“No, no! There is something more significant in it all. His beard was almost black when I first saw him. It is becoming bluer every day.”

“Even if true—what could it mean, except that it changes as he grows older?”

“Older…and—”she opened her eyes wide, “more terrible.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ah, you do not know, Cartaphilus. There are horrible rumors about. I overheard many people. They say…he is in league…with…you know whom.”

I laughed. “People always spread false rumors, particularly about men who like Gilles de Retz, are daring and rich and unusual.”

“Cartaphilus, you are his friend. He says you are the wisest of all men.”

“He exaggerates, dear.”

“No, no—he does not. I know you are. It is not as if I had really met you for the first time some days previously. I feel that I have known you always.”

“You have known me, Anne. Centuries ago we were lovers.”

She looked scared.

“The Hindu religion teaches that the souls of people are reincarnated and true lovers meet again and again.”

“It is beautiful—but is it God or the Other One—who teaches this?”

“God, Anne. Why suspect the Other One of all good things?”

“This place…this castle and forests and gardens…it is uncanny. My poor sister! She is as white as a ghost. I think she knows many things but she will not utter a word against Gilles. She defends him always. Love is terrible.”

“Love is beautiful.” I embraced her. Her lips tasted like fresh honey, and her breath was the perfume of the bud over which we had bent the first time. “In the morning we shall speak to Catherine and convince her that she has nothing to fear. This night you are my bride.”

She pressed me against her, trembling a little. “Am I not a wicked woman, Cartaphilus? I have come to you of my own free will—and yet I am not your wife, nor even your betrothed.”

“You are as pure as the rose is, Anne.”

“You said that we were lovers in centuries past.”

“And shall be again and again…”

Anne crossed herself and went to bed. Her body dazzled like a lake over which the moon shines. Her breasts rose and sank like the gentle flutter of doves’ wings. Her eyes were thin black lines underneath the long lashes which nearly touched.

I taught her the divers ways of love which I had acquired from Flower-of-the-Evening and from others. Anne learned readily the tender secrets of many lands.

“Cartaphilus, how strong you are!” she murmured, as she stretched to the tips of her toes.

LIX: SULLEN PEASANTS—A DROP OF BLOOD GLISTENING IN THE BLUE—THE NEEDS OF HOMUNCULUS—THE DREAM OF GILLES DE RETZ—KOTIKOKURA MAKES A DISCOVERY

I WALKED beyond the garden into the field. The peasants—men, women and children—were working feverishly. The scythes glittered ominously in the sun like scimitars, and the heavy pitchforks ripped into the hay like bayonets.

I approached one of the men who was wiping his forehead with his large horny hand, and bade him the time of the day. He glared at me and turned away, making the sign of the cross. Two women, becoming aware of my presence, uttered a stifled cry, then crossed themselves. Others looked up from their labor, and glared and pointed at me in silence.

Why were the farmers so enraged against the Maréchal and his guests?

I knew it was not a question of wages. Gilles de Retz was very generous, nor did he demand the right of the prima nox. Was it the lord’s dabbling into alchemy? Hardly. It was the universal passion. The peasants themselves would have crossed their chests with their right hand while the left tightened over the gold produced by a Midas-fingered adept.

I arrived at the gate that led to the left wing of the castle. A girl of about ten was knocking at it with her small fists. She looked at me, her eyes filled with tears.

“What is the trouble, my dear?”

“My little brother went inside a long while ago and he has not come out yet.”

I raised my hand to pat her. She withdrew her face and shoulders.

From within, a child’s sharp cry—the cry of an animal that is pierced by a knife– —

“It’s my brother, monsieur, my brother!” the girl sobbed. “My brother! My brother!”

The gate opened and the Maréchal emerged. His eyes were wide open and bloodshot. His hands trembled. He breathed heavily.

“Ah! My friend!” he exclaimed. His voice was husky.

The little girl screamed.

Gilles smiled. “They are all afraid of my beard—these little brats.”

“My brother,” she implored.

“Your brother? What about him?”

“He cried a while ago… I heard him.”

“Foolish child,” the Maréchal said tenderly. “He is probably playing and laughing with the rest of the children. Would you not like to accompany them?”

“No, no!” she screamed.

“Oh, very well. Here, take this gold coin and tell your mother to buy you a beautiful dress.”

Gilles looked after her. “A very pretty child,” he said slowly. “Very pretty.” He took my arm. From his mustache, a drop of blood trickled into his beard. I shivered.

He spoke quickly and enthusiastically about a book he had just read. I knew that he endeavored to make me forget the child. Gradually his eyes resumed their usual clarity. His lips lengthened into a smile. He looked like a boy again—a boy who has pasted on his chin a blue beard to scare his comrades.

“I am a little tired,” he said. “Would you care to drive with me?”

I nodded.

He ordered one of the coachmen to get a carriage ready.

We drove slowly through the garden and forest. He spoke of the beauty of nature, discussed Plato and Aristotle, and quoted poetry, including verses he had written himself. Suddenly, placing his hand upon my leg, he said: “Cartaphilus. I am happy today, for I have discovered the secret.”

“What secret, Gilles?”

“My Homunculus lives!”

“Ah?”

“A few days ago, I paid him a visit. He stirred!”

I looked at him, incredulous.

“He stirred for a second, then remained still again. The virginal blood was not virginal enough. There is always some impurity, even in the youngest blood once it has coursed through the body. What is needed is the blood of an unborn child, snatched from the womb…”

His eyes glinted. I thought of two knives. I heard a sharp cry and a little girl sobbing.

“Not a full-fledged one. The air must not enter its lungs. A child which has just received life, into whom the soul has stirred for the first time…”

“What woman would be willing to consent to this sacrifice?”

“What difference does it make whether she is willing or not? We cannot allow truth to be sacrificed for a woman. We must be strong, Cartaphilus. We must—if needs be—trample on human sentiments and emotions.”

He pulled the corners of his beard. Was it the influence of Anne’s words or reality? His beard was much bluer than when I had first seen it in Paris.

“Truth is beyond man and God and… Satan!” he exclaimed.

His brows knit and his fists tightened.

“Cartaphilus, I have observed your High Priest. There is something about him that symbolizes the earth. He is Pan—the reflection of the Earth, which is the magnificent palace of Him who rebelled against Adonai. God is in His Heaven. What is Heaven to us? We are the lovers of the earth. The earth is beautiful; the earth is joyous.”

His face, in contrast with his words seemed tortured, as if a powerful fist had pressed against it.

“I should like to have the High Priest appear as Lucifer at the Black Mass which must precede the birth of Homunculus. I dare not address him for fear of tempting him to answer in violation of his vow. He understands you, however, by a mere look or gesture.”

“Your hospitality is so generous that he will not refuse your wish.”

He pressed my hand. “Brother.”

“Does not the Black Mass mean, Maréchal, that you have decided to make final your covenant with Satan?”