LVII: THE LABORATORY OF GILLES DE RETZ—GILLES CHALLENGES GOD—BIRTH PANGS OF HOMUNCULUS—THE FEARS OF CATHERINE—THE SECRET LOVE OF GILLES DE RETZ

THE Maréchal invited me into his laboratory. Francis Prelati at Padua, assisted by six apprentices, was engaged over ill-smelling crucibles. The laboratory, except that it was much larger, resembled very closely that of Trevisan.

Prelati greeted me cordially, but somewhat pompously. It was our first meeting since Master Bernard had coaxed roses out of the snow. Prelati was still a young man, clean-shaven and tall. He talked about alchemy and physics with the same tricks of language as his friend Trevisan.

He convinced the Maréchal that before long fabulous riches would leap at his command out of the crucible.

Gazing out of the window I saw Kotikokura, followed by several dogs, dash by.

“Your friend the High Priest,” Gilles remarked, “prefers the company of my animals to mine.”

“His vow not to speak for a year, upon which depends the expiation of a great sin, makes him fear the company of man. If he utters one word before the time, he will have to resume his penance from the beginning.”

“Cartaphilus,” he said suddenly, “in your company I have a curious sensation. I feel,” he placed his palm upon his forehead, “I feel…as if all the ages were surging about me. Have we lived once before, and were you then my friend…?”

“It is possible.”

“Are we born or reborn, Cartaphilus?”

“We are links in a chain…”

“I want to destroy—that chain, to begin life anew, without the superstitions of our ancestors, without inevitable decay and old age and death. I want to create new life…that owes nothing to progenitors.”

He grasped my arm tightly and looked at me intently. His eyes rolled a little backward. His beard seemed so blue, I almost believed he dyed it in some strange chemical.

“You are competing with God…”

“Why not?”

He raised his forefinger upon which shone an amethyst the shape of a serpent. “Within ten more days Homunculus will be ready for the arcanum. The spagyric substances I imprisoned in a glass phial are beginning to pulsate. Come!”

He unlocked a door which led into a small room like a monk’s cell. Upon one of the walls was a crucifix upside down; upon another, the signs of the Zodiac. In a corner, a heap of dung over which large flies buzzed. The air was stifling like that of a stable.

“My Homunculus,” he said proudly, “is prospering within it.” He pointed to the heap of manure.

“How can man be born out of dung?”

“Why not? It is the womb of the earth. But heat and manure are not sufficient, Cartaphilus. That is true. For forty days I shall feed him on the arcanum of…human blood. I have discovered the perfect combination. Maimonides failed because he could not obtain the pristine, the virginal blood of children… I, Gilles de Retz, Maréchal de France, obtain from God or the Devil whatever is needed…”

What did he mean by the virginal blood of children?

We walked out. I breathed deeply, many times.

“Cartaphilus, who are you?” the Maréchal asked again suddenly.

“I am—He Who Seeks.”

“Seeks what?”

“What the Lord de Retz seeks—a newer and more beautiful life, only I seek more slowly… I wait.”

“I am impatient, Cartaphilus. I cannot wait.”

He looked at me perturbed.

That was the difference between us. We were brothers in spirit. But I could develop slowly, remaining sane and balanced. The Maréchal’s feverish endeavors must inevitably prove futile. His ideas burst the bands of reason. A thousand generations of alchemists might discover the Philosopher’s Stone, and create a new humanity… I could wait and see. Poor Gilles must hasten, he must force the lock of mystery or perish without baring the secret. Whatever of truth there might be in each generation, I could learn. Whatever of falsehood, I could unlearn in the next.

We reached the bench upon which Anne had stretched out in all her beauty. Gilles bade me sit. I was as thrilled as if Anne lay under my touch again. The Maréchal patted my hand and pressed it. His face at that moment, if shaven, would have looked almost like a boy’s.

“Cartaphilus,” he whispered, “you are he whom I have sought—he who understands—he who knows.”

He knelt, and taking both my hands, pressed them to his lips. “Stay with me always. Be my brother. Let us take the blood bond between us. Call me Gilles.”

“Gilles.”

In the tower, a shadow moved from one window to another, slowly, ceaselessly.

Gilles looked up. “It is Lady de Retz, Cartaphilus. She is very restless. Frequently, the whole night through, she walks as she does now.”

“Perhaps she fears you, Gilles.”

“She fears my beard.” He laughed a little. “Everybody fears it. I know they call me Bluebeard when my back is turned.”

“Your beard is characteristic of you.”

“I think so too. A black or a blond beard would not be compatible with my temperament. Perhaps my beard determines my life! Demosthenes became the greatest orator because he stammered. Cæsar became the most fearless of generals because he was an epileptic. The maid Joan saved France—because—because—she was not really a woman.”

“Not really a woman? “I asked.

“She never paid the bloody sacrifice that nature exacts every month from woman. She was not a slave to the moon…”

His brows contracted. From his eyes darted the curious fire that bespoke the strangeness of his mind. He stroked his beard, and combed it with the tips of his delicate fingers, covered with jewels of fantastic designs.

“She was a witch, a white witch, but a witch, Cartaphilus!—She confessed that she was!” he exclaimed suddenly. “Afterwards she recanted and lied, but once I caught her performing magic rites. She made the spirits speak and obey…” He covered his face with his hands and placed his elbows upon his knees.

I had heard of the Maid. People spoke of her indifferently or as some half-crazed girl, who claimed to hear voices.

He placed his palm upon my shoulder. “Cartaphilus, you have loved much. Your very name bespeaks it. Have you not discovered that a man yearns always to recapture again and again the thrill of his first infatuation?”

“It is true, Gilles.”

“I love Catherine my wife… She’s beautiful and charming, a delicate bud. But my heart seeks the boy-girl, the witch, Joan of Arc…”

At the windows of the tower, the shadow continued to pass to and fro. What fear, what anxiety made Catherine so restless? Did she guess the secret of Bluebeard’s love? Had she heard the whispered rumors about his pact with the Evil One? Did she understand the duality of his motives? Was she really afraid of his beard? Were fear and love bedfellows in her heart?

“I love Joan of Arc, and I, by Hermes, shall snatch her out of heaven or hell.”

I sympathized with Gilles. His unhappiness resembled mine—Salome, though, not dead, like the Maid, was equally unattainable.

Gilles de Retz stood up suddenly. He seemed even taller than he was. His beard against the background of his black velvet dazzled like amethysts.

“She will be mine, Cartaphilus! I shall conquer death…!”

I looked at him inquiringly.

“I shall invoke her spirit and capture it. She will be mine! She was too proud to accept me in life. She must accept me in death. Her spirit,” he continued, “is obstinate. It is the counterpart of her body. But I am stronger. Francis Prelati, the greatest magus will assist me. We have made our pact with the Prince of Darkness…”

“I shall be with you, my brother.”

He grasped my hands and pressed them to his lips.

I determined to expose the charlatans who had deluded the Maréchal and who devoured his substance.

“Cartaphilus, I know you are more powerful than my magicians. If they fail, you will not… Meanwhile, I must prepare for the tournament. The Count of Dorsay has challenged me this day to a bout…”