Animal Wrongs

PART I

Monsieur Rat in the Dock

We often think someone is a man, and he is only a ghost, a dead man on vacation.

—Hugo Ball—

Flight out of Time

MONDAY MAY 1ST, YEAR OF GRACE 1508—CHASSENÉE AWAKES AT HIS COUNTRY ESTATE OUTSIDE THE CITY OF AUTUN AND ANNOUNCES TO MADAME CHASSENÉE THAT HE HAS BEEN NAMED DEFENSE ATTORNEY FOR SOME RATS

I, BARTHÉLEMY DE CHASSENÉE, BORN IN the year of our Lord 1480 at Issy-l’Evêque in Burgundy, attempted to roll from my back onto my stomach in sleep, but the intended angle of one hundred-eighty degrees stopped abruptly at ninety. The reason was simple physics, the momentum of my turning proving inadequate to overcome the elevation of my paunch. Beside me Madame Chassenée groaned and exhaled loudly. I opened my eyes uneasily, hoping the cloud of her foul breath that had coalesced overhead in the night had not drifted menacingly lower. Birdsong filtered through the closed windows while sunbeams plastered quivering scalene triangles against the ceiling. Good morning, Madame, I said.

Her eyelids fluttered, and she succumbed suddenly to a coughing fit, spewing gobs of yellowish phlegm onto the coverlet. When the spasms at last subsided she said, And to you, Monsieur. She wiped her nose and mouth on the sleeve of her dressing gown, descended laboriously from the bed, and disappeared into the hall where I heard her pissing a loud stream into the chamber pot. At the top of the stairs she shouted for our maid. Échive! Where are you, stupid woman? Bring our tea at once, and then empty the pot! Fitting, I thought, that our servant’s name is derived from eschiver, meaning to evade or avoid. But then, who could blame her?

After Madame had settled back into bed I remarked that today was May 1st and suggested we open the windows and let fresh air and sunshine flush our stale room. It was, I pointed out, a beautiful morning. Perhaps we ought to be grateful for our good fortune and enjoy it.

Her face soured. "Not on your life. And risk a cold gust? What if an insect or a bird should enter? Perhaps the Black Death is peering at us through the glass as we speak, eager to ransack our bodies and send our souls winging toward Heaven. Well, mine at least. You would do well to study the Holy Writ and put aside your stupid law books. First Corinthians, chapter fifteen verse fifty-two: for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed. She looked at me in a superior way, as if having said something profound. Anyway, here comes Échive with the tea, which I intend to take exactly where I am."

Échive set the tray on the dressing table, poured two cups, and handed them to us. We sipped in silence, separately thinking murderous thoughts.

Madame Chassenée and I had adopted a mutual loathing almost from our wedding day, and as time passed the relationship abnegated into splenetic bickering and unremitting disgust. To my relief and her feigned disappointment, our rare and unenthusiastic copulations never had produced a child, adding further to what has evolved into a persistent malaise: now one could accuse the other with impunity of being a vessel of defective seed or ova. Our predicament will endure until one of us dies. Like the fairy tale, each dawn signals the start of a joust between two inept, opposing knights, neither able to unseat the other. We battle until bedtime when a truce is called that lasts only while we sleep. At sunrise the skirmish begins again.

I have some news, I said.

Tell me your news, and I’ll do my best to stay awake. Before you start, I have a suggestion.

By all means tell me your suggestion, I said venomously.

She looked at me as if conducting an inspection. I suggest, Monsieur, that you wear a hat at all times when out and about, considering your head has become totally bald. Sunken as it is between your narrow shoulders it looks like an egg in an egg cup with the small end pointed up.

And you, Madame, might as well put away your prosthesis and gum it. Having turned quite witchly, why not advertise as much? I was referring to the dentures carved from cow bone that she placed on her bedside stand at night and had cost me one hundred sous to have made by a master carver. She always kept them nearby when they weren’t in her mouth so upon hearing God’s angel blow his horn on Judgment Day she would not waste time looking for them and delaying her ascent into Heaven. How quickly the toothsome wenches become toothless witches. But Madame has no excuse to complain about my appearance now, I who have been ungodly ugly from the moment of birth.

So, the day’s joust had commenced as usual with jabs of the lance intended to draw blood. But about my news, I said. I’ve been summoned by the bishop of Autun to serve as attorney for the defense in an upcoming ecclesiastical tribunal. I accepted his offer and must pack at once. I’ll be staying at the only decent inn, Le Coq et la Pie.

Ah, yes, the one where the serving girls double as whores. And such a fitting name, The Cock and the Foot. What could be more appropriate? How long will you be away? She said something else, but was just then inserting her dentures. The sound that emerged was moist and unintelligible.

I said in anticipation, How long will I be away at Autun? Who knows? A few days, a few weeks, but if the proceedings drag on I’ll come home intermittently. The court can summon me when events resume.

She repositioned the dentures more firmly. I shall miss you, Monsieur. I feel for you as I do our bedbugs and the rats in the stables. Who are you defending?

Rats, I said. A bunch of rats that ate last year’s barley in the fields and municipal granary.

I ask you a serious question, Monsieur, and you reply with sarcasm. So, I ask again: who are you defending, and will the client pay generously?

I’m defending a group of marauding rats. It’s the truth, Madame. The client is the municipality of Autun. The pay is meager, but the trial should gain considerable publicity from which I expect to attract future high-paying clients.

And you’re hoping to get these rats exonerated? To what purpose? I detest rats. And what will my refined lady friends think of this? At the next social gathering I shall surely remind them of my rising status. ‘Ladies, I shall say, my bald, stunted gnome of a husband—the renowned lawyer Barthélemy de Chassenée—has recently been elevated to loyal defender of the rodent tribes. He is now legendary among vermin, protector of the foul and whiskered who shit in your pantries, steal your bread, and converse in squeaks.’

You don’t have any lady friends, refined or otherwise. You’re a hag, Madame, a fishwife living far from the sea and eternally ungrateful for a life of ease you don’t deserve.

"Me? She sat up suddenly. It’s I who married beneath my station. You’re a homely gnome no one else would have. I regrettably took pity on you and find myself trapped in a loveless, barren marriage. Ah, the pool of handsome noblemen in which I could have angled using my beauty and charm as bait. A life of gaiety, of parties, dancing, fine clothes, adoring friends. She looked at me with hatred. And instead I have . . . you."

Mankind needs marvels, even unpleasant ones, to distract from the banality of our empty lives. Just an occasional small happening to inject a little spice would be adequate, but in my situation such a blessing seems improbable. You see, I awaken earlier than Madame Chassenée, typically even before daylight at the liturgical hour of lauds. The first thing I notice as the room brightens is her ruffled nightcap that rises to a crooked point at the center, like the bent beak of a defective chicken. From there my eyes are inevitably drawn downward to her nose, its extraordinary length and how it spreads like a mushroom toward the end, nostrils aimed slightly upward. Folk knowledge claims that a pregnant woman who lets a pig run between her legs while straddling rows in a field will deliver a child with the snout of a porker. How else to explain this example except through a careless act by Madame’s mother?

Four stiff black hairs clustered at the tip of Madame’s nose bend back and forth like wind-blown trees as she sleeps, dancing in synchrony with her polyphonic snoring. Their resemblance to hog bristles is striking. French girls are warned from an early age never to eat pork when eventually becoming pregnant for fear the child will be born with just such repulsive accoutrements on their snouts. I often wonder if Madame Chassenée’s mother had never been told this or simply ignored the advice.

Were our bedroom scenes not so disquieting at this early hour of prime I might refold my eyelids and perhaps experience the more banal dreams of others instead of my hopeless fantasies. Well, in truth, at least somewhat less fantastic. I might, for instance, dream about Never-Never Land and its cornucopia of endless food and sex where the citizens go around naked and fornicate randomly at all the liturgical hours. They take tumbles in pastures, in haylofts, in the furrowed fields oblivious to the hoeing and singing of happy serfs. Baby animals frolic all around, and children (to my great delight) are never seen or heard. Willing, angelic women with jiggling breasts thrum golden harps under the azure sky. They smell of spring meadows and morning dew and sunshine. Unlike Eden, which appeared when the world began, Never-Never Land is anticipated to take form when the world ends. It represents Paradise regained, a place I’ll doubtfully ever visit.

TUESDAY MAY 2ND—CHASSENÉE, FRANÇOIS, AND ALVIN DEPART THE MANOR FOR AUTUN, ARRIVING AFTER SUNSET AND CHECKING INTO THE INN CALLED LE COQ ET LA PIE

A FEW DAYS AGO A COURIER arrived with a letter from the bishop of Autun, my former place of residence until Madame Chassenée and I joined the landed gentry in the countryside. The words were clear enough, if a little strange: the bishop had appointed me as lawyer in an upcoming ecclesiastical proceeding to defend some rats accused of destroying much of last year’s barley crop, both in the local fields and at the municipal granary within the city walls. The proceeding will be conducted by the diocese and judged by a judicial vicar designated by the bishop. My adversary, if I chose to accept, would be the renowned prosecutor Humbert de Révigny. I had come up against Révigny twice before in more conventional civic trials and know him as a worthy opponent: brilliant, iconoclastic, erudite, and extraordinarily well prepared. I would need to be at the top of my game.

Business had been slow through the winter, and I wasn’t looking forward to an uptick in the writing of wills, representing clients in boundary disputes, handling land sales and title searches, and becoming involved in similar mundane tasks that fill an attorney’s hours. My experience until now had been relegated to secular law; here was a chance to participate in the canonical arena. The clients were certainly unusual, but then so was the opportunity. Plus, the impending tribunal provided a means of escaping Madame Chassenée for weeks or even months, a change no doubt beneficial to us both.

The remainder of the day was spent packing and leaving orders with the manager of my vineyards, orchards, fields, and pastures, who also oversees maintenance of the manor house, stables, and all other buildings on the property. Madame, as usual, would supervise the household staff through intimidation and disparagement.

To assist and provide an illusion of protection along the way I planned to take François and Alvin. I introduce this pair with trepidation. Both are cowardly, disloyal, and guaranteed to abandon me instantly in the face of danger. As to intelligence, neither is competent to fasten his own shoes. Hoping to bestow a semblance of responsibility (no doubt futile) I’ve pronounced them my footmen when traveling. Frankly, they serve no useful function in this context or around the manor and likely would die of hunger if locked inside a bakery. Even the rats I’m about to defend have the good sense not to starve in the granary.

The plan was to leave before sunrise, I riding the palfrey, the only decent riding horse in my stables. François and Alvin would follow behind seated double on a mule and leading a donkey loaded with baggage and other necessities. Assuming no delays we should reach the walls of Autun by evening. Along with my written acceptance of the case I had asked the courier to reserve a bed for me at the inn, a table in the tavern downstairs, and stalls and sustenance for my animals. François and Alvin would sleep in the stable and have their meals delivered by a serving girl.

Madame couldn’t be bothered to see us off. In fact, she was still snoring loudly as I dressed and tiptoed from the bedroom feeling lucky not to have awakened her. It was barely light. Downstairs, Échive emerged yawning from the servants’ quarters to serve me a breakfast of tea and yesterday’s baguettes with butter and jam.

My footmen were waiting outside. François wears a fixed smirk at all times. He has stuffed the shoulders and upper arms of his tunic with rags, thinking I don’t notice. In this way he hopes to lessen my whip’s sting. He also knows I have yet to strike him across his smirk or anyplace else, no matter how tempted, and remains confident in believing I never shall. We both hope he’s right, but on this morning I came close to breaking our unspoken contract. Would His Lordship like the stirrups raised? Another way of mocking me. François has purposely lowered the stirrups while saddling the horse so he could make fun of my height, or rather the lack of it. In truth, I’m barely taller than a carnival midget. He boosts me into the saddle, then jumps backward anticipating a deserved kick in the head, but with my short legs I miss by a wide margin. François’ smirk never morphs into a laugh, although his eyes crinkled this time when he looked up at me.

Alvin, his backward teenage son and assistant, watches without interest, having no understanding of human interactions regardless of how outrageous. He spins clockwise in circles, head tilted and arms spread wide imitating a bird in flight. Je suis un oiseau! he shouts repeatedly to the stars now blinded by the rising sun, or maybe to butterflies or imaginary creatures only he can see. Regar de moi voler! Regar de moi voler!

Our modest cavalcade departed in the still air just before daybreak, riding across a land drenched in morning mist obscuring lurking demons and goblins. We rode carefully, eyes darting, expecting one of Satan’s minions to leap into our path at any moment. The way forward followed a series of familiar livestock trails through pastures where cows and sheep were already grazing despite the early hour. They raised their heads in momentary interest, chewing dully, any of them potentially a demon in disguise.

Fear consumes our waking hours and most of our dreams. We fear the guarantee of Purgatory and the possibility of Hell afterward, but also the demons, goblins, imps, giants, dwarfs, ghosts, and elves that haunt our earthly existence. Griffins and other winged fiends patrol the skies; forest spirits, hobgoblins, and trolls populate the woods and fields; water-sprites the streams and rivers. A cockatrice or dragon could appear suddenly; miniature dragons and fierce salamanders might lurk in the low flames of the hearth fire. All around are witches, werewolves, and vampires masquerading as ordinary human beings. We distrust everyone and everything. The family cow could momentarily go mad, trample someone, and abruptly return to being just a cow as if nothing had happened. A neighbor or even someone of your own flesh was possibly a demon in disguise or infested by a demon. There was no telling, no way of knowing whether even cream rising to the surface in a bucket of milk wasn’t actually a demon waiting to enter whoever drank it. And always in the background God and Satan monitored every move, judging dispassionately, knowing our fates from cradle to grave and leaving us to fumble and quake in ignorance and uncertainty. We distrust everything and everyone, and rightly so.

At last the sun rose, and we breathed easier. By mid-morning the paths had merged onto the road leading east, muddy now from spring rains. We rode until near the noon hour of sext, stopping in a small copse to sit a while in the shade and take a meal of bread and cold meat. After tea prepared by François over a small fire of sticks we mounted and continued the trek.

The house roofs of Autun, foreshortened by distance, rose obliquely behind the city walls across the rivière Arroux. They resembled a continuum of chines, indistinct and strange as if glimpsed through sleep-encrusted eyes. The sun at our backs indicated the time was past the mid-afternoon hour of nones. We would enter Autun a little past vespers, or just after sunset. I paid the merchants’ toll at Porte d’Arroux, and in the rolling twilight we passed through the western gate.

Once inside the city proper we splashed through overflowing sewage, past stinking public latrines and the decaying carcasses of animals littering the streets and alleys. Pedestrians on late-afternoon errands tiptoed around puddles seeking drier ground, the women lifting the hems of their dresses, the men slogging ahead grimly. Dripping manure wagons rumbled past, the drivers yelling and whipping their oxen and mules, drenching passersby with feculent slop and oblivious to the shouts and curses hurled their way. The streets and alleys crawled with scavenging rodents and cockroaches. The air was stulted by the hoarse croaks of vultures, rooks, and carrion crows and the relentless barking of dogs.

We continued down rue de l’Arbalète to rue des Marbres Antoine, then turned right onto the narrow and curiously named rue de la Jambe de Bois. The inn was immediately before us. Blocking the way, however, was a dead mule. Mangy dogs fought among themselves tearing at the hide and ripping out chunks of muscle and viscera. I ordered François to dismount and drive them away. He grumbled but obeyed, taking my whip to the nearest ones, beating them until they yelped and fled. He remounted the mule, and we made a detour around the carcass. Night had fallen, and the innkeeper was lighting the oil lamp by the front door of the tavern. He saw us and gestured that we follow him to the stable in back.

The innkeeper raised his lamp inside the stables and showed two stalls reserved for me: one for the horse, the other for the mule and donkey. For a few sous charged to my account François and Alvin could take up living quarters in a nearby mini-stall rented for this purpose and filled with clean hay. They had brought their own cups, blankets, and spare clothes.

The innkeeper hung the lamp on a peg and watched while my footmen unpacked the donkey and separated their belongings from mine. They carried my valises inside the inn, and we followed the innkeeper up some narrow stairs to the second floor, where he again hung the lamp on a peg and waited. Under the pitched roof were four beds, two already occupied by pairs of dozing men. I would sleep in one of the two empty ones, sharing space with a man I had not yet seen. While unpacking I took note of my belongings in case of thievery and laid everything out on a shelf.

I said, Does your establishment harbor bedbugs and fleas, monsieur?

No, he lied. I run a clean inn. In spring and again in autumn my wife washes the sheets using strong soap. She scrubs them vigorously against the washboard and afterward dries them in the wind and sun. No vermin could survive the torture to which she puts her sheets. I assure you, monsieur, if you encounter vermin in your bed then you or your bedmate has brought them.

After I unpacked we all went downstairs to the tavern. I asked the innkeeper to show my men where to find water and hay for the animals and provide them a lamp to carry out their duties. I was tired and sore from the day’s ride. I needed food and drink. I also needed a night’s sleep and hoped my bedmate snored more softly than Madame Chassenée.

As the innkeeper was leaving I instructed him on feeding my men for the duration of our stay. He was to provide them breakfast near the hour of prime, including a bowl of small beer each, hot tea, barley bread, and cheese. At the end of the day at compline they were to receive a flagon of green Spanish wine along with barley bread, beans, and meat. If beans were not available, cabbage or onions were adequate substitutes. I emphasized just one bowl each of small beer in the morning and a single flagon of wine at night, stating that I refused to allow more. François, the older one, will complain, promising to pay for extra beverages from his own pocket before we leave, but I assure you, monsieur, his pocket is empty.

The innkeeper said, You are exceedingly generous, monsieur. Your footmen will not have a cause to complain.

They will surely think of one, I said. Now, I need sustenance for myself. Is my table ready?

Indeed, monsieur.

WEDNESDAY MAY 3RD—CHASSENÉE AND RÉVIGNY TAKE SUPPER TOGETHER IN THE TAVERN; RÉVIGNY REVEALS HIS OTHERNESS

LE COQ ET LA PIE IS Autun’s only halfway reputable tavern. The merchant and noble classes are served their food and beverages in clean utensils of pewter and latten. The lower classes get by with tableware made of fired clay and wood. These are seldom washed between uses, and many a smithy or cattle driver has been given his porridge in an earthenware bowl ringed with thickening accretions of previous meals.

Suddenly, Révigny, my opponent in the impending tribunal, appeared in view. I had not seen him in several years, but he seemed to have changed little. He was thin, tall, stooped, and forwardleaning, nose arriving a step ahead of the toes. He was now bald except for a thin ring of hair around the lower part of his skull, giving him the tonsured appearance of a monk. He saw me and approached, grinning sardonically. He walked slower and more hesitantly than I remembered, as if suffering some obscure ambulatory debility.

Barthélemy! How well you seem! May I join you? He still had that penetrating look of someone who recognizes his superiority and makes certain everyone else does too, a useful trait for intimidating witnesses, opposing lawyers, and even susceptible judges.

Of course, Humbert. I stood, and we shook hands. His felt oddly limp and weightless, as if not connected to an earthly being. I put aside this fleeting impression as ridiculous and asked Révigny how his career had progressed since we last met.

He sat down, dismissing my inquiry with a wave. Oh, this way and that. Nothing startling to report. What are you drinking?

I said I had arrived only moments before. He turned and beckoned the innkeeper, who pretended not to notice and continued engaging in conversation with another patron. He looked up eventually, nodded at Révigny, and casually sauntered over, wiping his hands on a filthy apron. Monsieurs?

Révigny said, "We shall have wine, innkeeper, but none of that green Spanish squirrel piss or anything French with which you’ve diluted it. We want your best French vintage, nothing less. My friend and I are lawyers and might be around for weeks or months staying at your shithole of an inn, so this is your chance to profit honestly. But if you don’t respond immediately when we beckon, or if you cheat us or fail to honor our demands and instructions, I promise that we shall take you to court and end up owning this property. Then you and your ugly wife will be left begging in the streets without a sou. Am I clear?"

The words hit home. The innkeeper was clearly terrified and started to sweat. Yes, monsieur, he managed to stammer. I have a fine red Burgundy fit for a prince and will fetch you a flagon immediately. I know this vintage well. It so happened I was buying supplies in the countryside on the very day the grapes were being pressed, and I swear to you I heard a hoopoe’s call.

Révigny said, Then I hope you were very young because otherwise the wine is still green. Pray to whatever deity you worship for reassurance it rises to your praise and that the hoopoe you say you heard wasn’t a rook. Otherwise, we guarantee your corpse will be embalmed in the stuff after you die of starvation and leprosy in some nameless alley.

The innkeeper brought the flagon, poured us each a cup with shaking hands, and left it on the table. I had momentarily diverted my eyes from Révigny and was looking absently around the room, now filled with patrons and hangers-on. They comprised the usual assortment of city merchants and tradesmen, traveling merchants, whores doubling as serving girls, a stray dog . . . A mime was going from table to table offering to perform for disinterested and drunken clientele. A ragged beggar huddled in a far corner hoping for table scraps was being beaten by the innkeeper’s sturdy wife wielding a heavy stirring spoon.

When I looked back at Révigny my heart nearly stopped, then suddenly began thumping asynchronously until I thought it might explode out my of chest. Without thinking I leaped from the chair, knocking it backward and spilling the cup of wine at hand. My erratic behavior and the subsequent disturbance seemed to go unnoticed in the raucous atmosphere of the tavern. When I dared look at Révigny again a chill like the cold hand of a corpse wrapped its fingers around my spine, and my flesh crawled with the goosepimpled sensation of being tormented by a ferocious winter wind.

The being before me wasn’t the Révigny I knew but a demon, a nearly skeletal entity encased in a transparent, wonderfully elastic membrane that mimicked his movements, contracting when he retracted an appendage, stretching to accommodate its expansion as if in anticipation, always keeping a constant minimum distance of separation from the body part in motion. When he pointed at the innkeeper to refill our cups the material stretched to accommodate his finger completely to the end of the fingernail without touching it. He wore this device like an outer skin, a plasma of some kind unknown to modern science. Filling the space separating this material from himself swirled a fulvous smoke that intermittently hid or revealed the features of the being inside. It tracked his movements after a slight delay, as water takes a fleeting instant to refill the vacancy left by a swimmer’s hand pushing it aside. The being itself was bright green, as were his clothes.

To be specific, everything about him was green except the smoke enveloping him, and his eyes, which had no pupils but were similar to the depthless eyes of some fishes from the abyss. In their resting state, his were iridescent green. They glowed with the phosphorescence of summer fireflies only more intensely. As the days passed and I spent more time in his presence I noticed how they brightened and changed color depending on his moods, the intensity correlating with Révigny’s level of excitement: anger, boredom, disinterest, and so forth. When he was stimulated the phosphorescent green morphed sequentially into amber then to bright, sulfurous yellow. As his mood heightened further his eyes turned orange, sometimes exploding instantaneously into the blinding red of fiery coals. They appeared to have a physiological life separate from the rest of him because at all times they pulsed, slowly if he was calm but quickening as his moods heightened. This activity, however, was asynchronous with his breathing, the phenomena being driven by separate internal engines.

That first encounter astonished me. Great God! I managed to gasp, unsure whether to stay or depart the scene screaming and never return to Autun. What the hell! Is that you, Humbert?

Aha! Two statements and a question, the first statement false, the second requiring explanation. First, God is not great; second, I’m indeed from Hell, but the nuances and ramifications of this will clarify in the coming days. As to your question, the answer is yes, it’s the same old Humbert. Well, not quite my old self. Death has a way of changing people. No doubt you’ve been told how Hell is populated with liars, and some of that tendency toward prevarication seems to have rubbed off on me. Then again, I’m a lawyer. Must be the company I kept while kicking around up here on Earth, your esteemed lordship included.

At this little joke he grinned like a death’s head. Meanwhile, don’t alarm the other patrons, who still count themselves among the living, if in name only. Pick up the chair, sit down, and let’s calmly sip this wine, which actually isn’t too bad. Maybe we’ll allow the innkeeper to retain his business. Anyway, what could be more boring than owning an inn?

I did as instructed, but my hands were quaking, and I felt slightly ill. In looking around I failed to notice anyone watching us. Just then a serving girl set down two bowls and a platter of coarse barley bread, the look of which did nothing to help my queasy stomach. In the bowls some chopped vegetables and a few lumps of greasy meat floated in a barely warm broth. She then walked away, apparently not having seen anything unusual, like possibly a bony green demon and a bald paunchy gnome sitting down to supper.

From across the table Révigny gave off a faint acrid odor I couldn’t identify immediately. Not a foul rutting smell that supposedly trails Satan, nor an odor of putrefaction, either of which, I suppose, might emanate from a demon, but something inorganic and yet combustible. Suddenly, it became clear, or perhaps the correct word is opaque. I’d noticed that Révigny’s whole body was immersed in a fulvous cloud, and when he or any of his body parts turned suddenly the cloud was set in motion and various parts of himself disappeared momentarily until he stopped moving. Then the cloud ceased swirling and settled around him. The smoke inside that strange, fluid cocoon emitted a faint odor of sulfur. I had been smelling burning brimstone! A little must escape occasionally, meaning that wonderful transparent membrane was permeable to some extent. I wondered if only I could detect the odor and learned later this was indeed the case.

I see your dreams, Barthélemy, the ones in which you appear handsome and horny, obviously not yourself. Speaking of which, do you think women might find me more attractive in horns? He leaned forward to show me the top of his head, which bore two stubby protuberances. They must have been there all along. How could they not? I wouldn’t have noticed had Révigny not bent over to my eye level. He’s very tall, at least two meters, or about Madame Chassenée’s height. They both tower over me, meaning that in most circumstances the tops of their heads are well out of my view.

Your head looks like a polled calf’s, I said. I was gaining confidence. The wine was helping, or perhaps Révigny was trying not to seem excessively weird and threatening. The wit and mannerisms of this strange being had already convinced me it really was Révigny, or at least a convincing facsimile, and that I should relax and simply accept him as my old friend and adversary. It was merely a matter of adjusting to his new appearance, or so I kept telling myself.

How about now? Instantaneously, his head sprouted two enormous curled ram’s horns.

Good God, Révigny, don’t do that! I glanced quickly around the room, which had become quiet, but everyone was looking at me, not at him. It must be true, I thought. They see him as an ordinary human being. I looked at Révigny again, and his head had returned to normal, if a pea-green head bearing two nascent horns could be called that.

Better tone it down, my friend. People are staring at you. To them I’m a harmless old man, merely your farouche dinner companion. He gave a little chuckle that resounded from inside his cocoon like a badly cast church bell. Isn’t it marvelous, Barthélemy? Only you can see me in this guise. To other poor souls I appear perfectly human, maybe even pitiable, a lonely geriatric shuffling toward the grave. Little do they know that among them walks a Devil’s advocate, Satan’s personal servant and number one admirer!

Why me? I said morosely, picking up the flagon and refilling our cups. "Why choose to appear to me? Have I ever done you any wrongs?"

Of course not. You’ve always treated me civilly and with respect. But don’t consider this as punishment. Think of it as a chance for enlightenment, to experience the mysterious ‘Other’ firsthand instead of imbibing drivel spouted by bishops and curates. Believe me when I say they’re clueless. What a tremendous opportunity I’m offering you!

Being barely taller than a midget has many drawbacks. For example, while sitting in a chair your feet never touch the floor. The undersides of your knees are squeezed against the leading edge of the seat, cutting off circulation to the lower legs and eventually turning the feet numb. Scooting forward doesn’t help because then you can’t lean back without becoming nearly prone. I must stand a minute, I said, and slid out of my chair.

I understand, Révigny said. Your feet have become numb.

Irritated, I muttered, Do you know everything about me?

Pretty much, but setting aside unimportant details, consider this. There are two planes of wisdom. The lower is recognizing we’re each other’s delusion. The higher is embracing this condition. Think of our situation as a little experiment during which we shall test and monitor your progress toward wisdom’s higher plane. After, of course, you’ve accepted the lower one. The upcoming tribunal should determine that. Révigny settled back and stared at me, eyes idling alternately between green and amber, a state, I was to learn, indicating thoughtfulness.

Incidentally, he said, we shall be sharing a bed for the duration of the tribunal. He quickly held up a hand, palm forward. But don’t worry. I don’t snore.

THURSDAY MAY 4TH—CHASSENÉE WALKS TO THE CATHEDRAL TO MEET THE BISHOP

I AWOKE AT THE LITURGICAL HOUR of prime to see hints of the encroaching day through the one grimy window. Révigny was absent, and the bed looked as if only I had slept in it. I remembered being drunk and the innkeeper and Révigny helping me up the narrow stairs the night before. Around me the other patrons were still sleeping. I crept down the stairs to the privy outside, then went into the tavern. Révigny was sitting in the same chair as before.

Good morning, Barthélemy! How did you sleep? In case you didn’t notice, I don’t sleep these days. There’s far too much mischief going on in the middle of the night, and I hate to miss it. So, you basically have ‘our’ bed to yourself. Stretch out as much as you like.

Thank you, I said, pouring myself some tea.

Off to meet the bishop this morning?

That’s right. Are you coming along?

No, I’ve done that already. Today I’ll just, well, do nothing except bask in eternity.

After a breakfast of tea, small beer, and bread and cheese I set off walking through the streets and avenues to the Cathédrale for my meeting, taking note of the urban life I had abandoned for the quieter countryside.

City noise can be deafening. Carts rumble past, ungreased axles screeching, wheels grinding against the stones, the drivers shouting and cursing at their animals. Tradesmen call to one another over the din. Children shriek, pigs grunt, roosters