“Bunglers!” I exclaimed. “If you wish to invoke spirits, learn to improve your art.”
The magicians rushed out of the vault, the Maréchal following them with his bare sword.
“Gilles!” I called out. “Do not pursue them.”
He continued his pursuit of the tricksters.
Suddenly, against the white curtains, the spectral image of the Maid appeared. I had smashed the mirror but the apparition remained! I bent my neck forward until it ached and opened wide my eyes. The Maid lingered on…
“Joan,” I called, my voice trembling with awe, “Joan, speak to me!”
Joan tightened her face in pain or abhorrence, made the sign of the cross and vanished, slowly like a light that is carried away…
Had I labored under an illusion? Was this more than a trick? Had I left intact one mirror which now mothered the mirage of Joan, boy-maid, witch woman and saint?…
I drew the curtains aside. Every mirror was crashed!
Gilles returned.
“Cartaphilus,” he said, placing his sword in its scabbard, “I am grateful to you beyond words, for more than all things else, I seek truth. I want no happiness based upon fraud and illusion.”
He grasped my arm. “Come out, this place oppresses me.”
But my thoughts still revolved around the pale wraith of the Maid.
By an irony of the fateful goddess, the Maréchal had missed the only genuine miracle of the evening, inexplicable to me then as it is today.
Kotikokura was looking out of the window of my room.
“What? Not asleep yet, my friend?”
He shook his head.
“You were watching for Ca-ta-pha, were you not?”
He nodded.
“Does it matter so much to you if he is in danger or not?”
He took my hand and kissed it.
“But now you must go to your room and rest. Ca-ta-pha has returned. The universe is saved.”
“Look!” he said.
I looked where his forefinger indicated. The shadow in the tower walked to and fro, rhythmically, accurately like a pendulum.
He was about to tell me something when the door opened slowly and a figure in white appeared. She entered and placed her finger to her lips.
“Anne!” I whispered.
Kotikokura discreetly bowed himself out.
Anne approached me. I clasped her to me with the joy of one who has suddenly recovered a long lost treasure.
“Cartaphilus,” she whispered, “my sister is very much perturbed”
“More than usually?”
“Yes. She has seen strange sights in the garden and in the forest this evening,—men with enormous lamps that blinded the eyes.”
‘The mirrors,’ I thought.
“Why should lamps perturb her so?”
“Lamps and torches and black-gowned people and one who looked like a ghost…”
‘The reflections,’ I thought.
“Gilles has not entered her room for days. She is consumed more than ever with longing and with fears…”
I laughed. “Does she fear him or his beard?”
“Have you not noticed,” she said trembling, “how much bluer it is of late… ?”
I seated myself upon the edge of the bed and drew her upon my knees.
I smiled. “Color, my dear, depends upon the sun. The sun may be stronger these days. We are in the midst of Spring, as those who love should know.”
“No, no! There is something more significant in it all. His beard was almost black when I first saw him. It is becoming bluer every day.”
“Even if true—what could it mean, except that it changes as he grows older?”
“Older…and—”she opened her eyes wide, “more terrible.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ah, you do not know, Cartaphilus. There are horrible rumors about. I overheard many people. They say…he is in league…with…you know whom.”
I laughed. “People always spread false rumors, particularly about men who like Gilles de Retz, are daring and rich and unusual.”
“Cartaphilus, you are his friend. He says you are the wisest of all men.”
“He exaggerates, dear.”
“No, no—he does not. I know you are. It is not as if I had really met you for the first time some days previously. I feel that I have known you always.”
“You have known me, Anne. Centuries ago we were lovers.”
She looked scared.
“The Hindu religion teaches that the souls of people are reincarnated and true lovers meet again and again.”
“It is beautiful—but is it God or the Other One—who teaches this?”
“God, Anne. Why suspect the Other One of all good things?”
“This place…this castle and forests and gardens…it is uncanny. My poor sister! She is as white as a ghost. I think she knows many things but she will not utter a word against Gilles. She defends him always. Love is terrible.”
“Love is beautiful.” I embraced her. Her lips tasted like fresh honey, and her breath was the perfume of the bud over which we had bent the first time. “In the morning we shall speak to Catherine and convince her that she has nothing to fear. This night you are my bride.”
She pressed me against her, trembling a little. “Am I not a wicked woman, Cartaphilus? I have come to you of my own free will—and yet I am not your wife, nor even your betrothed.”
“You are as pure as the rose is, Anne.”
“You said that we were lovers in centuries past.”
“And shall be again and again…”
Anne crossed herself and went to bed. Her body dazzled like a lake over which the moon shines. Her breasts rose and sank like the gentle flutter of doves’ wings. Her eyes were thin black lines underneath the long lashes which nearly touched.
I taught her the divers ways of love which I had acquired from Flower-of-the-Evening and from others. Anne learned readily the tender secrets of many lands.
“Cartaphilus, how strong you are!” she murmured, as she stretched to the tips of her toes.
LIX: SULLEN PEASANTS—A DROP OF BLOOD GLISTENING IN THE BLUE—THE NEEDS OF HOMUNCULUS—THE DREAM OF GILLES DE RETZ—KOTIKOKURA MAKES A DISCOVERY
I WALKED beyond the garden into the field. The peasants—men, women and children—were working feverishly. The scythes glittered ominously in the sun like scimitars, and the heavy pitchforks ripped into the hay like bayonets.
I approached one of the men who was wiping his forehead with his large horny hand, and bade him the time of the day. He glared at me and turned away, making the sign of the cross. Two women, becoming aware of my presence, uttered a stifled cry, then crossed themselves. Others looked up from their labor, and glared and pointed at me in silence.
Why were the farmers so enraged against the Maréchal and his guests?
I knew it was not a question of wages. Gilles de Retz was very generous, nor did he demand the right of the prima nox. Was it the lord’s dabbling into alchemy? Hardly. It was the universal passion. The peasants themselves would have crossed their chests with their right hand while the left tightened over the gold produced by a Midas-fingered adept.
I arrived at the gate that led to the left wing of the castle. A girl of about ten was knocking at it with her small fists. She looked at me, her eyes filled with tears.
“What is the trouble, my dear?”
“My little brother went inside a long while ago and he has not come out yet.”
I raised my hand to pat her. She withdrew her face and shoulders.
From within, a child’s sharp cry—the cry of an animal that is pierced by a knife– —
“It’s my brother, monsieur, my brother!” the girl sobbed. “My brother! My brother!”
The gate opened and the Maréchal emerged. His eyes were wide open and bloodshot. His hands trembled. He breathed heavily.
“Ah! My friend!” he exclaimed. His voice was husky.
The little girl screamed.
Gilles smiled. “They are all afraid of my beard—these little brats.”