CHAPTER XVII
Toward the end of the afternoon Durtal quit work and went up to thetowers of Saint Sulpice.
He found Carhaix in bed in a chamber connecting with the one in whichthey were in the habit of dining. These rooms were very similar, withtheir walls or unpapered stone, and with their vaulted ceilings, only,the bedroom was darker. The window opened its half-wheel not on theplace Saint Sulpice but on the rear of the church, whose roof preventedany light from getting in. This cell was furnished with an iron bed,whose springs shrieked, with two cane chairs, and with a table that hada shabby covering of green baize. On the bare wall was a crucifix of novalue, with a dry palm over it. That was all. Carhaix was sitting up inbed reading, with books and papers piled all around him. His eyes weremore watery and his face paler than usual. His beard, which had not beenshaved for several days, grew in grey clumps on his hollow cheeks, buthis poor features were radiant with an affectionate, affable smile.
To Durtal's questions he replied, "It is nothing. Des Hermies gives mepermission to get up tomorrow. But what a frightful medicine!" and heshowed Durtal a potion of which he had to take a teaspoonful every hour.
"What is it he's making you take?"
But the bell-ringer did not know. Doubtless to spare him the expense,Des Hermies himself always brought the bottle.
"Isn't it tiresome lying in bed?"
"I should say! I am obliged to entrust my bells to an assistant who isno good. Ah, if you heard him ring! It makes me shudder, it sets myteeth on edge."
"Now you mustn't work yourself up," said his wife. "In two days you willbe able to ring your bells yourself."
But he went on complaining. "You two don't understand. My bells are usedto being well treated. They're like domestic animals, those instruments,and they obey only their master. Now they won't harmonize, they jangle.I can hardly recognize their voices."
"What are you reading?" asked Durtal, wishing to change a subject whichhe judged to be dangerous.
"Books about bells! Ah, Monsieur Durtal, I have some inscriptions hereof truly rare beauty. Listen," and he opened a worm-bored book, "listento this motto printed in raised letters on the bronze robe of the greatbell of Schaffhausen, 'I call the living, I mourn the dead, I break thethunder.' And this other which figured on an old bell in the belfry ofGhent, 'My name is Roland. When I toll, there is a fire; when I peal,there is a tempest in Flanders.'"
"Yes," Durtal agreed, "there is a certain vigour about that one."
"Ah," said Carhaix, seeming not to have heard the other's remark, "it'sridiculous. Now the rich have their names and titles inscribed on thebells which they give to the churches, but they have so many qualitiesand titles that there is no room for a motto. Truly, humility is aforgotten virtue in our day."
"If that were the only forgotten virtue!" sighed Durtal.
"Ah!" replied Carhaix, not to be turned from his favourite subject, "andif this were the only abuse! But bells now rust from inactivity. Themetal is no longer hammer-hardened and is not vibrant. Formerly thesemagnificent auxiliaries of the ritual sang without cease. The canonicalhours were sounded, Matins and Laudes before daybreak, Prime at dawn,Tierce at nine o'clock, Sexte at noon, Nones at three, and then Vespersand Compline. Now we announce the curate's mass, ring three angeluses,morning, noon, and evening, occasionally a Salute, and on certain dayslaunch a few peals for prescribed ceremonies. And that's all. It's onlyin the convents where the bells do not sleep, for these, at least, thenight offices are kept up."
"You mustn't talk about that," said his wife, straightening the pillowsat his back. "If you keep working yourself up, you will never get well."
"Quite right," he said, resigned, "but what would you have? I shallstill be a man with a grievance, whom nothing can pacify," and he smiledat his wife who was bringing him a spoonful of the potion to swallow.
The doorbell rang. Mme. Carhaix went to answer it and a hilarious andred-faced priest entered, crying in a great voice, "It's Jacob's ladder,that stairway! I climbed and climbed and climbed, and I'm all out ofbreath," and he sank, puffing, into an armchair.
"Well, my friend," he said at last, coming into the bedroom, "I learnedfrom the beadle that you were ill, and I came to see how you weregetting on."
Durtal examined him. An irrepressible gaiety exuded from this sanguine,smooth-shaven face, blue from the razor. Carhaix introduced them. Theyexchanged a look, of distrust on the priest's side, of coldness onDurtal's.
Durtal felt embarrassed and in the way, while the honest pair wereeffusively and with excessive humility thanking the abbe for coming upto see them. It was evident that for this pair, who were not ignorant ofthe sacrileges and scandalous self-indulgences of the clergy, anecclesiastic was a man elect, a man so superior that as soon as hearrived nobody else counted.
Durtal took his leave, and as he went downstairs he thought, "Thatjubilant priest sickens me. Indeed, a gay priest, physician, or man ofletters must have an infamous soul, because they are the ones who seeclearly into human misery and console it, or heal it, or depict it. Ifafter that they can act the clown--they are unspeakable! Though I'lladmit that thoughtless persons deplore the sadness of the novel ofobservation and its resemblance to the life it represents. These peoplewould have it jovial, smart, highly coloured, aiding them, in their baseselfishness, to forget the hag-ridden existences of their brothers.
"Truly, Carhaix and his wife are peculiar. They bow under the paternaldespotism of the priests--and there are moments when that same despotismmust be no joke--and revere them and adore them. But then these two aresimple believers, with humble, unsmirched souls. I don't know the priestwho was there, but he is rotund and rubicund, he shakes in his fat andseems bursting with joy. Despite the example of Saint Francis of Assisi,who was gay--spoiling him for me--I have difficulty in persuading myselfthat this abbe is an elevated being. It's all right to say that the bestthing for him is to be mediocre; to ask how, if he were otherwise, hewould make his flock understand him; and add that if he really hadsuperior gifts he would be hated by his colleagues and persecuted by hisbishop."
While conversing thus disjointedly with himself Durtal had reached thebase of the tower. He stopped under the porch. "I intended to staylonger up there," thought he. "It's only half-past five. I must kill atleast half an hour before dinner."
The weather was almost mild. The clouds had been swept away. He lighteda cigarette and strolled about the square, musing. Looking up he huntedfor the bell-ringer's window and recognized it. Of the windows whichopened over the portico it alone had a curtain.
"What an abominable construction," he thought, contemplating the church."Think. That cube flanked by two towers presumes to invite comparisonwith the facade of Notre Dame. What a jumble," he continued, examiningthe details. "From the foundation to the first story are Ionic columnswith volutes, then from the base of the tower to the summit areCorinthian columns with acanthus leaves. What significance can thissalmagundi of pagan orders have on a Christian church? And as a rebuketo the over-ornamented bell tower there stands the other towerunfinished, looking like an abandoned grain elevator, but the lesshideous of the two, at that.
"And it took five or six architects to erect this indigent heap ofstones. Yet Servandoni and Oppenord and their ilk were the real majorprophets, the ... zekiels of building. Their work is the work of seerslooking beyond the eighteenth century to the day of transportation bysteam. For Saint Sulpice is not a church, it's a railway station!
"And the interior of the edifice is not more religious nor artistic thanthe exterior. The only thing in it that pleases me is good Carhaix'saerial cave." Then he looked about him. "This square is very ugly, buthow provincial and homelike it is! Surely nothing could equal thehideousness of that seminary, which exhales the rancid, frozen odour ofa hospital. The fountain with its polygonal basins, its saucepan urns,its lion-headed spouts, its niches with prelates in them, is nomasterpiece. Neither is the city hall, whose administrative style is acinder in the eye. But on this sq
uare, as in the neighbouring streets,Servandoni, Garanciere, and Ferrou, one respires an atmospherecompounded of benign silence and mild humidity. You think of aclothes-press that hasn't been open for years, and, somehow, of incense.This square is in perfect harmony with the houses in the decayed streetsaround here, with the shops where religious paraphernalia are sold, theimage and ciborium factories, the Catholic bookstores with books whosecovers are the colour of apple seeds, macadam, nutmeg, bluing.
"Yes, it's dilapidated and quiet."
The square was then almost deserted. A few women were going up thechurch steps, met by mendicants who murmured paternosters as theyrattled their tin cups. An ecclesiastic, carrying under his arm a bookbound in black cloth, saluted white-eyed women. A few dogs were runningabout. Children were chasing each other or jumping rope. The enormouschocolate-coloured la Villette omnibus and the little honey-yellow busof the Auteuil line went past, almost empty. Hackmen were standingbeside their hacks on the sidewalk, or in a group around a comfortstation, talking. There were no crowds, no noise, and the great treesgave the square the appearance of the silent mall of a little town.
"Well," said Durtal, considering the church again, "I really must go upto the top of the tower some clear day." Then he shook his head. "Whatfor? A bird's-eye view of Paris would have been interesting in theMiddle Ages, but now! I should see, as from a hill top, other heights, anetwork of grey streets, the whiter arteries of the boulevards, thegreen plaques of gardens and squares, and, away in the distance, filesof houses like lines of dominoes stood up on end, the black dots beingwindows.
"And then the edifices emerging from this jumble of roofs, Notre Dame,la Sainte Chapelle, Saint Severin, Saint Etienne du Mont, the Tour SaintJacques, are put out of countenance by the deplorable mass of neweredifices. And I am not at all eager to contemplate that specimen of theart of the maker of toilet articles which l'Opera is, nor that bridgearch, l'arc de la Triomphe, nor that hollow chandelier, the Tour Eiffel!It's enough to see them separately, from the ground, as you turn astreet corner. Well, I must go and dine, for I have an engagement withHyacinthe and I must be back before eight."
He went to a neighbouring wine shop where the dining-room, depopulatedat six o'clock, permitted one to ruminate in tranquillity, while eatingfairly sanitary food and drinking not too dangerously coloured wines. Hewas thinking of Mme. Chantelouve, but more of Docre. The mystery of thispriest haunted him. What could be going on in the soul of a man who hadhad the figure of Christ tattooed on his heels the better to trampleHim?
What hate the act revealed! Did Docre hate God for not having given himthe blessed ecstasies of a saint, or more humanly for not having raisedhim to the highest ecclesiastical dignities? Evidently the spite of thispriest was inordinate and his pride unlimited. He seemed not displeasedto be an object of terror and loathing, for thus he was somebody. Then,for a thorough-paced scoundrel, as this man seemed to be, what delightto make his enemies languish in slow torment by casting spells on themwith perfect impunity.
"And sacrilege carries one out of oneself in furious transports, involuptuous delirium, which nothing can equal. Since the Middle Ages ithas been the coward's crime, for human justice does not prosecute it,and one can commit it with impunity, but it is the most extreme ofexcesses for a believer, and Docre believes in Christ, or he wouldn'thate Him so.
"A monster! And what ignoble relations he must have had withChantelouve's wife! Now, how shall I make her speak up? She gave mequite clearly to understand, the other day, that she refused to explainherself on this topic. Meanwhile, as I have not intention of submittingto her young girl follies tonight, I will tell her that I am not feelingwell, and that absolute rest and quiet are necessary."
He did so, an hour later when she came in.
She proposed a cup of tea, and when he refused, she embraced him andnursed him like a baby. Then withdrawing a little, "You work too hard.You need some relaxation. Come now, to pass the time you might court mea little, because up to now I have done it all. No? That idea does notamuse him. Let us try something else. Shall we play hide-and-seek withthe cat? He shrugs his shoulders. Well, since there is nothing to changeyour grouchy expression, let us talk. What has become of your friend DesHermies?"
"Nothing in particular."
"And his experiments with Mattei medicine?"
"I don't know whether he continues to prosecute them or not."
"Well, I see that the conversational possibilities of that topic areexhausted. You know your replies are not very encouraging, dear."
"But," he said, "everybody sometimes gets so he doesn't answer questionsat great length. I even know a young woman who becomes excessivelylaconic when interrogated on a certain subject."
"Of a canon, for instance."
"Precisely."
She crossed her legs, very coolly. "That young woman undoubtedly hadreasons for keeping still. But perhaps that young woman is really eagerto oblige the person who cross-examines her; perhaps, since she last sawhim, she has gone to a great deal of trouble to satisfy his curiosity."
"Look here, Hyacinthe darling, explain yourself," he said, squeezing herhands, an expression of joy on his face.
"If I have made your mouth water so as not to have a grouchy face infront of my eyes, I have succeeded remarkably."
He kept still, wondering whether she was making fun of him or whethershe really was ready to tell him what he wanted to know.
"Listen," she said. "I hold firmly by my decision of the other night. Iwill not permit you to become acquainted with Canon Docre. But at asettled 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 freeall this week. When the time comes I will notify you. But you may thankme, dear, because to be useful to you I am disobeying the commands of myconfessor, 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 ofhaving him for an enemy."
"I should say not, if he poisons people by magic, as he seems to havedone Gevingey."
"And he probably has. I should not like to be in the astrologer'sshoes."
"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 isone of the very few persons who know how to manage them withoutpoisoning themselves. It's as dangerous as working with explosives.Frequently, though, when attacking defenceless persons, he uses simplerrecipes. He distils extracts of poison and adds sulphuric acid to festerthe wound, then he dips in this compound the point of a lancet withwhich he has his victim pricked by a flying spirit or a larva. It isordinary, well-known magic, that of Rosicrucians and tyros."
Durtal burst out laughing. "But, my dear, to hear you, one would thinkdeath 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 Rosicruciansactively satanizing. I confess that I had never considered them asanything more than harmless suckers and funereal fakes."
"But all societies are composed of suckers and the wily leaders whoexploit them. That's the case of the Rosicrucians. Yes, their leadersprivately attempt crime. One does not need to be erudite or intelligentto practise the ritual of spells. At any rate, and I affirm this, thereis among them a former man of letters whom I know. He lives with amarried woman, and they pass the time, he and she, trying to kill t
hehusband 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 ofme. You don't believe in anything--"
"Indeed. I was not laughing at you. I haven't very precise ideas on thissubject. I admit that at first blush all this seems improbable, to saythe least. But when I think that all the efforts of modern science dobut confirm the discoveries of the magic of other days, I keep my mouthshut. It is true," he went on after a silence,--"to cite only onefact--that people can no longer laugh at the stories of women beingchanged 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 andran and jumped around, scratching and spitting and arching her back. Sothat metamorphosis is possible. No, one cannot too often repeat it, thetruth is that we know nothing and have no right to deny anything. But toreturn to your Rosicrucians. Using purely chemical formulae, they getalong without sacrilege?"
"That is as much as to say that their venefices--supposing they know howto prepare them well enough to accomplish their purpose, though I doubtthat--are easy to defeat. Yet I don't mean to say that this group, onemember of which is an ordained priest, does not make use of contaminatedEucharists at need."
"Another nice priest! But since you are so well informed, do you knowhow spells are conjured away?"
"Yes and no. I know that when the poisons are sealed by sacrilege, whenthe operation is performed by a master, Docre or one of the princes ofmagic at Rome, it is not at all easy--nor healthy--to attempt to applyan antidote. Though I have heard of a certain abbe at Lyons who,practically alone, is succeeding right now in these difficult cures."
"Dr. Johannes!"
"You know him!"
"No. But Gevingey, who has gone to seek his medical aid, has told me ofhim."
"Well, I don't know how he goes about it, but I know that spells whichare not complicated with sacrilege are usually evaded by the law ofreturn. The blow is sent back to him who struck it. There are, at thepresent time, two churches, one in Belgium, the other in France, where,when one prays before a statue of the Virgin, the spell which has beencast on one flies off and goes and strikes one's adversary."
"Rats!"
"One of these churches is at Tougres, eighteen kilometres from Liege,and the name of it is Notre Dame de Retour. The other is the church ofl'Epine, 'the thorn,' a little village near Chalons. This church wasbuilt long ago to conjure away the spells produced with the aid of thethorns which grew in that country and served to pierce images cut in theshape of hearts."
"Near Chalons," said Durtal, digging in his memory, "it does seem to menow that Des Hermies, speaking of bewitchment by the blood of whitemice, pointed out that village as the habitation of certain diaboliccircles."
"Yes, that country in all times has been a hotbed of Satanism."
"You are mighty well up on these matters. Is it Docre who transmittedthis knowledge to you?"
"Yes, I owe him the little I am able to pass on to you. He took a fancyto me and even wanted to make me his pupil. I refused, and am glad now Idid, for I am much more wary than I was then of being constantly in astate of mortal sin."
"Have you ever attended the Black Mass?"
"Yes. And I warn you in advance that you will regret having seen suchterrible things. It is a memory that persists and horrifies,even--especially--when one does not personally take part in theoffices."
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 thespectacle terrifies you or wrings your heart."
He was almost dumbfounded to see how sad she was and with whatdifficulty 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 inParis, then confessor of a queen in exile. There were terrible storiesabout him, which, thanks to his influential patronage, were hushed upunder the Empire. He was interned at La Trappe, then driven out of thepriesthood, excommunicated by Rome. I learned in addition that he hadseveral times been accused of poisoning, but had always been acquittedbecause the tribunals had never been able to get any evidence. Today helives I don't know how, but at ease, and he travels a good deal with awoman who serves as voyant. To all the world he is a scoundrel, but heis learned and perverse, and then he is so charming."
"Oh," he said, "how changed your eyes and voice are! Admit that you arein love with him."
"No, not now. But why should I not tell you that we were mad about eachother 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 achemical laboratory and an immense library. The only curious book heshowed me was an office of the Black Mass on parchment. There wereadmirable illuminations, and the binding was made of the tanned skin ofa child who had died unbaptized. Stamped into the cover, in the shape ofa 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 badhumour. Admit that I am awfully good-natured not to have got angry atyou."
"Got angry? What about?"
"Because it is not very flattering to a woman to be able to entertain aman 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 gethome. It's late."
She sighed and fled, leaving him amazed and wondering in what weirdactivities the life of that woman had been passed.
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