“I shouldn’t wonder if they were right,” she said, incredibly. “I’ve often doubted whether I’ve a soul myself. And I’m sure Inez hasn’t.”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“At all events, the poets thought you were not as pretty without one. We disagreed with the Church. We always have. So we took you in hand. Your soul was born, my dear Joan, in Provence, about the year 1100.”
She began to be a little interested, but looked at her tiny watch—grey platinum with a frosty twinkle of diamonds.
“Go on. I’ve ten minutes more.”
“Well—we were sorry for you. We were the Troubadours of Provence, and we found you kicked into the mud by the Church, flung out into the world to earn your bread in various disreputable ways—by marriage, and otherwise. You simply didn’t exist. We found your beautiful dead body in the snow and mud. And we picked you up and warmed you and set you on a throne all gold and jewels. Virtually, you never breathed until we wrote poems about you.”
“Jewels! We have always liked jewels,” she sighed.
“We gave you a wonderful crown first, all white and shining. We made you Queen of Heaven, and then even the Church had to eat humble pie and worship you, for you were Mary. We did that—we only. But that wasn’t enough. You opened your eyes, and grew proud and spoiled, and heaven was by no means enough. You wanted more. You would be Queen of Earth, too. And we did it! We gave you a crown of red jewels,—red like heart’s blood,—and we put a sceptre in your hand, and we fell down and worshipped you. And you were Venus. And you have been Queen of Europe and the New World ever since.”
“Of Europe only? Not of Asia? Why not?”
“Oh, they are much too old and wise in Asia. They are much wiser than we. Wiser than the Church. Wiser than the poets—than any of us.”