“My brother,” she implored.
“Your brother? What about him?”
“He cried a while ago… I heard him.”
“Foolish child,” the Maréchal said tenderly. “He is probably playing and laughing with the rest of the children. Would you not like to accompany them?”
“No, no!” she screamed.
“Oh, very well. Here, take this gold coin and tell your mother to buy you a beautiful dress.”
Gilles looked after her. “A very pretty child,” he said slowly. “Very pretty.” He took my arm. From his mustache, a drop of blood trickled into his beard. I shivered.
He spoke quickly and enthusiastically about a book he had just read. I knew that he endeavored to make me forget the child. Gradually his eyes resumed their usual clarity. His lips lengthened into a smile. He looked like a boy again—a boy who has pasted on his chin a blue beard to scare his comrades.
“I am a little tired,” he said. “Would you care to drive with me?”
I nodded.
He ordered one of the coachmen to get a carriage ready.
We drove slowly through the garden and forest. He spoke of the beauty of nature, discussed Plato and Aristotle, and quoted poetry, including verses he had written himself. Suddenly, placing his hand upon my leg, he said: “Cartaphilus. I am happy today, for I have discovered the secret.”
“What secret, Gilles?”
“My Homunculus lives!”
“Ah?”
“A few days ago, I paid him a visit. He stirred!”
I looked at him, incredulous.
“He stirred for a second, then remained still again. The virginal blood was not virginal enough. There is always some impurity, even in the youngest blood once it has coursed through the body. What is needed is the blood of an unborn child, snatched from the womb…”
His eyes glinted. I thought of two knives. I heard a sharp cry and a little girl sobbing.
“Not a full-fledged one. The air must not enter its lungs. A child which has just received life, into whom the soul has stirred for the first time…”
“What woman would be willing to consent to this sacrifice?”
“What difference does it make whether she is willing or not? We cannot allow truth to be sacrificed for a woman. We must be strong, Cartaphilus. We must—if needs be—trample on human sentiments and emotions.”
He pulled the corners of his beard. Was it the influence of Anne’s words or reality? His beard was much bluer than when I had first seen it in Paris.
“Truth is beyond man and God and… Satan!” he exclaimed.
His brows knit and his fists tightened.
“Cartaphilus, I have observed your High Priest. There is something about him that symbolizes the earth. He is Pan—the reflection of the Earth, which is the magnificent palace of Him who rebelled against Adonai. God is in His Heaven. What is Heaven to us? We are the lovers of the earth. The earth is beautiful; the earth is joyous.”
His face, in contrast with his words seemed tortured, as if a powerful fist had pressed against it.
“I should like to have the High Priest appear as Lucifer at the Black Mass which must precede the birth of Homunculus. I dare not address him for fear of tempting him to answer in violation of his vow. He understands you, however, by a mere look or gesture.”
“Your hospitality is so generous that he will not refuse your wish.”
He pressed my hand. “Brother.”
“Does not the Black Mass mean, Maréchal, that you have decided to make final your covenant with Satan?”
He nodded. “There is no other way, Cartaphilus. One cannot serve two masters at once. Sooner or later, one must burn one’s boats…”
“Do you think the sacrifice will be efficacious?”
“I am convinced of it. The child created by passion is weaker than the child created by reason, just as a base metal is weaker than gold. Besides, with the High Priest present, Satan himself will come to baptize his son.”
Satan as godfather seemed so ludicrous that I could not refrain from laughing a little.
“And the godmother, Gilles? Who shall it be?”
“The godmother,” he answered solemnly, “is the woman whose womb will deliver the base metal which will be transformed into gold.”
“Have you found her?”
“The sacrifice will be ready when required.”
He closed his eyes and breathed quietly as a man asleep. His face had the dull placidity of old age. One long white hair glistened among the blue of his beard. Was it the drop of blood which had changed its original color? How much pain was Gilles destined to inflict? How many children would shriek before he discovered the secret of life or more likely, the futility of his efforts? Was truth really worth such sacrifices? Was Homunculus a boon great enough to justify the murder of a child ripped from his mother’s womb? Had not Yahweh discovered a simpler process to reproduce life? Had he not, also, perhaps, experimented for æons, to find at last nothing more beautiful, nothing more efficacious than the embrace of the male and the female? Perhaps it would be better if man, instead of attempting to create life himself, matched his ingenuity against God’s to frustrate creation…
Could I permit this monster to live? Yet Gilles de Retz was my intellectual kinsman. In his inhuman fashion, he loved me.
I sheathed the dagger that, for a moment, twitched in my hand.
Gilles opened his eyes, startled, and laughed. “I actually fell asleep, Prince, and dreamt—how silly and false dreams are!—that you stabbed me. But instead I see you placed your hand upon my heart in symbol of friendship. And now I shall place my hand upon your faithful heart, Cartaphilus, my brother, and swear eternal allegiance.”
‘How much truer a dream may be,’ I thought, ‘than reality!’
“Gilles, since you have granted me your friendship, may I speak freely to you?”
“Speak, Cartaphilus. Nothing you say can offend me since the purpose of your words springs from your heart.”
“Gilles, it is not possible to obtain truth in a lifetime. It is better to catch a glimpse of it and guess the rest, or to leave it unfathomed. You are endeavoring to compress eternity into one existence. It cannot lead to your happiness or the happiness of those about you…”
“Happiness? What matters happiness, Cartaphilus? What matter those about me? What matter I?”
“You axe treading a dangerous path.”
He laughed and, placing his palm upon my knee, said: “I destroy to build a newer and better world. I am the negation of the Creator who made a mess of creation. The world will never forget Gilles, the Lord of Retz, Maréchal of France who dared to face truth unflinchingly, and to rebel against God.”
“People forget the great and courageous things a man accomplishes. They remember his peculiarities. They remember that Nero fiddled while Rome burned. They may forget your philosophy and remember—your beard!”
He remained pensive. His eyes clouded as if someone had drawn a film over them. Only the perverse glitter pierced through like the sharp fine edges of stilettos.
Kotikokura pulled at my sleeve. “Ca-ta-pha! Ca-ta-pha!” His nostrils shivered, and his teeth chattered.
“What is the trouble, my friend? What has happened?”
A dog that followed him was munching a large bone, tearing the shreds of flesh that clung to it.
“Look, Ca-ta-pha!” He pointed to the animal.
The bone was the arm of a child! I was seized with nausea.
“Ca-ta-pha—come!” He pulled my arm and preceded me. From time to time, he looked back to see if we were observed. He led me to a trap-door hidden behind a rock. He opened it. We descended several steps. He opened another door. An intolerable stench struck my nostrils like a fist.
“Look, Ca-ta-pha!”
When my eyes became accustomed to the dark, I saw strewn about piles of bones, skulls in which an eye still persisted to glare like a bit of porcelain, legs torn from their sockets, arms placed upon each other in the shape of crosses, flesh over which enormous flies buzzed and rats munched. In phials, blood coagulated like frozen cherries.