!"

  Then in its white splendour the soul of the Middle Ages burst forth radiant.

  Jean de Malestroit left his seat and raised the accused, who was beating the flagstones with his despairing forehead. The judge in de Malestroit disappeared, the priest alone remained. He embraced the sinner who was repenting and lamenting his fault.

  A shudder overran the audience when Jean de Malestroit, with Gilles's head on his breast, said to him, "Pray that the just and rightful wrath of the Most High be averted, weep that your tears may wash out the blood lust from your being!"

  And with one accord everybody in the room knelt down and prayed for the assassin. When the orisons were hushed there was an instant of wild terror and commotion. Driven beyond human limits of horror and pity, the crowd tossed and surged. The judges of the Tribunal, silent, enervated, reconquered themselves.

  With a gesture, brushing away his tears, the Prosecutor arrested the proceedings. He said that the crimes were "clear and apparent," that the proofs were manifest, that the court would now "in its conscience and soul" chastise the culprit, and he demanded that the day of passing judgment be fixed. The Tribunal designated the day after the next.

  And that day the Official of the church of Nantes, Jacques de Pentcoetdic, read in succession the two sentences. The first, passed by the Bishop and the Inquisitor for the acts coming under their common jurisdiction, began thus:

  "The Holy Name of Christ invoked, we, Jean, Bishop of Nantes, and Brother Jean Blouyn, bachelor in our Holy Scriptures, of the order of the preaching friars of Nantes, and delegate of the Inquisitor of heresies for the city and diocese of Nantes, in session of the Tribunal and having before our eyes God alone-"

  And after enumerating the crimes it concluded:

  "We pronounce, decide, and declare, that thou, Gilles de Rais, cited unto our Tribunal, art heinously guilty of heresy, apostasy, and evocation of demons; that for these crimes thou hast incurred the sentence of excommunication and all other penalties determined by the law."