"Oh, Madame," protested Des Hermies.

They burst out laughing and Carhaix cut up the meat, while his wife
poured the cider and Durtal uncorked the bottle of anchovies.

"I am afraid it's cooked too much," said the woman, who was a great deal
more interested in the beef than in other-world adventures, and she
added the famous maxim of housekeepers, "When the broth is good the beef
won't cut."

The men protested that it wasn't stringy a bit, it was cooked just
right.

"Have an anchovy and a little butter with your meat, Monsieur Durtal."

"Wife, let's have some of the red cabbage that you preserved," said
Carhaix, whose pale face was lighted up while his great canine eyes were
becoming suspiciously moist. Visibly he was jubilant. He was at table
with friends, in his tower, safe from the cold. "But, empty your
glasses. You are not drinking," he said, holding up the cider pot.

"Let's see, Des Hermies, you were claiming yesterday that Satanism has
pursued an uninterrupted course since the Middle Ages," said Durtal,
wishing to get back to the subject which haunted him.

"Yes, and the documents are irrefutable. I'll put you into a position to
prove them whenever you wish.

"At the end of the fifteenth century, that is to say at the time of
Gilles de Rais--to go no further back--Satanism had assumed the