Eternal Life;Cursed Gift

4

But Rene did not remain in debt, he told Philip about his father, about friends, about the house. But most often - about Genevieve.

“I really want to meet her,” Philip said once. She must be extraordinary.

- Well, let's choose the time and go home together, - Rene was delighted.

Philip nodded eagerly.

The friendship between Rene and Philip grew stronger day by day. In the classroom they sat on the same bench, during the exercises they always became a couple, and they even moved their beds in the barracks so that it was more convenient to whisper at night, which gave rise to Jacques Tillon's greasy grins. Graceful Philip aroused contempt in him, but he did not dare to say it out loud: being a nobleman, Leroy fenced beautifully.

On the Sunday after Mass, René took Philippe to visit his father. Claude joyfully greeted his son's new friend, it was noticeable that Philip fell in love with him. “It was not in vain that I dreamed of sending Rene to a military school,” thought the pleased father, “such eminent gentlemen study there.”

René was showing Philippe the gloves laid out on the table when, seeing the boys through the window, Genevieve entered the house.

She grew up and looked almost an adult girl. She could not be called beautiful, but her sensual mouth and the light of gray eyes attracted the glances of many young men to her. Some fullness did not spoil it in the least. In an ivory linen dress, Genevieve looked simply charming. She was capless, her dark curls falling loosely over her shoulders. Looking at her, Philip froze in admiration.

Rene joyfully rushed to her.

- Genevieve!

- Rene! You arrived!

- I'm so bored! He hugged the girl and turned to his friend:

- Philip, here's my Genevieve.

There was genuine pride in his voice.

Philip bowed ceremoniously. The girl bowed her head in greeting, and immediately turned to Renee. She missed him so much that she could not pay attention to anyone else.

The day passed unnoticed. The three of them walked around the city, admiring the castle of the Conciergerie and Notre Dame on the Île de la Cité, the churches of Saint-Merry and Saint-Jacques on the Rue Arsis, bought a large sweet pretzel each from a grocer on the rue Saint-Bon, a bag of meat pies from a laughing pastry woman and huge buns at the baker in Greve Square. There was no end to the talk, jokes and laughter. At the Church of the Holy Trinity, they met two bosom friends Rene -lanky Pierre Gauthier and fat Jacques Robichon, and the real fun began. The friends settled down in the wasteland behind the church and there they played kambok, hunters and hares, tag and blind man's buff. Genevieve ran along with everyone, it seemed that both she and the boys returned to early childhood again. Toward evening, tired but very pleased, they returned to the Rue Saint-Denis and dined at Claude's house. Genevieve, with tears in her eyes, saw off her friends, and they went to the barracks.

At night, lying awake, Philip realized that he had fallen in love with the bride of his best friend.

On an autumn afternoon, friends walked down the street, chatting animatedly. It had rained and the cobblestones were wet and slippery. A stout old commoner hobbled ahead, slipped on the wet cobblestones and fell. Her friends rushed to her aid and gently helped the woman to her feet. Her gray dress was soaked, and her linen cap slipped over her face. Philip picked up the fallen stick and handed it to the old woman.

- Here is your stick, madam.

“Thank you, young gentlemen,” the old woman answered in a soft voice, straightening her cap.

- You must have hurt yourself? Let us take you home.

The woman looked at them carefully and nodded. Her friends carefully took her by the arms and led her down the street.

The old woman lived in a small house on the rue Pierre Sarrazin, near the road leading to the Faubourg Saint-Germain. Walking to the door, she turned to the boys.

- Won't you come in, young gentlemen? I'll treat you to roasted chestnuts.

Friends did not want to waste time talking with the old woman, but it was embarrassing to refuse. They looked at each other, and Philip bowed politely in agreement.

Even on the street, Rene noticed that there was no sign above the door. Strangely, craftsmen lived in this area, and each house had a sign indicating the occupation of the owner. "Who is this old woman?" he thought in surprise.

Just beyond the door was a room, long and narrow. Twilight reigned here, the dim autumn light hardly penetrated through the small beige pieces of glass inserted into the window frame.

- Sit here, young gentlemen, and I'll bring the chestnuts.

Friends looked around in surprise. In the middle of the room stood a huge oak table littered with all sorts of things. What was not there - bundles of dried herbs tied into brooms, conical candles on wooden stands, grains, beans and bran in bowls. Along the walls, on shelves and in small cabinets, there were bowls and flasks filled with multi-colored liquids, fat, resin, salt, and, most surprisingly, two thick folios lay there. Books were a rarity, and the friends looked at each other in amazement - can the old woman really know how to read?

René suddenly felt uncomfortable, as if some kind of bad premonition had pricked him.

"She's a witch," he whispered.

The door at the back of the room opened, and an old woman appeared with an iron pan in her hands. Roasted chestnuts smoked on it, spreading a sharp, sweet smell around the room.

“Here is the treat, young gentlemen,” the old woman sang. - What is your name, my dears?

- Philippe de Leroy, madam.

- Rene Legrand.

- That's good, that's great. And I'm Marie Duchon.

The woman took two empty bowls from the shelf and, freeing part of the table, placed them in front of the boys. After scooping chestnuts for each with a long wooden spoon, she sat down across from them.

- Eat, eat, dear gentlemen. Oh, how beautiful and young you are!

Rene gave vent to his curiosity. With his mouth full, he asked:

- Madame Duchon, what kind of herbs and grains do you have? Why do you need them?

- Ah, this is ... I am a healer, my dears, I heal people.

She paused and added cautiously:

- And a little more witch. Do you want me to tell you?

The friends looked at each other in fear. They knew for certain that sorcerers and witches were burned on Sundays in the Place de Greve.

- Probably not, - Philip mumbled.

We won't tell anyone, don't be afraid. I'll just take a look and tell you what awaits you.

“I wonder if I will marry Genevieve?” thought Rene. He could no longer resist the temptation.

- Come on, you first, - he pushed his friend with his elbow.

Philip was also very eager to know the future. Will he become a knight? Will he serve the king?

"Okay," he nodded. - What to do?

- Nothing, do you have handkerchiefs? But I warn you, they will suffer.

The friends laughed. Well, let it be, a scarf for such an interesting thing is not a pity. Philip took a cambric triangle from his belt and handed it to the woman.

Madame Duchon lit the candles, placed one in front of her, and carefully brought Philippe's handkerchief to the fire. The fabric smoked. The old woman sprinkled a handkerchief with some white powder, the flame crackled.

“Treachery awaits you, young man,” she said, and pushed her handkerchief to the fire. Batiste caught fire. - And love, for a long time, one for life. At first, it will bring you a lot of suffering, but then it will bring happiness.

Philip blushed, it was sweet and anxious to hear these words.

- Now you, young master, - the woman turned to Rene. He handed her a rectangular linen handkerchief.

And again Madame Duchon brought it to the burning candle. The flames flickered and turned red, but the fabric remained intact. The old woman frowned and sprinkled some powder on her handkerchief, but nothing happened, the red flame continued to twitch in different directions. The woman jumped up, grabbed a vial of black liquid from the shelf, dripped it on her handkerchief, and brought it back to the fire. Sparks flew. Her eyes widened in fear, she grabbed Rene's hand and, muttering something, began to stare at his palm. Her face became more and more worried. René watched her actions in bewilderment.

At last she lifted her terrified eyes and whispered:

- Daemon! Immortal Black Demon! Lord help us!

René closed his eyes and tried to smile.

- What are you ... what are you talking about?

The old woman jumped up and screamed piercingly:

- Out! Get out of my house! Daemon! Daemon!

She stood with a face contorted with horror, earnestly crossing herself, and continuously screaming. The frightened boys rushed headlong to the door. Jumping out of the house, they ran a couple of streets and only on the banks of the Seine stopped to take a breath.

- Oh my God, what was that? Rene whispered.

“I think she’s crazy,” Philip answered, breathing heavily.

Depressed by this incident, they wandered to the barracks. As if by tacit agreement, neither of them mentioned him again.

This incident made a deep impression on Rene. Although all kinds of fortune-telling were forbidden by the church, people believed in them, and the boy was no exception. He painfully searched for an answer - what did the old woman mean by calling him an immortal black demon? Certainly not some of its negative qualities. Judging by her fright, she clearly spoke in a non-figurative sense. It turns out that he really is a demon, but he does not know about it? Could this be?

But no matter how much Rene thought about it, he could not even imagine what actually happened.