The Greatest Novels of Charles Reade. Charles Reade Reade

Oho! it is not you then. Come out, Belial. Come out, Tatzi. Come out, Eza. No; he trembles not. Come out, Azymoth. Come out, Feriander. Come out, Foletho. Come out, Astyma. Come out, Nebul. Aha! what, have I found ye? 'tis thou, thou reptile; at thine old tricks. Let us pray!

      “Oh, Lord, we pray thee to drive the foul fiend Nebul out of this thy creature: out of his hair, and his eyes, out of his nose, out of his mouth, out of his ears, out of his gums, out of his teeth, out of his shoulders, out of his arms, legs, loins, stomach, bowels, thighs, knees, calves, feet, ankles, finger-nails, toe-nails, and soul. Amen.”

      The priest then rose from his knees, and turning to the company, said, with quiet geniality, “Gentles, we have here as obstinate a divell as you may see in a summer day.” Then, facing the patient, he spoke to him with great rigour, sometimes addressing 'the man and sometimes the fiend, and they answered him in turn through the same mouth, now saying that they hated those holy names the priest kept uttering, and now complaining they did feel so bad in their inside.

      It was the priest who first confounded the victim and the culprit in idea, by pitching into the former, cuffing him soundly, kicking him, and spitting repeatedly in his face. Then he took a candle and lighted it, and turned it down, and burned it till it burned his fingers; when he dropped it double quick. Then took the custodial; and showed the patient the Corpus Domini within. Then burned another candle as before, but more cautiously: then spoke civilly to the demoniac in his human character, dismissed him, and received the compliments of the company.

      “Good father,” said Gerard, “how you have their names by heart. Our northern priests have no such exquisite knowledge of the hellish squadrons.”

      “Ay, young man, here we know all their names, and eke their ways, the reptiles. This Nebul is a bitter hard one to hunt out.”

      He then told the company in the most affable way several of his experiences; concluding with his feat of yesterday, when he drove a great hulking fiend out of a woman by her mouth, leaving behind him certain nails, and pins, and a tuft of his own hair, and cried out in a voice of anguish, “'Tis not thou that conquers me. See that stone on the window sill. Know that the angel Gabriel coming down to earth once lighted on that stone: 'tis that has done my business.”

      The friar moaned. “And you believed him?”

      “Certes! who but an infidel has discredited a revelation so precise.”

      “What, believe the father of lies? That is pushing credulity beyond the age.”

      “Oh, a liar does not always lie.”

      “Ay doth he whenever he tells an improbable story to begin, and shows you a holy relic; arms you against the Satanic host. Fiends (if any) be not so simple. Shouldst have answered him out of antiquity—

      'Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes.'

      Some blackguard chopped his wife's head off on that stone, young man; you take my word for it.” And the friar hurried Gerard away.

      “Alack, father, I fear you abashed the good priest.”

      “Ay, by Pollux,” said the friar, with a chuckle; “I blistered him with a single touch of 'Socratic interrogation.' What modern can parry the weapons of antiquity.”

      One afternoon, when Gerard had finished his day's work, a fine lackey came and demanded his attendance at the Palace Cesarini. He went, and was ushered into a noble apartment; there was a girl seated in it, working on a tapestry. She rose and left the room, and said she would let her mistress know.

      A good hour did Gerard cool his heels in that great room, and at last he began to fret. “These nobles think nothing of a poor fellow's time.” However, just as he was making up his mind to slip out, and go about his business, the door opened, and a superb beauty entered the room, followed by two maids. It was the young princess of the house of Cesarini. She came in talking rather loudly and haughtily to her dependents, but at sight of Gerard lowered her voice to a very feminine tone, and said, “Are you the writer, messer?”

      “I am, Signora.

      “'Tis well.”

      She then seated herself; Gerard and her maids remained standing.

      “What is your name, good youth?”

      “Gerard, signora.”

      “Gerard? body of Bacchus! is that the name of a human creature?”

      “It is a Dutch name, signora. I was born at Tergou, in Holland.”

      “A harsh name, girls, for so well-favoured a youth; what say you?”

      The maids assented warmly.

      “What did I send for him for?” inquired the lady, with lofty languor. “Ah, I remember. Be seated, Ser Gerardo, and write me a letter to Ercole Orsini, my lover; at least he says so.”

      Gerard seated himself, took out paper and ink, and looked up to the princess for instructions.

      She, seated on a much higher chair, almost a throne, looked down at him with eyes equally inquiring.

      “Well, Gerardo.”

      “I am ready, your excellence.”

      “Write, then.”

      “I but await the words.”

      “And who, think you, is to provide them?”

      “Who but your grace, whose letter it is to be?”

      “Gramercy! what, you writers, find you not the words? What avails your art without the words? I doubt you are an impostor, Gerardo.”

      “Nay, Signora, I am none. I might make shift to put your highness's speech into grammar, as well as writing. But I cannot interpret your silence. Therefore speak what is in your heart, and I will empaper it before your eyes.”

      “But there is nothing in my heart. And sometimes I think I have got no heart.”

      “What is in your mind, then?”

      “But there is nothing in my mind; nor my head neither.”

      “Then why write at all?”

      “Why, indeed? That is the first word of sense either you or I have spoken, Gerardo. Pestilence seize him! why writeth he not first? then I could say nay to this, and ay to that, withouten headache. Also is it a lady's part to say the first word?”

      “No, signora: the last.”

      “It is well spoken, Gerardo. Ha! ha! Shalt have a gold piece for thy wit. Give me my purse!” And she paid him for the article on the nail a la moyen age. Money never yet chilled zeal. Gerard, after getting a gold piece so cheap, felt bound to pull her out of her difficulty, if the wit of man might achieve it. “Signorina,” said he, “these things are only hard because folk attempt too much, are artificial and labour phrases. Do but figure to yourself the signor you love—”

      “I love him not.”

      “Well, then, the signor you love not-seated at this table, and dict to me just what you would say to him.”

      “Well, if he sat there, I should say, 'Go away.'”

      Gerard, who was flourishing his pen by way of preparation, laid it down with a groan.

      “And when he was gone,” said Floretta, “your highness would say, 'Come back.'”

      “Like enough, wench. Now silence, all, and let me think. He pestered me to write, and I promised; so mine honour is engaged. What lie shall I tell the Gerardo to tell the fool?” and she turned her head away from them and fell into deep thought, with her noble chin resting on her white hand, half clenched.

      She was so lovely and statuesque, and looked so inspired with thoughts celestial, as she sat thus, impregnating herself with mendacity, that Gerard forgot all, except art, and proceeded eagerly to transfer that exquisite profile to paper.

      He had very nearly finished