torches, and waited. It was quaint, and pathetic too in a way, now that
the communicants were reporting upon their unimaginative doings since
the last Sabbat. The Master listened and advised upon each case. To
Florian it appeared a rather ridiculous pother over nothing, all this
to-do about the drying up of a cow or the unfitting of a bridegroom
for his privileges or the sapping away of someone’s health. Florian
inclined to romanticism even in magic, whose proper functions he did
not consider to be utilitarian or imitative of real life. It seemed to
him mere childish petulancy thus to cast laborious spells to hasten
events which would in time have happened anyhow, through nature’s
unprompted blunderings, when the obvious end of magic should be to
bring about chances which could not possibly happen. But the Master had
an air of taking it all quite seriously.
Nor were the initiations much more diverting, however dreadfully
painful they must be to the virgin novitiates. Florian could not but
think that some more natural paraphernalia would be preferable, would
be more logical, than that horrible, cold and scaly apparatus. It was
interesting, though, to note what disposition was made of the relics
of Philippe d’Orléans: and in the giving of four infants also, by the
old ritual, Florian took a sort of personal concern, and he watched
closely, so as to see just how it was done. He was relieved to find
it a simple enough matter, hardly more difficult than the gutting of
a rabbit, once you had by heart the words of the invocation. Florian
assumed that Janicot would in due course supply the woman whose body
must serve as the altar, and Florian put the matter out of mind.
Besides, to one with his respect for ancient custom and precedent, the
fertility rites now in full course were interesting: he imagined that
to a professed and not prudish antiquary they would be of absorbing
interest, coming down, as these ceremonies did unaltered, from the
dwarf races that preceded mankind proper. Still, as a whole, the
Feast of the Wheel was rather tedious, Florian declared to his large
neighbor. Florian had just noticed that others sat on this secluded
grassbank, to both sides of him, in a twilight so vague that he could
only see these other watchers of the feast were of huge stature and had
unblinking shining eyes.
Yes, this dim person assented, these modern ways lacked fervor and
impressiveness: and matters had been infinitely better conducted,
he said, in the good old days when the Sabbat was held in blasphemy
against him.
Florian, really interested at last, asked questions. It developed
that this shadowy watcher was called Marduk. He had once been rather
widely esteemed, by he had no notion how many millions of men, as the
over-lord of heaven and all living creatures, in whose hands were
the decrees of fate, and as the bright helper and healer from whom
were hid no secrets. Apsu yonder had in those fine days conducted his
blasphemies, Marduk repeated, with considerably more splendor and
display. Yes, the times worsened, the thing was now done meagrely. Apsu
had never been really the same, said Marduk,—with a dry chuckle, like
the stirring of a dead leaf,—since Apsu lost his wife. She was called
Tiamat: and, say what you might about her—
“I quite agree with you. He was a far more dashing rogue,” put in
another half-seen shape, “in the good times when I was the eternal
source of light, the upholder of the universe, all-powerful and
all-knowing, and when nobody anywhere except that rascal Anra-Mainyu
was bold enough to talk back to Ahura-Madza. Yes, the times worsen in
every way: and even his effrontery flags, if that is any comfort.”
“Oh, for that matter,” said a third, “this Vukub-Kakix was at hand
with his impudence when the Old Ones covered with Green Feathers first
came out of the waters and tried to make men virtuous. He was then
a splendid rogue. I found him annoying, of course, but wonderfully
amusing. Now the times worsen: and the adversary of all the gods of men
no longer has such opponents as used to keep him on his mettle.”
“Each one of you,” marvelled Florian, “gives the Master a new and
harder christening! And what, monsieur,” asked Florian, of the last
speaker, “may be your name?”
The third dim creature answered, “Xpiyacoc.”
“Ah, now I understand why you should be the most generous to the Master
in the matter of cacophony! I take it that you also have retired from a
high position in the church. And I am wondering if all you veteran gods
are assembled upon half-pay”—here Florian discreetly jerked a thumb
skyward,—“to conspire?”
“No,” said a fourth,—who, like that poor Philippe, had only one
eye,—“it is true we look to see put down the gods who just now have
men’s worship. But we do not conspire. We are too feeble now, and the
years have taken away from us even anger and malevolence. It was not
so in the merry days when the little children came to me upon spear
points. Now the times worsen: and they can but make the best of very
poor times up yonder, as we do here.” He seemed to listen to the
thing in the appearance of a raven perched on his shoulder, and then
said: “Besides, wise Huginn tells me that the reign of any god is an
ephemeral matter hardly worth fretting over. I fell. They will fall.
But neither fact is very important, says wise Huginn.”
And about the Master these dim watchers preferred not to talk any
more. He had denied them, they said, when they were kings of heaven
and of man’s worship and terror: and the Master had always maintained
his cult against whatever god was for the moment supreme. He had
never been formidable, he had never shown any desire toward usurping
important powers. He had remained content to assert himself Prince of
this World, whoever held the heavens and large stars: and while he had
never meddled with the doings of any god in other planets, here upon
earth he had displayed such pertinacity that in the end most rulers
of the universe let him alone. And now their omnipotence had passed,
but the Master’s little power—somehow—endured. The old gods found it
inexplicable; but they were under no bonds to explain it; and it was
not worth bothering about: nor was anything else worth bothering about,
said they, whom time had freed of grave responsibilities.
And Florian mildly pitied their come-down in life, and their descent
into this forlorn condition, but felt himself, none the less, to be
sitting among ne’er-do-wells, and to be in not quite the company suited
to a nobleman of his rank. So it was really a relief when the Master’s
religious services were over, and when, with the coming of red dawn,
his servants departed, trooping this way and that way, but without ever
ascending far above earth as they passed like sombre birds. The Master
now stood unattended upon the asherah stone.
Florian then nodded civilly to the fallen gods, and left them. Florian
came forward and, removing his silver-laced green hat with a fine
stately sweep, he gave Janicot that ceremonious bow which Florian
reserved for persons whose worldly estate entitled them to be treated
as equals by a Duke of Puysange.
_15._
_Dubieties of the Master_
“Come,” said Janicot, yawning in the dawn of Christmas Day, “but here
is our romantic lordling of Puysange, to whom love is divine, and the
desired woman a goddess.”
Florian did not at once reply. He had for the instant forgotten his
need of the sword Flamberge. For on account of the requirements of the
various ceremonies, Janicot, except for a strip of dappled fawn-skin
across his chest, was not wearing any clothes, not even any shoes.
Florian had just noticed Janicot’s feet. But Florian was too courteous
to comment upon personal peculiarities: for this only is the secret
of all good-breeding, he reflected, not ever to wound the feelings of
anybody, in any circumstances, without premeditation. So his upsetment
was but momentary, and was not shown perceptibly, he felt sure, by the
gasp which politeness had turned into a sigh.
“But what the deuce,” said Janicot then, “is this a proper groan, is
this the appropriate countenance, for one whose love has overridden the
by-laws of time and nature and even of necromancy?”
“Ah, Monsieur Janicot,” answered Florian, “gravity everywhere goes
arm-in-arm with wisdom, and I am somewhat wiser than I was when we last
talked together. For I have been to the high place, and my desires have
been gratified.”
“That is an affair of course, since all my friends have all their
desires in this world. What cannot be with equal readiness taken for
granted is the fact that you appear on that account to be none the
happier.”
“Merriment,” replied Florian, “is a febrile passion. But content is
quiet.”
“So, then, you are content, my little duke?”
“The word ‘little,’ Monsieur Janicot, has in its ordinary uses no
uncivil connotations. Yet, when applied to a person—”
“I entreat your pardon, Monsieur the Duke, for the ill-chosen
adjective, and I hastily withdraw it.”
“Which pardon, I need hardly say, I grant with even more haste. I am
content, then, Monsieur Janicot. I have achieved my heart’s desire,
and I find it”—Florian coughed,—-“beyond anything I ever imagined. But
now, alas! the great love between my wife and me draws toward its sweet
fruition, and one must be logical. So I comprehend—with not unnatural
regret,—that my adored wife will presently be leaving me forever.”
“Ah, to be sure! Then you have already, in this brief period, passed
from the pleasures of courtship to the joys of matrimony—?”
“Monsieur, I am a Puysange. We are ardent.”
“—And she is already—?”
“Monsieur, I can but repeat my remark.”
“Eh,” replied Janicot, “you have certainly spared no zeal, you have not
slept, in upholding the repute of your race: and this punctilious and
loving adherence to the fine old forthright customs of your fathers
affects me. There remains, to be sure, our bargain. Yet I am honestly
affected, and since this parting grieves you so much, Florian, some
composition must be reached—”
“It is undeniable,” said Florian, with a reflective frown, “that my
most near acquaintances address me—”
“I accept the reproof, I withdraw the vocative noun, and again I
entreat your pardon, Monsieur the Duke.”
“I did not so much voice a reproof, Monsieur Janicot, as a sincere
lament that I have never enjoyed the privilege of your close
friendship.” And Florian too bowed. “I was about to observe, then,
that a gentleman adheres in all to all his bargains. So I can in logic
consider no alteration of our terms, though you comprehend, I trust,
how bitter I find their fulfilment.”
“Yes,” Janicot responded, “it is precisely the amount of your grief
which I begin to comprehend. Its severity has even brought on a
bronchial irritation which prevents your speaking freely: and indeed,
one might have foreseen this.”
“—So I have come to inquire how I am to get the sword Flamberge, which,
as you may remember, must figure in the ceremony of—your pardon, but
I really do appear to have contracted a quite obstinate cough in the
night air,—of giving you your honorarium, by the old ritual.”
Janicot for a moment reflected. “You have sacrificed—”
“Monsieur, pray let us be logical! I have offered you no sacrifice. I
have participated in no such inadvisable custom of heathenry. I must
remind you that this is Christmas; and that I, naturally, elect to
follow our Christian custom of exchanging appropriate gifts at this
season of the year.”
“I again apologize, I withdraw the verb. You have made me a Christmas
present, then, of the life of a person of some note and mightiness, as
your race averages. So it is your right to demand my aid. Yet there
is one at your home, in an earthen pot, who could have procured for
you the information, and very probably the sword too, without your
stirring from your fireside and adored wife. It appears to me odd that,
with so few months of happiness remaining, you should absent yourself
from the sources of your only joy.”
Florian’s hand had risen in polite protest. “Ah, but, Monsieur Janicot,
but in mere self-respect, one would not employ the power of which
you speak, unless there were some absolute need. Now, for my part,
I have always found it simple enough to get what I wanted without
needing to thank anyone for help except myself. And Flamberge too is a
prize that I prefer to win unaided, at the trivial price of a slight
token of esteem at Christmas. I prefer, you conceive,” said Florian,
as smilingly he reflected upon the incessant carefulness one had to
exercise in dealing with these fiends, “to settle the affair without
incurring humiliating and possibly pyrotechnic obligations to anybody.”
Janicot replied: “Doubtless, such independent sentiments are admirable.
And it shall be as you like—”
“Still, Monsieur Janicot,” said Florian, with just the proper amount of
heartbreak in his voice, “is it not regrettable that this cruel price
should be exacted of me?”
“Old customs must be honored, and mine are oldish. Besides, as I recall
it, you suggested the bargain, not I.”
“Yes, because I know that gifts from you are dangerous. Why, but let
us be logical! Would you have me purchase an ephemeral pleasure at
the price of my own ruin, when I could get it at the cost of somewhat
inconveniencing others?”
“You say that my gifts are dangerous. Yet, what do you really know
about me, Florian? Again I entreat your pardon, Monsieur the Duke, but,
after all, our acquaintance progresses.”
“I know nothing about you personally, Monsieur Janicot, beyond the
handsomeness of your generosity. I only know the danger of accepting a
free gift from any fiend; and you I take to be, in cosmic politics, a
leader of the party in opposition.”
Janicot looked grave for a moment. He said:
“No, I am not a fiend, Monsieur the Duke; nor, for that matter, does
your current theology afford me any niche.”
“Well, then,” asked Florian, with his customary fine frankness, “if you
are not the devil, what the devil are you?”
Janicot answered: “I am all that has been and that is to be. Never has
any man been able to imagine what I am.”
“Ah, monsieur, that sounds well, and, quite possibly, it means
something. Of that I know no more than a frog does about toothache, but
I do know they call you the adversary of all the gods of men—”
“Yes,” Janicot admitted, rather sadly, “I have been hoping, now for a
great while, that men would find some god with whom a rational person
might make terms, but that seems never to happen.”
“Monsieur, monsieur!” cried Florian, “pray let us have no scepticism—!”
“Scepticism also is a comfort denied to me. Men have that refuge always
open. But I have in my time dealt at close grips with too many gods to
have any doubt about them. No, I believe, and I shudder with distaste.”
“Come, now, Monsieur Janicot, religion and somewhere to go on Sundays
are quite necessary amenities—”
Janicot was surprised. “Why, but, Monsieur the Duke, can it be true
that you, as a person of refinement, approve of worshipping goats
and crocodiles and hawks and cats and hippopotami after the Egyptian
custom?”
“Parbleu, not in the least! I, to the contrary—”
“Oh, you admire, then, the monkeys and tigers, in whose honor the men
of India build temples?”
“Not at all. You misinterpret me—”
“Ah, I perceive. You approve, instead, of those gods of Greece and
Rome, who went about earth as bulls and cock cuckoos and as sprinklings
of doubloons and five franc pieces, when they were particularly
desirous of winning affection?”
“Now, Monsieur Janicot, you very foolishly affect to misunderstand me.
One should be logical in these grave matters. One should know, as the
whole world knows, that the Dukes of Puysange care nothing for the
silly fables of paganism, and that for five centuries we of Puysange
have been notable and loyal Christians.”
Janicot said: “For five whole centuries! Jahveh also, being so young a
god, must think that a long while; and doubtless he feels honored by
these five centuries of patronage.”
“Well, of course,” said Florian, modestly, “as one of the oldest
families hereabouts, we find that our example is apt to be followed.
But we ourselves think little of our long lineage, we have grown used
to it, we think that logically it is only the man himself who matters:
and I confess, Monsieur Janicot, that it seems almost droll to see you
impressed by our antiquity.”
“I!” said Janicot. Then he said: “For all that, I am impressed. Yes,
men are really wonderful. However, let that pass. So it is Jahveh of
whom you approve. You confess it. Why, then, I ask you, as one logical
person addressing another—”
“A pest! logic is a fine thing, but let us not put these matters
altogether upon the ground of logic,” said Florian, recoiling just
perceptibly, as a large tumble-bug climbed on the rock, and sat beside
Janicot.
“—I ask you,” Janicot continued, “as one person of good taste
addressing another—”
“It is not wholly an affair of connoisseurs. Let us talk about
something else.”
“—For you have this Jahveh’s own history of his exploits all
written down at his own dictation. I allow him candor, nor, for one
so young, does he write badly. For the rest, do these cruelties,
these double-dealings, these self-confessed divine blunders and
miscalculations, these subornings of murders and thefts and adulteries,
these punishments of the innocent, not sparing even his own family—”
Florian yawned delicately, but without removing his eyes from the
tumble-bug. “My dear Monsieur Janicot, that sort of talk is really
rather naïve: it is, if you will pardon my frankness, quite out of date
now that we have reached the eighteenth century.”
“Yes, but—”
“No, Monsieur Janicot, I can consent to hear no more of these
sophomoric blasphemies. I must tell you I have learned that in these
matters, as in all matters, it is better taste to recognize some
drastic regeneration may be necessary without doing anything about it,
and certainly without aligning ourselves with the foul anarchistic
mockers of everything in our social chaos which is making for beauty
and righteousness—”
“Why, but, Monsieur the Duke,” said Janicot, “but what—!”
“I must tell you I perceive, in honest sorrow, that with a desire for
fescennine expression you combine a vulgar atheism and an iconoclastic
desire to befoul the sacred ideas of the average man or woman,
collectively scorned as the bourgeoisie—”
“Yes, doubtless, this is excellent talking. Still, what—?”
“I must tell you also that I very gravely suspect you to be one of
those half-baked intellectuals who confuse cheap atheism, and the
defiling of other men’s altars, with deep thinking; one of those
moral and spiritual hooligans who resent all forms of order as an
encroachment upon their diminutive, unkempt and unsavory egos; one of
the kind of people who relish nasty books about sacred persons and
guffaw over the amours of the angels.”
“Yes, I concede the sonority of your periods; but what does all this
talking mean?”
“Why, monsieur,” said Florian, doubtfully, “I do not imagine
that it means anything. These are merely the customary noises of
well-thought-of persons in reply to the raising of any topic which
they prefer not to pursue. It is but an especially dignified manner of
saying that I do not care to follow the line of thought you suggest,
because logic here might lead to uncomfortable conclusions and to
deductions without honorable precedents.”
“Ah, now I understand you,” said Janicot, smiling. He looked down, and
stroked the tumble-bug, which under his touch shrank and vanished. “I
should have noticed the odor before; and as it is, I confess that, in
this frank adhesion to your folly without pretending it is anything
else, I recognize a minim of wisdom. So let us say no more about it.
Let us return to the question of that sword with which the loyal
servant of him who also came not to bring peace, but a sword, has need
to sever his family ties. Those persons just behind you were very
pretty swordsmen in their day: and I imagine that they can give you all
the necessary information as to the sword Flamberge.”
_16._
_Some Victims of Flamberge_
It was really no affair of Florian’s, how these five vaguely-hued and
quaintly appareled persons happened to be standing just behind him.
They had not been there a moment ago: but Janicot seemed partial to
these small wonder-workings, and such foibles, while in dubious taste,
did not greatly matter.
So Florian was off again with his silver-laced hat, and Florian saluted
these strangers with extreme civility. And Florian inquired of the gray
and great-thewed champion if he knew of the whereabouts of Flamberge;
and this tall man answered:
“No. It was a fine sword, and I wore it once when I had mortal life and
was very young. But I surrendered this sword to a woman, in exchange
for that which I most desired. So I got no good of Flamberge, nor did
anyone else so far as I could ever hear, for there is a curse upon this
sword.”
“A curse, indeed!” said Florian, somewhat astonished. “Why, but I
have always been told, monsieur, that the wearer of Flamberge is
unconquerable.”
“That I believe to be true. Thus the wearer of Flamberge can get all
his desires, and he usually does so: and, having them, he understands
that the sword is accursed.”
“And did you too get your desire in this world, monsieur, and perceive
the worth of it?”
“My boy, there is a decency in these matters, and an indecency. I got
my desire. And having it, I did not complain. Let that suffice.”
With that, the speaker picked up his shield, upon which was blazoned a
rampant and bridled stallion, and this tall gray squinting soldier was
there no longer.
Then came a broad and surly man, in garments of faded scarlet, and with
gems dangling from his ears, and he said: “From him, who was in his
day a Redeemer, the sword came to my mother, and from her to me, and
with it I slew my father, as was foreordained. And the sword made me
unconquerable, and I went fearing nobody, and I ruled over much land,
and I was dreaded upon the wide sea. And the sword won for me the body
of that woman whom I desired, and the sword won for me long misery and
sudden ruin.”
“A pest!” said Florian. “So you also, monsieur, were the victim of your
own triumph!”
“Not wholly,” the other answered. “For I learned to envy and to admire
that which I could not understand. That is something far better worth
learning than you, poor shallow-hearted little posturer, are ever
likely to suspect.”
And now came a third champion, who said: “From him, who was in his day
a most abominable pagan and a very gallant gentleman as well, the sword
came to me. And I cast it into the deep sea, because I meant to gain
my desire unaided by sorcery and with clean hands. And I did get my
desire.”
“And did you also live unhappily ever afterward?”
“Our marriage was as happy as most marriages. My love defied Time and
Fate. Because of my love I suffered unexampled chances and ignominies,
and I performed deeds that are still rhymed about; and in the end,
through my unswerving love, I got me a wife who was as good as most
wives. So I made no complaint.”
And Florian nodded. “I take your meaning. There was once a king and
a queen. They had three sons. And the third prince succeeded in
everything—Your faces and your lives are strange to me. But it is
plain all four of us have ventured into the high place, that dreadful
place wherein a man attains to his desires.”
Then said another person: “That comes of meddling with Flamberge. Now
my weapon was, at least upon some occasions, called Caliburn. And I
ventured into a great many places, but I was careful of my behavior in
all of them.”
“And did you never attain to your desire, monsieur?”
“Never, my lad, although I had some narrow shaves. Why, once there
was only a violet coverlet between me and destruction, but I was poet
enough to save myself.”
“Parbleu, now that is rather odd! For I first saw my wife—I mean, my
present duchess,—asleep beneath a violet coverlet.”
“Ah,” said the other, drily, “so that is where you sought a woman to
be, of all things, your wife! Then you are braver than I: but you are
certainly not a monstrous clever fellow.”
“Well, well!” said Florian, “so the refrain of this obsolescent quartet
is a jingle-jangle of shallow and cheap pessimism: and the upshot of
the matter is that Flamberge is lost somewhere in the old time, and
that I know not how to come to it.”
[Illustration:
Caption, surrounded by garland. Now FLORIAN came forward.
_See page 234_
The image.]