“If the brothers do not come and if I cannot dissuade him from slaughtering his lovely wife, I shall throw the powder into the air. One breath of it will paralyze all except us if we wear the masks. We can then carry the victim away and escape. Remember the sign, Kotikokura. Put your mask on and I shall do likewise, or else we shall suffer the general fate.”
Kotikokura nodded.
“Meanwhile, cause no suspicion. Obey whatever the Maréchal commands.”
LXI: WHITE MASS—BLACK MASS—BLACK PRAYER—RITES OF SATAN—BEAST OR GOD—THE SACRIFICE—THE BAPTISM OF HOMUNCULUS—JUDAS—I SEND A PRESENT TO ANNE
THE people entered, dipping their fingers into the holy water, and bending their knees before the altar. Those of rank seated themselves in the front pews, the peasants in the rear. A box in the manner of the theaters was reserved for the Maréchal and his guests of honor.
The chapel was like an enormous jewel, carved and chiseled into the shape of a room. The altar was of gold and lapis-lazuli, the pillars of red-veined marble. The walls and ceiling were frescoed with magnificent paintings.
The organ played and an invisible choir chanted a beautiful litany. The Bishop, accompanied by two priests, entered slowly. The canopy which covered them was of white silk, embroidered with gold. The Bishop held in his hand a crucifix—a mass of precious stones. Six young boys, dressed in black velvet, scattered incense from censers of jade.
The Bishop mounted the steps of the altar and knelt. He rose and with his back to the worshipers chanted short verses, at the end of which he shook a tiny gold bell. The people responded: “Ora pro nobis.” “Ora pro nobis.” The organ played a melody so low, it floated about the place like the vague perfume of a god.
The Maréchal and Catherine knelt, pressing their heads against the balustrade of the box. Anne closed her eyes. Her hand clasped mine tightly.
“They have not come, Cartaphilus,” she whispered.
“Do not fear, Anne.”
“My messenger has not returned. Do you think he has reached my brothers?”
“If not he, the pigeon.”
“I tremble lest– —”
“Fear not, I am ready.”
She knelt and in kneeling, kissed my hand.
The Bishop uncovered the ciborium. The worshipers approached one by one, in silence, took a tiny wafer—the body of Jesus—and bending their knee, left.
The music ceased. The priests removed the ciborium and the bell.
The Maréchal rose and whispered into Catherine’s ear. She rose also and bowing, said: “Whatever my lord desires.”
He kissed her forehead and descended to speak with the Bishop.
“Do not go, sister!” Anne implored. “Do not go!”
Catherine looked at her reproachfully. “Anne, is he not my husband? Should not a wife obey her husband?”
“He is a– —”
I pressed her arm. Anne stopped short.
“Catherine, in the name of our Lord Jesus, do not go today.”
“Anne, shall I be false to my vow?”
“He is false to his.”
“Do not speak thus, sister.”
The Maréchal took my arm and bade me descend the steps. “Contrasts thrill me, Cartaphilus. To go immediately from the worship of Adonai into the Temple of Lucifer, from the White Mass to the Black Mass, to pray fervently in both places!”
The steps turned in a spiral. When we reached half way, I listened intently. It seemed to me that I heard hoofbeats in the distance. But the noise died out and there was a deep silence. There was still time to dissuade him from the hideous deed he was contemplating.
“Gilles, why should man seek truth since truth is infinite and man is finite?”
“You are younger than I, Cartaphilus, and yet you consider me in the light of your junior. You need not fear for me. Adam ate of the Tree of Knowledge but only one apple. I shall wrest from God the seed!”
“Mortal eye cannot gaze at truth full-faced. Be content if you lift a corner of the veil… !”
“One glance—and death—I am satisfied.”
The Maréchal knit his brow.
“Cartaphilus, you speak like a Christian. We are now in the house of him who is greater than Adonai. The ignorant call him the Prince of Darkness, but he is Lucifer, the bearer of Light.”
From the middle of the ceiling hung a large candelabrum whose shape was a phallic caricature of the one in the Temple of Solomon and which spread a yellowish light, resembling the pallor of a jaundiced eye.
The walls were painted with grotesque figures,—goats with the heads of men, bulls with bodies of goats, elephants whose trunks and legs suggested colossal organs of procreation, snakes, stallions, bats revolving about naked figures that were partially women and partially beasts.
In the center of the Temple glowered a large marble statue of Pan: a giant priapus protruding from his belly, like a strangely shaped arrow hurled by an insane hunter.
The altar, marble encrusted with gold and jewels, was partially surrounded by a velvet curtain of a deep scarlet embroidered with the triangle of Astarte.
The worshipers were assembled. Their faces were painted with phallic symbols or covered with masks of animals.
The Maréchal’s face acquired a beatitude which was incongruous with his eyes, wide open as an owl’s in the dark and as ominous. His beard glittered like a cataract of amethysts.
The organ played a strange hymn, a co-mingling of solemn notes and a dancing medley. A hooded person, whose sex was difficult to determine, shook a censer, scattering an incense which resembled a decayed perfume mixed with human excretions.
Gilles de Retz invited me to sit with him.
“We need not take part in the common prayers. For us is reserved the Great Moment.” He looked at me triumphantly, his gray eyes assuming their demoniac glitter.
I waited for a sign from Catherine’s brothers, but I heard no sound. While I trusted my magic powder, I did not desire to display my power. I was already too conspicuous as the friend of Bluebeard. I did not wish to be compelled to explain the scientific device which produced a gas that paralyzed every muscle.
The priest entered, gorgeously attired. Upon his chest he wore upside down, an immense crucifix, studded with many diamonds which glittered like lamps.
He knelt before the altar and chanted. “Our Father which art in Hell, hallowed be Thy Name.”
The worshipers responded: “Amen.”
“Thy Kingdom come.”
“Amen.”
“Thy Will be done on Earth as in Hell.”
“Amen.”
“Bring us this day our daily light.”
“ Amen.”
“Lead us into temptation.”
“Amen.”
“That we may be free from desire.”
“Amen.”
“Deliver us from good.”
“Amen.”
“Which maketh men weak.”
“Amen.”
“Which bringeth pain and falsehood into the world.”
“Amen.”
“For Thine is the Kingdom and power and glory forever.”
“Amen.”
The priest uncovered the ciborium, The worshipers approached, one by one, forming a circle.
“Partake of the body of the Enemy,” the priest repeated at intervals. Each person took a wafer, desecrated it, and cast it upon the floor.
“Partake of the body of the Enemy.”
Was it a bugle in the distance or the triumphant note of the organ? I listened, my eyes wide open.
There was perfect silence again.
The circle of worshipers was completed. A black-draped acolyte filled the large cup which each one drank and turned upside down to prove that nothing had remained within it.
“Drink the sacred blood of our Lord Lucifer,” the priests chanted.
Three times the circle turned. Three times they drank the full cup. Their legs became unsteady and their eyes glistened. Many laughed.
The organ played: Gloria in Excelsis backward.
The worshipers began to dance about Pan, swaying, contortioning, moaning, howling.