She declared that she could stay only two minutes. She had a carriage waiting below. "Tonight," she said, "I will call for you at nine. First write me a letter in practically these terms," and she handed him a paper. He unfolded it and read this declaration:
"I certify that all that I have said and written about the Black Mass, about the priest who celebrated it, about the place where I claimed to have witnessed it, about the persons alleged to have been there, is pure invention. I affirm that I imagined all these incidents, that, in consequence, all that I have narrated is false."
"Docre's?" he asked, studying the handwriting, minute, pointed, twisted, aggressive.
"Yes, and he wants this declaration, not dated, to be made in the form of a letter from you to a person consulting you on the subject."
"Your canon distrusts me."
"Of course. You write books."
"It doesn't please me infinitely to sign that," murmured Durtal. "What if I refuse?"
"You will not go to the Black Mass."
His curiosity overcame his reluctance. He wrote and signed the letter and Mme. Chantelouve put it in her card-case.
"And in what street is the ceremony to take place?"