Catherine sighed. “Sister, I am weary. I must go back.”
“Very well, dear. I shall accompany you.”
“No, no, I beg you. Remain a while longer with the Prince. You need air…and conversation.” She smiled.
She kissed Anne, bent a little her knee before me, and left. I was not displeased. The matter that interested me most at the moment could not be discussed in the presence of so ethereal a being…
“Shall we take that road, Madame? It seems to lead away from the smoke and the noisy merrymaking that takes place in the castle.”
“My brother-in-law will never be persuaded to abandon his whim of being the provider of the riff-raff of the world.”
“Riff-raff?”
“Alchemists, charlatans, visionaries, gypsies, what not. Is it well for a Maréchal of France to associate with such people?”
I did not answer.
“My poor sister is distressed. She occupies the tower to escape the din. Even there she finds little rest. All night she is awakened by red lights moving about in the castle and by huge shadows behind curtained windows. In her condition the excitement is most untimely.”
“Is she ill?”
“No, but she expects a baby…”
“She could pose for the Madonna…”
“She is worthy of the comparison. There was never a purer soul than hers. She was intended for a nun.”
“Why should not exquisite delicacy dedicate itself to love?”
“The Maréchal is too busy with other things. Men of his type should not marry.”
“Your sister loves the Maréchal?”
“She loves him too well…”
Anne bent over a bud and smelled it. I caught a glimpse of the magnificent valley that separated her breasts. An irresistible impulse to grasp and crush them in my hands possessed me. I tightened my fists until my nails cut into the flesh. I remembered the Bath of Beauty. I remembered Ulrica and Asi-ma and Flower-of-the-Evening,—round breasts and pear-shaped, tiny and full. Why should I tremble before the invisible breasts of this woman? Was it merely Youth and Spring? Or was it because I could only see the valley that divided their loveliness?…
Anne looked up. “Smell this bud, Prince. It is intoxicating, as if the whole spring were encased in its tiny body.”
I bent. My face almost touched hers. I breathed deeply, but not of the bud. I moved my head, until my lips met hers. I pressed into them. She did not withdraw. I lowered my face until it touched her breast. Anne uttered a stifled cry. She straightened up. I grasped her in my arms. “Anne,” I whispered, “Anne, I love you.” Her face was flushed. She breathed heavily, her eyes nearly shut.
I placed my arm around her waist and we walked in silence to a bench hidden among the bushes. She stretched out upon it. Her white gown and her immobility gave her the appearance of a statue.
“Anne,” I whispered. “Anne.” Her name thrilled me. My heart beat violently against my chest. “Anne.” I covered her body with kisses.
“It is time for me to go to the tower,” she whispered. “Catherine is waiting for me.”
“We must meet again, Anne.”
“Yes.”
LVII: THE LABORATORY OF GILLES DE RETZ—GILLES CHALLENGES GOD—BIRTH PANGS OF HOMUNCULUS—THE FEARS OF CATHERINE—THE SECRET LOVE OF GILLES DE RETZ
THE Maréchal invited me into his laboratory. Francis Prelati at Padua, assisted by six apprentices, was engaged over ill-smelling crucibles. The laboratory, except that it was much larger, resembled very closely that of Trevisan.
Prelati greeted me cordially, but somewhat pompously. It was our first meeting since Master Bernard had coaxed roses out of the snow. Prelati was still a young man, clean-shaven and tall. He talked about alchemy and physics with the same tricks of language as his friend Trevisan.
He convinced the Maréchal that before long fabulous riches would leap at his command out of the crucible.
Gazing out of the window I saw Kotikokura, followed by several dogs, dash by.
“Your friend the High Priest,” Gilles remarked, “prefers the company of my animals to mine.”
“His vow not to speak for a year, upon which depends the expiation of a great sin, makes him fear the company of man. If he utters one word before the time, he will have to resume his penance from the beginning.”
“Cartaphilus,” he said suddenly, “in your company I have a curious sensation. I feel,” he placed his palm upon his forehead, “I feel…as if all the ages were surging about me. Have we lived once before, and were you then my friend…?”
“It is possible.”
“Are we born or reborn, Cartaphilus?”
“We are links in a chain…”
“I want to destroy—that chain, to begin life anew, without the superstitions of our ancestors, without inevitable decay and old age and death. I want to create new life…that owes nothing to progenitors.”
He grasped my arm tightly and looked at me intently. His eyes rolled a little backward. His beard seemed so blue, I almost believed he dyed it in some strange chemical.
“You are competing with God…”
“Why not?”
He raised his forefinger upon which shone an amethyst the shape of a serpent. “Within ten more days Homunculus will be ready for the arcanum. The spagyric substances I imprisoned in a glass phial are beginning to pulsate. Come!”
He unlocked a door which led into a small room like a monk’s cell. Upon one of the walls was a crucifix upside down; upon another, the signs of the Zodiac. In a corner, a heap of dung over which large flies buzzed. The air was stifling like that of a stable.
“My Homunculus,” he said proudly, “is prospering within it.” He pointed to the heap of manure.
“How can man be born out of dung?”
“Why not? It is the womb of the earth. But heat and manure are not sufficient, Cartaphilus. That is true. For forty days I shall feed him on the arcanum of…human blood. I have discovered the perfect combination. Maimonides failed because he could not obtain the pristine, the virginal blood of children… I, Gilles de Retz, Maréchal de France, obtain from God or the Devil whatever is needed…”
What did he mean by the virginal blood of children?
We walked out. I breathed deeply, many times.
“Cartaphilus, who are you?” the Maréchal asked again suddenly.
“I am—He Who Seeks.”
“Seeks what?”
“What the Lord de Retz seeks—a newer and more beautiful life, only I seek more slowly… I wait.”
“I am impatient, Cartaphilus. I cannot wait.”
He looked at me perturbed.
That was the difference between us. We were brothers in spirit. But I could develop slowly, remaining sane and balanced. The Maréchal’s feverish endeavors must inevitably prove futile. His ideas burst the bands of reason. A thousand generations of alchemists might discover the Philosopher’s Stone, and create a new humanity… I could wait and see. Poor Gilles must hasten, he must force the lock of mystery or perish without baring the secret. Whatever of truth there might be in each generation, I could learn. Whatever of falsehood, I could unlearn in the next.
We reached the bench upon which Anne had stretched out in all her beauty. Gilles bade me sit. I was as thrilled as if Anne lay under my touch again. The Maréchal patted my hand and pressed it. His face at that moment, if shaven, would have looked almost like a boy’s.
“Cartaphilus,” he whispered, “you are he whom I have sought—he who understands—he who knows.”
He knelt, and taking both my hands, pressed them to his lips. “Stay with me always. Be my brother. Let us take the blood bond between us. Call me Gilles.”
“Gilles.”
In the tower, a shadow moved from one window to another, slowly, ceaselessly.
Gilles looked up. “It is Lady de Retz, Cartaphilus. She is very restless. Frequently, the whole night through, she walks as she does now.”