He nodded. “There is no other way, Cartaphilus. One cannot serve two masters at once. Sooner or later, one must burn one’s boats…”

“Do you think the sacrifice will be efficacious?”

“I am convinced of it. The child created by passion is weaker than the child created by reason, just as a base metal is weaker than gold. Besides, with the High Priest present, Satan himself will come to baptize his son.”

Satan as godfather seemed so ludicrous that I could not refrain from laughing a little.

“And the godmother, Gilles? Who shall it be?”

“The godmother,” he answered solemnly, “is the woman whose womb will deliver the base metal which will be transformed into gold.”

“Have you found her?”

“The sacrifice will be ready when required.”

He closed his eyes and breathed quietly as a man asleep. His face had the dull placidity of old age. One long white hair glistened among the blue of his beard. Was it the drop of blood which had changed its original color? How much pain was Gilles destined to inflict? How many children would shriek before he discovered the secret of life or more likely, the futility of his efforts? Was truth really worth such sacrifices? Was Homunculus a boon great enough to justify the murder of a child ripped from his mother’s womb? Had not Yahweh discovered a simpler process to reproduce life? Had he not, also, perhaps, experimented for æons, to find at last nothing more beautiful, nothing more efficacious than the embrace of the male and the female? Perhaps it would be better if man, instead of attempting to create life himself, matched his ingenuity against God’s to frustrate creation…

Could I permit this monster to live? Yet Gilles de Retz was my intellectual kinsman. In his inhuman fashion, he loved me.

I sheathed the dagger that, for a moment, twitched in my hand.

Gilles opened his eyes, startled, and laughed. “I actually fell asleep, Prince, and dreamt—how silly and false dreams are!—that you stabbed me. But instead I see you placed your hand upon my heart in symbol of friendship. And now I shall place my hand upon your faithful heart, Cartaphilus, my brother, and swear eternal allegiance.”

‘How much truer a dream may be,’ I thought, ‘than reality!’

“Gilles, since you have granted me your friendship, may I speak freely to you?”

“Speak, Cartaphilus. Nothing you say can offend me since the purpose of your words springs from your heart.”

“Gilles, it is not possible to obtain truth in a lifetime. It is better to catch a glimpse of it and guess the rest, or to leave it unfathomed. You are endeavoring to compress eternity into one existence. It cannot lead to your happiness or the happiness of those about you…”

“Happiness? What matters happiness, Cartaphilus? What matter those about me? What matter I?”

“You axe treading a dangerous path.”

He laughed and, placing his palm upon my knee, said: “I destroy to build a newer and better world. I am the negation of the Creator who made a mess of creation. The world will never forget Gilles, the Lord of Retz, Maréchal of France who dared to face truth unflinchingly, and to rebel against God.”

“People forget the great and courageous things a man accomplishes. They remember his peculiarities. They remember that Nero fiddled while Rome burned. They may forget your philosophy and remember—your beard!”

He remained pensive. His eyes clouded as if someone had drawn a film over them. Only the perverse glitter pierced through like the sharp fine edges of stilettos.

Kotikokura pulled at my sleeve. “Ca-ta-pha! Ca-ta-pha!” His nostrils shivered, and his teeth chattered.

“What is the trouble, my friend? What has happened?”

A dog that followed him was munching a large bone, tearing the shreds of flesh that clung to it.

“Look, Ca-ta-pha!” He pointed to the animal.

The bone was the arm of a child! I was seized with nausea.

“Ca-ta-pha—come!” He pulled my arm and preceded me. From time to time, he looked back to see if we were observed. He led me to a trap-door hidden behind a rock. He opened it. We descended several steps. He opened another door. An intolerable stench struck my nostrils like a fist.

“Look, Ca-ta-pha!”

When my eyes became accustomed to the dark, I saw strewn about piles of bones, skulls in which an eye still persisted to glare like a bit of porcelain, legs torn from their sockets, arms placed upon each other in the shape of crosses, flesh over which enormous flies buzzed and rats munched. In phials, blood coagulated like frozen cherries.

“Come, Kotikokura. This is too horrible! Too horrible!”

I breathed many times deeply, as if to smother the memory of what I had seen.

“How did you discover this, Kotikokura?”

He told me how for days he had been smelling something strange; how the dogs, their muzzles to the earth, discovered the rock. His curiosity was greater than his prudence. He opened the door and discovered the holocaust of children.

“We have seen much death and we are not pure-handed ourselves, Kotikokura—but have you ever seen such a loathsome thing?”

He shook his head vigorously.

“During the Crusades, we splashed through blood, but the deeds of the followers of Christ never were half so monstrous as the work of Anti-Christ…!”

I rubbed my heart as if to remove all traces of the hand that had been placed upon it in sign of friendship and allegiance. This must stop! No friendship could survive this! No promise could bind!

LX: THE LOVE OF ANNE—ANNE PROPOSES—I BETRAY A FRIEND—POWDERS AND MASKS

ANNE entered,—an exquisite phantom in white.

“Catherine is happy today.”

“Happy?”

“She has felt life! She says that never—not even when Gilles thrilled her with his first kiss—did she experience such joy. Besides, my brother-in-law told her that he would show her his laboratory, initiate her into his great secret,—and ever after she would have nothing to fear.”

I stood up with a jerk.

“He would show her the true meaning of life and birth.”

“Anne!” I exclaimed, “don’t let her go to him! Never, do you hear? She must not.”

“What is the matter, dear?”

No friendship could endure this! No brother could be forgiven for such a crime! It was Catherine, then—the beautiful, the exquisite Catherine whom he meant to sacrifice to his insane illusion. When it was an abstract idea, woman in general, I could tolerate it,—but Catherine whose face was like Spring and whose body like a young tree!

“It shall not take place!” I shouted.

“What is the trouble, Cartaphilus? I beg you to tell me!”

I related to Anne the Maréchal’s insane obsession, omitting, however, the gruesome things I had witnessed.

She buried her head into the pillow and sobbed, “Poor Catherine! Poor Catherine! Cartaphilus, can you imagine what she has been suffering? She pretends to believe nothing—the rumors, the cries, the complaints of mothers. Even the strange lights and shadows at midnight did not convince her. ‘Gossip, sister,’ she says, trembling the while. I am sure she will not believe or pretend not to believe what you have told me, Cartaphilus. Even if she saw the glittering knife in his fiendish hands, she would continue to love and trust him. She may even allow herself to be sacrificed.”

“We must not let her, Anne! She is too beautiful…”

“The monster! The monster!” she shouted.

“Not a monster, Anne. Gilles is a remarkable man. His face, at times—have you not noticed?—is like a child’s. But he is mad. He does not mean to do a murderous deed. He thinks he is serving God—his God—in his own fashion.”

“The monster! The monster!” she continued. “He denies God and man and murders innocent children. He allies himself with the powers of evil against our Lord. Cartaphilus, how can you deny he is a monster?”