In a leisurely fashion Carfilhiot came to stand beside her. "It is easy to feel." He took her hand and laid it on his chest. "Feel! I am strong. Feel how my heart moves and gives me life."
Melancthe pulled her hand away. "I do not care to feel at your behest. Passion is a hysteria. In truth I have no yearning for men." She moved a step away from him. "Leave me now, if you please. In the morning, you will not see me, nor will I advance your enterprises."
Carfilhiot put his hands under her elbows and stood facing her, with firelight shifting along their faces. Melancthe opened her mouth to speak, but uttered no words, and Carfilhiot, bending his face to hers, kissed her mouth. He drew her down upon a couch. "Evening stars still climb the sky. Night has just begun."
She seemed not to hear him, but sat looking into the fire. Carfilhiot loosed the clasps at her shoulder; she let the gown slide from her body with no restraint and the odor of violets hung in the air. She watched in passive silence as Carfilhiot stepped from his own garments.
At midnight Melancthe rose from the couch, to stand nude before the fire, now a bed of embers.
Carfilhiot watched her from the couch, eyelids half-lowered, mouth compressed. Melancthe's conduct had been perplexing. Her body had joined his with suitable urgency, but never during the coupling had she looked into his face; her head had been thrown back, or laid to the side, with eyes focused on nothing whatever. She had been physically exalted, this he could sense, but when he spoke to her, she made no response, as if he were no more than a phantasm.
Melancthe looked at him over her shoulder. "Dress yourself."
Sullenly Carfilhiot donned his garments, while she stood in contemplation of the dying fire. He considered a set of remarks, one after the other, but each seemed very heavy, or peevish, or callow, or foolish and he held his tongue.
When he had dressed he came to her and put his arms around her waist.She slipped from his grasp and spoke in a pensive voice, "don't touch me. No man has ever touched me, nor shall you."
Carfilhiot laughed. "Am I not a man? I have touched you, thoroughly and deep, to the core of your soul."
Still watching the fire Melancthe shook her head. "You occur only as an odd thing of the imagination. I have used you, now you must dissolve from my mind."
Carfilhiot peered at her in bafflement. Was she mad? "I am quite real, and I don't care to dissolve. Melancthe, listen!" Again he put his hands to her waist. "Let us truly be lovers! Are we not both remarkable?"
Again Melancthe moved away. "Again you have tried to touch me." She pointed to a door. "Go! Dissolve from my mind!"
Carfilhiot performed a sardonic bow and went to the door. Here he hesitated, looked back. Melancthe stood by the hearth, one hand to the high mantle, firelight and black shadow shifting along her body: Carfilhiot whispered to himself, inaudibly. "Say what you will of phantoms. I took you and I had you: so much is real."
And in his ear, or in his brain, as he opened the door, came soundless words: "I played with a phantom. You thought to control reality. Phantoms feel no pain. Reflect on this, when every day pain comes past."
Carfilhiot, startled, stepped through the door, and at once it closed behind him. He stood in a dark passage between two buildings, with a glimmer of light at either end. The night sky showed overhead. The air carried an odd reek, of moldering wood and wet stone; where was the clean salt air which blew past Melancthe's palace?
Carfilhiot groped through a clutter of rubbish to the end of the passage and emerged into a town square. He looked around in slack-jawed perplexity. This was not Ys, and Carfilhiot spoke a dour curse against Melancthe.
The square was boisterous with the sights and sounds of a festival. A thousand torches burnt on high; a thousand green and blue banners with a yellow bird appliqued on high. At the center two great birds constructed of bound straw bundles and ropes faced each other. On a platform men and women costumed as fanciful birds pranced, bobbed and kicked to the music of pipes and drums.
A man costumed as a white rooster, with red comb, yellow bill, white feathered wings and tail strutted past. Carfilhiot clutched his arm. "Sir, one moment! Enlighten me, where is this place?"
The man-chicken crowed in derision. "Have you no eyes? No ears? This is the Avian Arts Grand Gala!"
"Yes, but where?"
"Where else? This is the Kaspodel, at the center of the city!"
"But what city? What realm?"
"Are you lost of your senses? This is Gargano!"
"In Pomperol?"
"Precisely so. Where are your tail feathers? King Deuel has ordained tail-feathers for the gala! Notice my display!" The man-chicken ran in a circle, strutting and bobbing, so as to flourish his handsome tail-plumes; then he continued on his way.
Carfilhiot leaned against the building, gritting his teeth in fury. He carried neither coins, nor jewels, nor gold; he knew no friends among the folk of Gargano; indeed Mad King Deuel considered Carfilhiot a dangerous bird-killer and an enemy.
To the side of the square Carfilhiot noted the boards of an inn: the Pear Tree. He presented himself to the innkeeper only to learn that the inn was occupied to capacity. Carfilhiot's most aristocratic manner earned him no more than a bench in the common-room near a group of celebrants who caroused, wrangled and sang such songs as Fesker Would a-Wooing Go, Tirra-Lirra-Lay, Milady Ostrich and Noble Sir Sparrow. An hour before dawn they tumbled forward across the table to lie snoring among gnawed pig's feet and puddles of spilled wine. Carfilhiot was allowed to sleep until two hours into the morning, when charwomen came with mops and buckets, and turned everyone outside.
Celebration of the festival already had reached a crescendo. Everywhere fluttered banners and streamers of blue, green and yellow. Pipers played jigs while folk costumed as birds capered and pranced. Everyone used a characteristic bird-call, so tha the air resounded to twitterings, chirps, whistles and croaks.
Children dressed as barn-swallows, gold-finches, or tom-tits; older folk favored the more sedate semblances, such as that of crow, raven or perhaps a jay. The corpulent often presented themselves as owls, but in general everyone costumed himself as fancy directed.
The color, noise and festivity failed to elevate Carfilhiot's mood; in fact—so he told himself—never had he witnessed so much pointless nonsense. He had rested poorly and eaten nothing, which served to exacerbate his mood.
A bun-seller dressed as a quail passed by; Carfilhiot bought a mince-tart, using a silver button from his coat for payment. He ate standing before the inn, with aloof and disdainful glances for the revelry.
A band of youths chanced to notice Carfilhiot's sneers and stopped short. "Here now! This is the Grand Gala! You must show a happy smile, so as not to be at discord!"
Another cried out: "What? No gay plumage? No tail-feathers? They are required of every celebrant!"
"Come now!" declared another. "We must set things right!" Going behind Carfilhiot he tried to tuck a long white goose quill into Carfilhiot's waist-band. Carfilhiot would have none of it, and thrust the youth away.
The others in the band became more determined than ever and a scuffle ensued, in which shouts, curses and blows were exchanged.
From the street came a stern call. "Here, here! Why this disgraceful uproar?" Mad King Deuel himself, passing by in a be-feathered carriage, had halted to issue a reprimand.
One of the youths cried out: "The fault lies with this dismal vagabond! He won't wear his tail-feathers. We tried to help him and cited your Majesty's ordinance; he said to shove all our feathers up your Majesty's arse!"
King Deuel shifted his attention to Carfilhiot. "He did so, did he? That is not polite. We know a trick worth two of that. Guards! Attendants!"