"Yes, and it is to difficulties of this sort that we must evidently attribute the bloodless celebration of the Black Mass. But I am thinking just now of the women you described, the ones that put their heads over the chafing-dishes to drink in the smoke of the burning resin. They employ the procedure of the Aissaouas, who hold their heads over the braseros whenever the catalepsy necessary to their orgies is slow in coming. As for the other phenomena you cite, they are known in the hospitals, and except as symptoms of the demoniac effluence they teach us nothing new. Now another thing. Not a word of this to Carhaix, because he would be quite capable of closing his door in your face if he knew you had been present at an office in honour of Satan."
They went downstairs from Durtal's apartment and walked along toward the tower of Saint Sulpice.
"I didn't bring anything to eat, because you said you would look after that," said Durtal, "but this morning I sent Mme. Carhaix—in lieu of desserts and wine—some real Dutch gingerbread, and a couple of rather surprising liqueurs, an elixir of life which we shall take, by way of appetizer, before the repast, and a flask of crême de céléri. I have discovered an honest distiller."
"Impossible!"
"You shall see. This elixir of life is manufactured from Socotra aloes, little cardamom, saffron, myrrh, and a heap of other aromatics. It's inhumanly bitter, but it's exquisite."
"I am anxious to taste it. The least we can do is fête Gévingey a little on his deliverance."
"Have you seen him?"
"Yes. He's looking fine. We'll make him tell us about his cure."
"I keep wondering what he lives on."
"On what his astrological skill brings him."