15. Dubieties of the Master
“COME,” said Janicot, yawning in the dawn of Christmas Day, “but here is our romantic lordling of Puysange, to whom love is divine, and the desired woman a goddess.” Florian did not at once reply. He had for the instant forgotten his need of the sword Flamberge. For on account of the requirements of the various ceremonies, Janicot, except for a strip of dappled fawn-skin across his chest, was not wearing any clothes, not even any shoes. Florian had just noticed Janicot’s feet. But Florian was too courteous to comment upon personal peculiarities: for this only is the secret of all good-breeding, he reflected, not ever to wound the feelings of anybody, in any circumstances, without premeditation. So his upsetment was but momentary, and was not shown perceptibly, he felt sure, by the gasp which politeness had turned into a sigh. “But what the deuce,” said Janicot then, “is this a proper groan, is this the appropriate countenance, for one whose love has overridden the by-laws of time and nature and even of necromancy?”
“Ah, Monsieur Janicot,” answered Florian, “gravity everywhere goes arm-in-arm with wisdom, and I am somewhat wiser than I was when we last talked together. For I have been to the high place, and my desires have been gratified.”
“That is an affair of course, since all my friends have all their desires in this world. What cannot be with equal readiness taken for granted is the fact that you appear on that account to be none the happier.”
“Merriment,” replied Florian, “is a febrile passion. But content is quiet.”
“So, then, you are content, my little duke?”
“The word ‘little,’ Monsieur Janicot, has in its ordinary uses no uncivil connotations. Yet, when applied to a person—”
“I entreat your pardon, Monsieur the Duke, for the ill-chosen adjective, and I hastily withdraw it.”
“Which pardon, I need hardly say, I grant with even more haste. I am content, then, Monsieur Janicot. I have achieved my heart’s desire, and I find it”—Florian coughed,—“beyond anything I ever imagined. But now, alas! the great love between my wife and me draws toward its sweet fruition, and one must be logical. So I comprehend—with not unnatural regret,—that my adored wife will presently be leaving me forever.”
“Ah, to be sure! Then you have already, in this brief period, passed from the pleasures of courtship to the joys of matrimony—?”
“Monsieur, I am a Puysange. We are ardent.”
“—And she is already—?”
“Monsieur, I can but repeat my remark.”
“Eh,” replied Janicot, “you have certainly spared no zeal, you have not slept, in upholding the repute of your race: and this punctilious and loving adherence to the fine old forthright customs of your fathers affects me. There remains, to be sure, our bargain. Yet I am honestly affected, and since this parting grieves you so much, Florian, some composition must be reached—”
“It is undeniable,” said Florian, with a reflective frown, “that my most near acquaintances address me—”
“I accept the reproof, I withdraw the vocative noun, and again I entreat your pardon, Monsieur the Duke.”
“I did not so much voice a reproof, Monsieur Janicot, as a sincere lament that I have never enjoyed the privilege of your close friendship.” And Florian too bowed. “I was about to observe, then, that a gentleman adheres in all to all his bargains. So I can in logic consider no alteration of our terms, though you comprehend, I trust, how bitter I find their fulfilment.”
“Yes,” Janicot responded, “it is precisely the amount of your grief which I begin to comprehend. Its severity has even brought on a bronchial irritation which prevents your speaking freely: and indeed, one might have foreseen this.”
“—So I have come to inquire how I am to get the sword Flamberge, which, as you may remember, must figure in the ceremony of—your pardon, but I really do appear to have contracted a quite obstinate cough in the night air,—of giving you your honorarium, by the old ritual.”
Janicot for a moment reflected. “You have sacrificed—”
“Monsieur, pray let us be logical! I have offered you no sacrifice. I have participated in no such inadvisable custom of heathenry. I must remind you that this is Christmas; and that I, naturally, elect to follow our Christian custom of exchanging appropriate gifts at this season of the year.”
“I again apologize, I withdraw the verb. You have made me a Christmas present, then, of the life of a person of some note and mightiness, as your race averages. So it is your right to demand my aid. Yet there is one at your home, in an earthen pot, who could have procured for you the information, and very probably the sword too, without your stirring from your fireside and adored wife. It appears to me odd that, with so few months of happiness remaining, you should absent yourself from the sources of your only joy.”
Florian’s hand had risen in polite protest. “Ah, but, Monsieur Janicot, but in mere self-respect, one would not employ the power of which you speak, unless there were some absolute need. Now, for my part, I have always found it simple enough to get what I wanted without needing to thank anyone for help except myself. And Flamberge too is a prize that I prefer to win unaided, at the trivial price of a slight token of esteem at Christmas. I prefer, you conceive,” said Florian, as smilingly he reflected upon the incessant carefulness one had to exercise in dealing with these fiends, “to settle the affair without incurring humiliating and possibly pyrotechnic obligations to anybody.”
Janicot replied: “Doubtless, such independent sentiments are admirable. And it shall be as you like—”
“Still, Monsieur Janicot,” said Florian, with just the proper amount of heartbreak in his voice, “is it not regrettable that this cruel price should be exacted of me?”
“Old customs must be honored, and mine are oldish. Besides, as I recall it, you suggested the bargain, not I.”
“Yes, because I know that gifts from you are dangerous. Why, but let us be logical! Would you have me purchase an ephemeral pleasure at the price of my own ruin, when I could get it at the cost of somewhat inconveniencing others?”
“You say that my gifts are dangerous. Yet, what do you really know about me, Florian ? Again I entreat your pardon, Monsieur the Duke, but, after all, our acquaintance progresses.”
“I know nothing about you personally, Monsieur Janicot, beyond the handsomeness of your generosity. I only know the danger of accepting a free gift from any fiend; and you I take to be, in cosmic politics, a leader of the party in opposition.”
Janicot looked grave for a moment. He said:
“No, I am not a fiend, Monsieur the Duke; nor, for that matter, does your current theology afford me any niche.”
“Well, then,” asked Florian, with his customary fine frankness, “if you are not the devil, what the devil are you?”
Janicot answered: “I am all that has been and that is to be. Never has any man been able to imagine what I am.”
“Ah, monsieur, that sounds well, and, quite possibly, it means something. Of that I know no more than a frog does about toothache, but I do know they call you the adversary of all the gods of men—”
“Yes,” Janicot admitted, rather sadly, “I have been hoping, now for a great while, that men would find some god with whom a rational person might make terms, but that seems never to happen.”
“Monsieur, monsieur!” cried Florian, “pray let us have no scepticism—!”
“Scepticism also is a comfort denied to me. Men have that refuge always open. But I have in my time dealt at close grips with too many gods to have any doubt about them. No, I believe, and I shudder with distaste.”
“Come, now, Monsieur Janicot, religion and somewhere to go on Sundays are quite necessary amenities—”