“Perhaps she fears you, Gilles.”
“She fears my beard.” He laughed a little. “Everybody fears it. I know they call me Bluebeard when my back is turned.”
“Your beard is characteristic of you.”
“I think so too. A black or a blond beard would not be compatible with my temperament. Perhaps my beard determines my life! Demosthenes became the greatest orator because he stammered. Cæsar became the most fearless of generals because he was an epileptic. The maid Joan saved France—because—because—she was not really a woman.”
“Not really a woman? “I asked.
“She never paid the bloody sacrifice that nature exacts every month from woman. She was not a slave to the moon…”
His brows contracted. From his eyes darted the curious fire that bespoke the strangeness of his mind. He stroked his beard, and combed it with the tips of his delicate fingers, covered with jewels of fantastic designs.
“She was a witch, a white witch, but a witch, Cartaphilus!—She confessed that she was!” he exclaimed suddenly. “Afterwards she recanted and lied, but once I caught her performing magic rites. She made the spirits speak and obey…” He covered his face with his hands and placed his elbows upon his knees.
I had heard of the Maid. People spoke of her indifferently or as some half-crazed girl, who claimed to hear voices.
He placed his palm upon my shoulder. “Cartaphilus, you have loved much. Your very name bespeaks it. Have you not discovered that a man yearns always to recapture again and again the thrill of his first infatuation?”
“It is true, Gilles.”
“I love Catherine my wife… She’s beautiful and charming, a delicate bud. But my heart seeks the boy-girl, the witch, Joan of Arc…”
At the windows of the tower, the shadow continued to pass to and fro. What fear, what anxiety made Catherine so restless? Did she guess the secret of Bluebeard’s love? Had she heard the whispered rumors about his pact with the Evil One? Did she understand the duality of his motives? Was she really afraid of his beard? Were fear and love bedfellows in her heart?
“I love Joan of Arc, and I, by Hermes, shall snatch her out of heaven or hell.”
I sympathized with Gilles. His unhappiness resembled mine—Salome, though, not dead, like the Maid, was equally unattainable.
Gilles de Retz stood up suddenly. He seemed even taller than he was. His beard against the background of his black velvet dazzled like amethysts.
“She will be mine, Cartaphilus! I shall conquer death…!”
I looked at him inquiringly.
“I shall invoke her spirit and capture it. She will be mine! She was too proud to accept me in life. She must accept me in death. Her spirit,” he continued, “is obstinate. It is the counterpart of her body. But I am stronger. Francis Prelati, the greatest magus will assist me. We have made our pact with the Prince of Darkness…”
“I shall be with you, my brother.”
He grasped my hands and pressed them to his lips.
I determined to expose the charlatans who had deluded the Maréchal and who devoured his substance.
“Cartaphilus, I know you are more powerful than my magicians. If they fail, you will not… Meanwhile, I must prepare for the tournament. The Count of Dorsay has challenged me this day to a bout…”
He smiled. His face assumed a boyish expression. His eyes twinkled mischievously. Which was his true personality? Was his strangeness due to his thwarted love for the Maid? If Joan had reciprocated his affections would he be merely the charming philosopher, the elegant knight?…
I begged to be left alone to meditate. My meditations were most uplifting.
I expected Anne.
LVIII: I BREAK THE MAGIC CIRCLE—THE WHITE WITCH JOAN OF ARC—I CRASH A MIRROR—I WITNESS A MIRACLE—THE FLIGHT OF THE FALSE MAGICIANS
THE vault was hung round with black curtains. There was no light, save a torch fixed in a high candelabrum. A triangular tripod in the center was surmounted by a bowl out of which a thin smoke, like a line drawn with a hair, arose, filling the air with a strange odor. An altar of white marble supported by four columns terminating in bulls’ feet stood at the left. It was surmounted by a cross upside down, placed upon a serpent in the shape of a triangle.
Master Prelati was dressed in an ephod of white linen clasped with a single emerald. About his waist was tied a consecrated girdle, embroidered with strange names; upon his breast the talisman of Venus hanging from a thread of azure silk. He wore a high cap of sable. His assistant was dressed in a priestly robe of black bombazine. Gilles de Retz, handsome and defiant, was resplendent in his uniform of Maréchal de France.
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.