He smiled. His face assumed a boyish expression. His eyes twinkled mischievously. Which was his true personality? Was his strangeness due to his thwarted love for the Maid? If Joan had reciprocated his affections would he be merely the charming philosopher, the elegant knight?…

I begged to be left alone to meditate. My meditations were most uplifting.

I expected Anne.

LVIII: I BREAK THE MAGIC CIRCLE—THE WHITE WITCH JOAN OF ARC—I CRASH A MIRROR—I WITNESS A MIRACLE—THE FLIGHT OF THE FALSE MAGICIANS

THE vault was hung round with black curtains. There was no light, save a torch fixed in a high candelabrum. A triangular tripod in the center was surmounted by a bowl out of which a thin smoke, like a line drawn with a hair, arose, filling the air with a strange odor. An altar of white marble supported by four columns terminating in bulls’ feet stood at the left. It was surmounted by a cross upside down, placed upon a serpent in the shape of a triangle.

Master Prelati was dressed in an ephod of white linen clasped with a single emerald. About his waist was tied a consecrated girdle, embroidered with strange names; upon his breast the talisman of Venus hanging from a thread of azure silk. He wore a high cap of sable. His assistant was dressed in a priestly robe of black bombazine. Gilles de Retz, handsome and defiant, was resplendent in his uniform of Maréchal de France.

We remained at the vault’s mouth. The magus walked to the altar, knelt and prayed in silence. Then he walked to the tripod and stirred the smoke with a fan of swan’s feathers.

He motioned to us to approach. He described three circles, one within the other, with his long ebony staff.

“Remain within the circle. Never budge no matter what you see or hear. He who breaks the circle breaks the bond that unites his body to his soul.”

He waved his staff to the four cardinal points of the earth, calling out four names, then remained silent, his head upon his chest, his eyes closed.

Slowly, he lifted his right fist within which he held a bundle of fagots snatched from the flames.

“Joan of Arc! Joan of Arc! Joan of Arc!”

There was no answer.

“Joan, this wood has fed the flame that consumed your body. Your ashes dropped upon it and impregnated it. I am holding your body! Joan, I command you, in the All-Powerful Name, to appear before us!”

There was no motion.

He stamped his staff. “Joan! Joan! Joan!”

Again no response.

“Do not disobey my command. You know the torment of the spirit who disregards the summons compelling alike the living and the dead! Joan! Joan! Joan!”

The light of the torch flickered a little and the smoke broke in two.

“Joan, tarry not. I command you to appear at once!”

There was a rumbling noise, like the roar of a lion which gradually increased and became a hideous mixture of sounds. The smoke in the tripod turned a thick black, and a sulphurous stench filled the place.

The smoke dispersed. The torch was blown out, and against one of the curtains appeared the shape of a young woman, white and trembling like a light.

“Joan!” the Maréchal called out. “Joan!”

The apparition made no answer.

“Joan, you have come to me!” He started toward the apparition, but the magician’s assistant restrained him.

“Joan, I may not come near to you. I may not touch the hem of your robe. Listen to me, Joan. I love you. I can love no other woman, Joan. You scorned me in the flesh—give me your love in the spirit!”

The apparition did not stir. Her lips tightened as if in defiance.

“Joan, by the gods we both adore, my spirit may join yours without leaving its earthly bondage. Speak! Tell me you desire this union.”

The apparition shivered a little as a light shivers in the wind.

The Maréchal grew indignant. He rose. “I command you to speak! I, Gilles, Lord of Retz, Maréchal de France!”

He drew his sword from its scabbard.

Fearing he would do himself some injury, I determined to put an end to the trick. Deliberately I walked out of the magic circles. Before the magician realized my intention, I was beyond the reach of his hocus-pocus.

The three men within the circle uttered a cry of horror. The roaring of the wild beasts commenced again, and out of the tripod rose a choking smoke. I continued my steps undaunted. I had seen too many invocations of spirits. I knew that the apparition of Joan of Arc was merely a play of light and shade upon mirrors. I walked to the spot where, according to my calculation, the magic mirrors were hidden, and crashed them with the hilt of my sword.

“Bunglers!” I exclaimed. “If you wish to invoke spirits, learn to improve your art.”

The magicians rushed out of the vault, the Maréchal following them with his bare sword.

“Gilles!” I called out. “Do not pursue them.”

He continued his pursuit of the tricksters.

Suddenly, against the white curtains, the spectral image of the Maid appeared. I had smashed the mirror but the apparition remained! I bent my neck forward until it ached and opened wide my eyes. The Maid lingered on…

“Joan,” I called, my voice trembling with awe, “Joan, speak to me!”

Joan tightened her face in pain or abhorrence, made the sign of the cross and vanished, slowly like a light that is carried away…

Had I labored under an illusion? Was this more than a trick? Had I left intact one mirror which now mothered the mirage of Joan, boy-maid, witch woman and saint?…

I drew the curtains aside. Every mirror was crashed!

Gilles returned.

“Cartaphilus,” he said, placing his sword in its scabbard, “I am grateful to you beyond words, for more than all things else, I seek truth. I want no happiness based upon fraud and illusion.”

He grasped my arm. “Come out, this place oppresses me.”

But my thoughts still revolved around the pale wraith of the Maid.

By an irony of the fateful goddess, the Maréchal had missed the only genuine miracle of the evening, inexplicable to me then as it is today.

Kotikokura was looking out of the window of my room.

“What? Not asleep yet, my friend?”

He shook his head.

“You were watching for Ca-ta-pha, were you not?”

He nodded.

“Does it matter so much to you if he is in danger or not?”

He took my hand and kissed it.

“But now you must go to your room and rest. Ca-ta-pha has returned. The universe is saved.”

“Look!” he said.

I looked where his forefinger indicated. The shadow in the tower walked to and fro, rhythmically, accurately like a pendulum.

He was about to tell me something when the door opened slowly and a figure in white appeared. She entered and placed her finger to her lips.

“Anne!” I whispered.

Kotikokura discreetly bowed himself out.

Anne approached me. I clasped her to me with the joy of one who has suddenly recovered a long lost treasure.

“Cartaphilus,” she whispered, “my sister is very much perturbed”

“More than usually?”

“Yes. She has seen strange sights in the garden and in the forest this evening,—men with enormous lamps that blinded the eyes.”

‘The mirrors,’ I thought.

“Why should lamps perturb her so?”

“Lamps and torches and black-gowned people and one who looked like a ghost…”

‘The reflections,’ I thought.

“Gilles has not entered her room for days. She is consumed more than ever with longing and with fears…”

I laughed. “Does she fear him or his beard?”

“Have you not noticed,” she said trembling, “how much bluer it is of late… ?”

I seated myself upon the edge of the bed and drew her upon my knees.

I smiled. “Color, my dear, depends upon the sun. The sun may be stronger these days. We are in the midst of Spring, as those who love should know.”