“Who?”

“Satan.”

“If he is a god, Monsieur le Maréchal, he is also tyrant, and enslaves the soul. We in the East emancipate ourselves from both God and the Devil…”

“Perhaps you have no need of Lucifer. We need his light. He is the essence of intelligence and wit. He is the spirit of investigation. He teaches us to drink, drink deep, from the Cup of Pleasure and Beauty…”

“You have merely reversed the order, my lord. You have only changed names. God has become the Devil, and the Devil God.”

“Having reversed the order, we have changed the entire conception of life. Yahweh has become the Black One, horny and monstrous, and his virtues abhorrent. Satan is luminous and beautiful and Sin the Supreme Good.”

Two servants approached, carrying upon their shoulders on a pole a young deer. The blood made a thin zigzag line according to the movements of the men. Several dogs followed, barking and stopping from time to time to lap the blood. Their muzzles were red like the noses of drunkards.

“My lord,” one of the servants addressed Gilles de Retz, “the first trophy.”

“Good!” His eyes dazzled with a light such as I had seen darting from the eyes of a demon in a temple of Egypt,—a phosphorescent light, a light that resembled the whiteness of knives and swords.

They placed their burden upon the ground. The animal’s body shivered. The Maréchal jerked out the arrow which protruded half way from the deer’s belly. The animal raised himself and fell back, his legs slightly in the air. Blood splashed the Maréchal’s boots. He breathed heavily and tightened his fists. For a moment his pupils were glazed, his limbs stiffened. Then he relaxed. He patted the dogs beating lightly their sides with his palm. The dogs wagged their tails.

The Maréchal’s conception of Satan pleased me. His intellectual diabolism was a new weapon in my warfare against Jesus.

Gilles had not yet spoken to me about women. Weird scandals about his affairs were gathering about him like a flock of birds. He had recently wedded Catherine of the House of Thouars.

Who was Catherine? I never caught even a glimpse of her garments. Was it true that he kept her a prisoner in the tower that rose above the castle, like an immense mitre?

I walked through the garden. The smoke of roasting oxen and sheep curled above the trees. The Maréchal, despite financial difficulties, would not close his gates to the hundreds of people that came from all parts of the country, and his generosity would not allow any curtailment in food and drinks.

I heard footsteps in back of me, and turned around. Two women, arm in arm, walked slowly. When they became aware of my presence, they stopped almost frightened. I bowed.

“Prince Cartaphilus!” one of them exclaimed. “My brother-in-law often speaks to us about you.” Turning to the other woman, “You remember, Catherine, what Gilles– —”

“Yes, I remember, Anne,” she sighed.

Her voice had an uncommon sadness about it, and her face seemed almost unearthly.

Catherine was dressed in a black velvet dress whose high collar touched the chin, and her blond hair was surrounded by a thin gold band, studded with a large emerald.

“We are taking a walk in the garden, Prince. Will you accompany us?” Anne asked.

The only resemblance to her sister was her height and her aquiline nose. She was more heavily built; her hair was black; her lips sensuous; and her eyes, gray and languorous, had nothing spiritual about them. She was dressed in a gown of white silk. About her throat was a necklace of pearls.

“I have read that the women of India possess unusual beauty. Is that true, Prince?” asked Anne.

I answered, “My memory of the women of India has been eclipsed, madame, since I have had the pleasure of seeing the women of France.”

Anne blushed and her eyes closed a little.

‘The eyes of Flower-of-the-Evening,’ I thought. They stirred my slumbering senses.

Catherine sighed. “Sister, I am weary. I must go back.”

“Very well, dear. I shall accompany you.”

“No, no, I beg you. Remain a while longer with the Prince. You need air…and conversation.” She smiled.

She kissed Anne, bent a little her knee before me, and left. I was not displeased. The matter that interested me most at the moment could not be discussed in the presence of so ethereal a being…

“Shall we take that road, Madame? It seems to lead away from the smoke and the noisy merrymaking that takes place in the castle.”

“My brother-in-law will never be persuaded to abandon his whim of being the provider of the riff-raff of the world.”

“Riff-raff?”

“Alchemists, charlatans, visionaries, gypsies, what not. Is it well for a Maréchal of France to associate with such people?”

I did not answer.

“My poor sister is distressed. She occupies the tower to escape the din. Even there she finds little rest. All night she is awakened by red lights moving about in the castle and by huge shadows behind curtained windows. In her condition the excitement is most untimely.”

“Is she ill?”

“No, but she expects a baby…”

“She could pose for the Madonna…”

“She is worthy of the comparison. There was never a purer soul than hers. She was intended for a nun.”

“Why should not exquisite delicacy dedicate itself to love?”

“The Maréchal is too busy with other things. Men of his type should not marry.”

“Your sister loves the Maréchal?”

“She loves him too well…”

Anne bent over a bud and smelled it. I caught a glimpse of the magnificent valley that separated her breasts. An irresistible impulse to grasp and crush them in my hands possessed me. I tightened my fists until my nails cut into the flesh. I remembered the Bath of Beauty. I remembered Ulrica and Asi-ma and Flower-of-the-Evening,—round breasts and pear-shaped, tiny and full. Why should I tremble before the invisible breasts of this woman? Was it merely Youth and Spring? Or was it because I could only see the valley that divided their loveliness?…

Anne looked up. “Smell this bud, Prince. It is intoxicating, as if the whole spring were encased in its tiny body.”

I bent. My face almost touched hers. I breathed deeply, but not of the bud. I moved my head, until my lips met hers. I pressed into them. She did not withdraw. I lowered my face until it touched her breast. Anne uttered a stifled cry. She straightened up. I grasped her in my arms. “Anne,” I whispered, “Anne, I love you.” Her face was flushed. She breathed heavily, her eyes nearly shut.

I placed my arm around her waist and we walked in silence to a bench hidden among the bushes. She stretched out upon it. Her white gown and her immobility gave her the appearance of a statue.

“Anne,” I whispered. “Anne.” Her name thrilled me. My heart beat violently against my chest. “Anne.” I covered her body with kisses.

“It is time for me to go to the tower,” she whispered. “Catherine is waiting for me.”

“We must meet again, Anne.”

“Yes.”