The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,150

dropped him.”

“And . . . and what happened to him?” asked Johann with a lump in his throat.

“Threatened with torture, Gilles de Rais confessed to his crimes. He was hanged at Nantes, but he lives on in myths and tales. Till this day he is considered the personification of evil, the devil on earth, in some parts of France. But he was just an ordinary man, nothing more. Do you understand?” Conrad Celtis leaned forward. “He was wicked and evil, but he was no demon and certainly not Satan—only the people turned him into that.” He breathed out audibly, as if a heavy burden fell away from him. “I told you this story because I don’t want you to chase a ghost, young Faustus. No matter what you’ve read about Gilles de Rais, he is dead, and his bones have long rotted away. He was a person, no more and no less. We men, we don’t need the devil, because we are the devil.” Celtis slowly shook his head. “I’m rather alone with this opinion, I know. The church can never hear those words. I hope you won’t betray me,” he added.

“If there is a God, then there must also be a devil,” said Johann. “Good can only exist if there is evil, too. The day only bears its name because it differs from the night.”

“Yes, that’s what the Manichaeans used to teach—they were a sect from the early days of Christianity that has long since perished. Who knows, maybe they were right.” Celtis shrugged. “But even if the devil does exist, I’m sure it’s not in the shape of a spendthrift French marshal. Still, I admit that the common people need images in order to understand the abstract concepts of good and evil. In this sense—”

“How old would Gilles de Rais be now?” asked Johann abruptly.

“I told you, he is dead. Hanged on the market square of Nantes.”

“But if he hadn’t been hanged—how old would he be now?” persisted Johann.

Celtis gave another shrug. “I’m guessing around ninety. The war between England and France has been over for a while now.” He rose ponderously. “Now let us conclude our conversation for tonight. I’d still like to compose a few lines in Greek. Remember, I only told you all this so you can stop searching for answers that don’t exist. Understand? Don’t waste the intelligence and ambition you clearly possess on the unimportant. Focus on what’s essential.”

Johann nodded slowly. “I . . . I think I understand. Thank you.”

“Very well. Oh, and . . .” Celtis stopped, turned around, and started rummaging in the chest behind him. “Jodocus asked me to keep an eye out for a mirror for you. I know a glazier here at the castle, and he had this.” He held up a piece of mirror about the size of his palm, showing multiple reflections of the flames. “It’s just a shard, but at least it’s a mirror. Made by the hands of men, the result of intelligence and untiring aspiration—something tangible, not a flight of fancy.” Celtis placed the mirror in Johann’s hand. “Promise me you’ll forget Gilles de Rais for this, all right?”

“I . . . I promise.” Johann gratefully accepted the piece of glass. He looked at it and saw a contorted reflection of his face, as if it had been broken into pieces and put back together. He tried to smile, but the result looked strangely twisted.

Almost as if it didn’t belong to him, but to Tonio the magician.

Or to a man named Gilles de Rais.

When Johann had left, Conrad Celtis remained sitting by the fire, staring into the flames. That accursed cold! He just couldn’t get it out of his bones, not even in the middle of summer. It had lodged itself in his core and was eating him up from the inside.

In the same way as hatred and malice can eat a man up until nothing but an empty shell remains, he thought.

Shivering, Celtis rubbed his wrinkled, gouty hands together. He hadn’t told the promising young student everything about Gilles de Rais. Some details were so gruesome, so horrendous, that the thought alone could make a man feel sick. It was astonishing—for example—how many different uses there were for the skins of children. Or for their eyes.

Other details sounded too far-fetched. They haunted the tales of the simple people like a poisonous mist that never quite lifted. What was reality? What was merely an old wives’ tale? Certain things were so outrageous