In a fiacre they went up the rue de Vaugirard. Mme. Chantelouve was as
in a shell and spoke not a word. Durtal looked closely at her when, as
they passed a street lamp, a shaft of light played over her veil a
moment, then winked out. She seemed agitated and nervous beneath her
reserve. He took her hand. She did not withdraw it. He could feel the
chill of it through her glove, and her blonde hair tonight seemed
disordered, dry, and not so fine as usual.
"Nearly there?"
But in a low voice full of anguish she said, "Do not speak."
Bored by this taciturn, almost hostile tête-à-tête, he began to examine
the route through the windows of the cab. The street stretched out
interminable, already deserted, so badly paved that at every step the
cab springs creaked. The lamp-posts were beginning to be further and
further apart. The cab was approaching the ramparts.
"Singular itinerary," he murmured, troubled by the woman's cold,
inscrutable reserve.
Abruptly the vehicle turned up a dark street, swung around, and stopped.
Hyacinthe got out. Waiting for the cabman to give him his change, Durtal
inspected the lay of the land. They were in a sort of blind alley. Low
houses, in which there was not a sign of life, bordered a lane that had
no sidewalk. The pavement was like billows. Turning around, when the cab
drove away, he found himself confronted by a long high wall above which
dry leaves rustled in the shadows. A little door with a square grating
in it was cut into the thick unlighted wall, which was seamed with
fissures. Suddenly, further away, a ray of light shot out of a show
window, and, doubtless attracted by the sound of the cab wheels, a man
wearing the black apron of a wineshop keeper lounged through the shop
door and spat on the threshold.
"This is the place," said Mme. Chantelouve.
She rang. The grating opened. She raised her veil. A shaft of lantern
light struck her full in the face, the door opened noiselessly, and they
penetrated into a garden.
"Good evening, madame."
"Good evening, Marie. In the chapel?"
"Yes. Does madame wish me to guide her?"
"No, thanks."
The woman with the lantern scrutinized Durtal. He perceived, beneath a
hood, wisps of grey hair falling in disorder over a wrinkled old face,
but she did not give him time to examine her and returned to a tent
beside the wall serving her as a lodge.
He followed Hyacinthe, who traversed the dark lanes, between rows of
palms, to the entrance of a building. She opened the doors as if she
were quite at home, and her heels clicked resolutely on the flagstones.
"Be careful," she said, going through a vestibule. "There are three
steps."
They came out into a court and stopped before an old house. She rang. A
little man advanced, hiding his features, and greeted her in an
affected, sing-song voice. She passed, saluting him, and Durtal brushed
a fly-blown face, the eyes liquid, gummy, the cheeks plastered with
cosmetics, the lips painted.
"I have stumbled into a lair of sodomists.--You didn't tell me that I
was to be thrown into such company," he said to Hyacinthe, overtaking
her at the turning of a corridor lighted by a lamp.
"Did you expect to meet saints here?"
She shrugged her shoulders and opened a door. They were in a chapel
with a low ceiling crossed by beams gaudily painted with coal-tar
pigment. The windows were hidden by great curtains. The walls were
cracked and dingy. Durtal recoiled after a few steps. Gusts of humid,
mouldy air and of that indescribable new-stove acridity poured out of
the registers to mingle with an irritating odour of alkali, resin, and
burnt herbs. He was choking, his temples throbbing.
He advanced groping, attempting to accustom his eyes to the
half-darkness. The chapel was vaguely lighted by sanctuary lamps
suspended from chandeliers of gilded bronze with pink glass pendants.
Hyacinthe made him a sign to sit down, then she went over to a group of
people sitting on divans in a dark corner. Rather vexed at being left
here, away from the centre of activity, Durtal noticed that there were
many women and few men present, but his efforts to discover their
features were unavailing. As here and there a lamp swayed, he
occasionally caught sight of a Junonian brunette, then of a
smooth-shaven, melancholy man. He observed that the women were not
chattering to each other. Their conversation seemed awed and grave. Not
a laugh, not a raised voice, was heard, but an irresolute, furtive
whispering, unaccompanied by gesture.
"Hmm," he said to himself. "It doesn't look as if Satan made his
faithful happy."
A choir boy, clad in red, advanced to the end of the chapel and lighted
a stand of candles. Then the altar became visible. It was an ordinary
church altar on a tabernacle above which stood an infamous, derisive
Christ. The head had been raised and the neck lengthened, and wrinkles,
painted in the cheeks, transformed the grieving face to a bestial one
twisted into a mean laugh. He was naked, and where the loincloth should
have been, there was a virile member projecting from a bush of
horsehair. In front of the tabernacle the chalice, covered with a pall,
was placed. The choir boy folded the altar cloth, wiggled his haunches,
stood tiptoe on one foot and flipped his arms as if to fly away like a
cherub, on pretext of reaching up to light the black tapers whose odour
of coal tar and pitch was now added to the pestilential smell of the
stuffy room.
Durtal recognized beneath the red robe the "fairy" who had guarded the
chapel entrance, and he understood the rôle reserved for this man, whose
sacrilegious nastiness was substituted for the purity of childhood
acceptable to the Church.
Then another choir boy, more hideous yet, exhibited himself. Hollow
chested, racked by coughs, withered, made up with white grease paint and
vivid carmine, he hobbled about humming. He approached the tripods
flanking the altar, stirred the smouldering incense pots and threw in
leaves and chunks of resin.
Durtal was beginning to feel uncomfortable when Hyacinthe rejoined him.
She excused herself for having left him by himself so long, invited him
to change his place, and conducted him to a seat far in the rear, behind
all the rows of chairs.
"This is a real chapel, isn't it?" he asked.
"Yes. This house, this church, the garden that we crossed, are the
remains of an old Ursuline convent. For a long time this chapel was used
to store hay. The house belonged to a livery-stable keeper, who sold it
to that woman," and she pointed out a stout brunette of whom Durtal
before had caught a fleeting glimpse.
"Is she married?"
"No. She is a former nun who was debauched long ago by Docre."
"Ah. And those gentlemen who seem to be hiding in the darkest places?"
"They are Satanists. There is one of them who was a professor in the
School of Medicine. In his home he has an oratorium where he prays to a
statue of Venus Astarte mounted on an altar."
"No!"
"I mean it. He is getting old, and his demoniac orisons increase tenfold
his forces, which he is using up with creatures of that sort," and with
a gesture she indicated the choir boys.
"You guarantee the truth of this story?"
"You will find it narrated at great length in a religious journal. _Les
annales de la sainteté_. And though his identity was made pretty patent
in the article, the man did not dare prosecute the editors.--What's the
matter with you?" she asked, looking at him closely.
"I'm strangling. The odour from those incense burners is unbearable."
"You will get used to it in a few seconds."
"But what do they burn that smells like that?"
"Asphalt from the street, leaves of henbane, datura, dried nightshade,
and myrrh. These are perfumes delightful to Satan, our master." She
spoke in that changed, guttural voice which had been hers at times when
in bed with him. He looked her squarely in the face. She was pale, the
lips pressed tight, the pluvious eyes blinking rapidly.
"Here he comes!" she murmured suddenly, while women in front of them
scurried about or knelt in front of the chairs.
Preceded by the two choir boys the canon entered, wearing a scarlet
bonnet from which two buffalo horns of red cloth protruded. Durtal
examined him as he marched toward the altar. He was tall, but not well
built, his bulging chest being out of proportion to the rest of his
body. His peeled forehead made one continuous line with his straight
nose. The lips and cheeks bristled with that kind of hard, clumpy beard
which old priests have who have always shaved themselves. The features
were round and insinuating, the eyes, like apple pips, close together,
phosphorescent. As a whole his face was evil and sly, but energetic, and
the hard, fixed eyes were not the furtive, shifty orbs that Durtal had
imagined.
The canon solemnly knelt before the altar, then mounted the steps and
began to say mass. Durtal saw then that he had nothing on beneath his
sacrificial habit. His black socks and his flesh bulging over the
garters, attached high up on his legs, were plainly visible. The
chasuble had the shape of an ordinary chasuble but was of the dark red
colour of dried blood, and in the middle, in a triangle around which was
an embroidered border of colchicum, savin, sorrel, and spurge, was the
figure of a black billy-goat presenting his horns.
Docre made the genuflexions, the full- or half-length inclinations
specified by the ritual. The kneeling choir boys sang the Latin
responses in a crystalline voice which trilled on the ultimate syllables
of the words.
"But it's a simple low mass," said Durtal to Mme. Chantelouve.
She shook her head. Indeed, at that moment the choir boys passed behind
the altar and one of them brought back copper chafing-dishes, the other,
censers, which they distributed to the congregation. All the women
enveloped themselves in the smoke. Some held their heads right over the
chafing-dishes and inhaled deeply, then, fainting, unlaced themselves,
heaving raucous sighs.
The sacrifice ceased. The priest descended the steps backward, knelt on
the last one, and in a sharp, tripidant voice cried:
"Master of Slanders, Dispenser of the benefits of crime, Administrator
of sumptuous sins and great vices, Satan, thee we adore, reasonable God,
just God!
"Superadmirable legate of false trances, thou receivest our beseeching
tears; thou savest the honour of families by aborting wombs impregnated
in the forgetfulness of the good orgasm; thou dost suggest to the mother
the hastening of untimely birth, and thine obstetrics spares the
still-born children the anguish of maturity, the contamination of
original sin.
"Mainstay of the despairing Poor, Cordial of the Vanquished, it is thou
who endowest them with hypocrisy, ingratitude, and stiff-neckedness,
that they may defend themselves against the children of God, the Rich.
"Suzerain of Resentment, Accountant of Humiliations, Treasurer of old
Hatreds, thou alone dost fertilize the brain of man whom injustice has
crushed; thou breathest into him the idea of meditated vengeance, sure
misdeeds; thou incitest him to murder; thou givest him the abundant joy
of accomplished reprisals and permittest him to taste the intoxicating
draught of the tears of which he is the cause.
"Hope of Virility, Anguish of the Empty Womb, thou dost not demand the
bootless offering of chaste loins, thou dost not sing the praises of
Lenten follies; thou alone receivest the carnal supplications and
petitions of poor and avaricious families. Thou determinest the mother
to sell her daughter, to give her son; thou aidest sterile and reprobate
loves; Guardian of strident Neuroses, Leaden Tower of Hysteria, bloody
Vase of Rape!
"Master, thy faithful servants, on their knees, implore thee and
supplicate thee to satisfy them when they wish the torture of all those
who love them and aid them; they supplicate thee to assure them the joy
of delectable misdeeds unknown to justice, spells whose unknown origin
baffles the reason of man; they ask, finally, glory, riches, power, of
thee, King of the Disinherited, Son who art to overthrow the inexorable
Father!"
Then Docre rose, and erect, with arms outstretched, vociferated in a
ringing voice of hate:
"And thou, thou whom, in my quality of priest, I force, whether thou
wilt or no, to descend into this host, to incarnate thyself in this
bread, Jesus, Artisan of Hoaxes, Bandit of Homage, Robber of Affection,
hear! Since the day when thou didst issue from the complaisant bowels of
a Virgin, thou hast failed all thine engagements, belied all thy
promises. Centuries have wept, awaiting thee, fugitive God, mute God!
Thou wast to redeem man and thou hast not, thou wast to appear in thy
glory, and thou sleepest. Go, lie, say to the wretch who appeals to
thee, 'Hope, be patient, suffer; the hospital of souls will receive
thee; the angels will assist thee; Heaven opens to thee.' Impostor! thou
knowest well that the angels, disgusted at thine inertness, abandon
thee! Thou wast to be the Interpreter of our plaints, the Chamberlain of
our tears; thou wast to convey them to the Father and thou hast not done
so, for this intercession would disturb thine eternal sleep of happy
satiety.
"Thou hast forgotten the poverty thou didst preach, enamoured vassal of
Banks! Thou hast seen the weak crushed beneath the press of profit; thou
hast heard the death rattle of the timid, paralyzed by famine, of women
disembowelled for a bit of bread, and thou hast caused the Chancery of
thy Simoniacs, thy commercial representatives, thy Popes, to answer by
dilatory excuses and evasive promises, sacristy Shyster, huckster God!
"Master, whose inconceivable ferocity engenders life and inflicts it on
the innocent whom thou darest damn--in the name of what original
sin?--whom thou darest punish--by the virtue of what covenants?--we
would have thee confess thine impudent cheats, thine inexpiable crimes!
We would drive deeper the nails into thy hands, press down the crown of
thorns upon thy brow, bring blood and water from the dry wounds of thy
sides.
"And that we can and will do by violating the quietude of thy body,
Profaner of ample vices, Abstractor of stupid purities, cursed Nazarene,
do-nothing King, coward God!" "Amen!" trilled the soprano voices of the
choir boys.
Durtal listened in amazement to this torrent of blasphemies and insults.
The foulness of the priest stupefied him. A silence succeeded the
litany. The chapel was foggy with the smoke of the censers. The women,
hitherto taciturn, flustered now, as, remounting the altar, the canon
turned toward them and blessed them with his left hand in a sweeping
gesture. And suddenly the choir boys tinkled the prayer bells.
It was a signal. The women fell to the carpet and writhed. One of them
seemed to be worked by a spring. She threw herself prone and waved her
legs in the air. Another, suddenly struck by a hideous strabism,
clucked, then becoming tongue-tied stood with her mouth open, the tongue
turned back, the tip cleaving to the palate. Another, inflated, livid,
her pupils dilated, lolled her head back over her shoulders, then jerked
it brusquely erect and belaboured herself, tearing her breast with her
nails. Another, sprawling on her back, undid her skirts, drew forth a
rag, enormous, meteorized; then her face twisted into a horrible
grimace, and her tongue, which she could not control, stuck out, bitten
at the edges, harrowed by red teeth, from a bloody mouth.
Suddenly Durtal rose, and now he heard and saw Docre distinctly.
Docre contemplated the Christ surmounting the tabernacle, and with arms
spread wide apart he spewed forth frightful insults, and, at the end of
his forces, muttered the billingsgate of a drunken cabman. One of the
choir boys knelt before him with his back toward the altar. A shudder
ran around the priest's spine. In a solemn but jerky voice he said,
"_Hoc est enim corpus meum_," then, instead of kneeling, after the
consecration, before the precious Body, he faced the congregation, and
appeared tumefied, haggard, dripping with sweat. He staggered between
the two choir boys, who, raising the chasuble, displayed his naked
belly. Docre made a few passes and the host sailed, tainted and soiled,
over the steps.
Durtal felt himself shudder. A whirlwind of hysteria shook the room.
While the choir boys sprinkled holy water on the pontiff's nakedness,
women rushed upon the Eucharist and, grovelling in front of the altar,
clawed from the bread humid particles and drank and ate divine ordure.
Another woman, curled up over a crucifix, emitted a rending laugh, then
cried to Docre, "Father, father!" A crone tore her hair, leapt, whirled
around and around as on a pivot and fell over beside a young girl who,
huddled to the wall, was writhing in convulsions, frothing at the mouth,
weeping, and spitting out frightful blasphemies. And Durtal, terrified,
saw through the fog the red horns of Docre, who, seated now, frothing
with rage, was chewing up sacramental wafers, taking them out of his
mouth, wiping himself with them, and distributing them to the women, who
ground them underfoot, howling, or fell over each other struggling to
get hold of them and violate them.
The place was simply a madhouse, a monstrous pandemonium of prostitutes
and maniacs. Now, while the choir boys gave themselves to the men, and
while the woman who owned the chapel, mounted the altar caught hold of
the phallus of the Christ with one hand and with the other held a
chalice between "His" naked legs, a little girl, who hitherto had not
budged, suddenly bent over forward and howled, howled like a dog.
Overcome with disgust, nearly asphyxiated, Durtal wanted to flee. He
looked for Hyacinthe. She was no longer at his side. He finally caught
sight of her close to the canon and, stepping over the writhing bodies
on the floor, he went to her. With quivering nostrils she was inhaling
the effluvia of the perfumes and of the couples.
"The sabbatic odour!" she said to him between clenched teeth, in a
strangled voice.
"Here, let's get out of this!"
She seemed to wake, hesitated a moment, then without answering she
followed him. He elbowed his way through the crowd, jostling women whose
protruding teeth were ready to bite. He pushed Mme. Chantelouve to the
door, crossed the court, traversed the vestibule, and, finding the
portress' lodge empty, he drew the cord and found himself in the street.
There he stopped and drew the fresh air deep into his lungs. Hyacinthe,
motionless, dizzy, huddled to the wall away from him.
He looked at her. "Confess that you would like to go in there again."
"No," she said with an effort. "These scenes shatter me. I am in a daze.
I must have a glass of water."
And she went up the street, leaning on him, straight to the wine shop,
which was open. It was an ignoble lair, a little room with tables and
wooden benches, a zinc counter, cheap bar fixtures, and blue-stained
wooden pitchers; in the ceiling a U-shaped gas bracket. Two
pick-and-shovel labourers were playing cards. They turned around and
laughed. The proprietor took the excessively short-stemmed pipe from his
mouth and spat into the sawdust. He seemed not at all surprised to see
this fashionably gowned woman in his dive. Durtal, who was watching him,
thought he surprised an understanding look exchanged by the proprietor
and the woman.
The proprietor lighted a candle and mumbled into Durtal's ear,
"Monsieur, you can't drink here with these people watching. I'll take
you to a room where you can be alone."
"Hmmm," said Durtal to Hyacinthe, who was penetrating the mysteries of a
spiral staircase, "A lot of fuss for a glass of water!"
But she had already entered a musty room. The paper was peeling from the
walls, which were nearly covered with pictures torn out of illustrated
weeklies and tacked up with hairpins. The floor was all in pieces. There
were a wooden bed without any curtains, a chamber pot with a piece
broken out of the side, a wash bowl and two chairs.
The man brought a decanter of gin, a large one of water, some sugar, and
glasses, then went downstairs.
Her eyes were sombre, mad. She enlaced Durtal.
"No!" he shouted, furious at having fallen into this trap. "I've had
enough of that. It's late. Your husband is waiting for you. It's time
for you to go back to him--"
She did not even hear him.
"I want you," she said, and she took him treacherously and obliged him
to desire her. She disrobed, threw her skirts on the floor, opened wide
the abominable couch, and raising her chemise in the back she rubbed
her spine up and down over the coarse grain of the sheets. A look of
swooning ecstasy was in her eyes and a smile of joy on her lips.
She seized him, and, with ghoulish fury, dragged him into obscenities of
whose existence he had never dreamed. Suddenly, when he was able to
escape, he shuddered, for he perceived that the bed was strewn with
fragments of hosts.
"Oh, you fill me with horror! Dress, and let's get out of here."
While, with a faraway look in her eyes, she was silently putting on
her clothes, he sat down on a chair. The fetidness of the room
nauseated him. Then, too--he was not absolutely convinced of
Transubstantiation--he did not believe very firmly that the Saviour
resided in that soiled bread--but--In spite of himself, the sacrilege he
had involuntarily participated in saddened him.
"Suppose it were true," he said to himself, "that the Presence were
real, as Hyacinthe and that miserable priest attest--No, decidedly, I
have had enough. I am through. The occasion is timely for me to break
with this creature whom from our very first interview I have only
tolerated, and I'm going to seize the opportunity."
Below, in the dive, he had to face the knowing smiles of the labourers.
He paid, and without waiting for his change, he fled. They reached the
rue de Vaugirard and he hailed a cab.
As they were whirled along they sat lost in their thoughts, not looking
at each other.
"Soon?" asked Mme. Chantelouve, in an almost timid tone when he left her
at her door.
"No," he answered. "We have nothing in common. You wish everything and I
wish nothing. Better break. We might drag out our relation, but it would
finally terminate in recrimination and bitterness. Oh, and then--after
what happened this evening, no! Understand me? No!"
And he gave the cabman his address and huddled himself into the furthest
corner of the fiacre.