the open book with his fists and said, “And a friend like that—a real friend—” He smoked one of the cigarettes Barry had left him—he had taken to tobacco at once. He slept, sitting at his table, for a couple of hours. When he woke he brooded a while, relit his candle, smoked the other cigarette, then opened the Incantatoria and began to read aloud: “Haere, haere..
“Oh, thank God,” Barry said, stepping quickly out of the pentagram and grasping Lenoir’s hand. “Listen, I got back there—this room, this same room, Jehan! but old, horribly old, and empty, you weren’t there—I thought, my God, what have I done? I’d sell my soul to get back there, to him—What can I do with what I’ve learned? Who’ll believe it? How can I prove it? And who the devil could I tell it to anyhow? Who cares? I couldn’t sleep, I sat and cried for an hour—”
“Will you stay?”
“Yes. Look, I brought these—in case you did invoke me.” Sheepishly he exhibited eight packs of Gauloises, several books, and a gold watch. “It might fetch a price,” he explained. “I knew paper francs wouldn’t do much good.”
At sight of the printed books Lenoir’s eyes gleamed with curiosity, but he stood still. “My friend,” he said, “you said you’d sell your soul... you know... so would I. Yet we haven’t. How—after all—how did this happen? That we’re both men. No devils. No pacts in blood. Two men who’ve lived in this room...”
“I don’t know,” said Barry. “We’ll think that out later. Can I stay with you, Jehan?”
“Consider this your home,” Lenoir said with a gracious gesture around the room, the stacks of books, the alembics, the candle growing pale. Outside the window, grey on grey, rose up the two great towers of Notre Dame. It was the dawn of April 3rd.
After breakfast (bread crusts and cheese rinds) they went out and climbed the south tower. The cathedral looked the same as always, though cleaner than in 1961, but the view was rather a shock to Barry. He looked down upon a little town. Two small islands covered with houses; on the right bank more houses crowded inside a fortified wall; on the left bank a few streets twisting around the college; and that was all. Pigeons chortled on the sun-warmed stone between gargoyles. Lenoir, who had seen the view before, was carving the date (in Roman numerals) on a parapet. “Let’s celebrate,” he said. “Let’s go out into the country. I haven’t been out of the city for two years. Let’s go clear over there—” he pointed to a misty green hill on which a few huts and a windmill were just visible— “to Montmartre, eh? There are some good bars there, I’m told.” Their life soon settled into an easy routine. At first Barry was a little nervous in the crowded streets, but, in a spare black gown of Lenoir’s, he was not noticed as outlandish except for his height. He was probably the tallest man in fifteenth-century France. Living standards were low and lice were unavoidable, but Barry had never valued comfort much; the only thing he really missed was coffee at breakfast. When they had bought a bed and a razor—Barry had forgotten his—and introduced him to the landlord as M. Barrie, a cousin of Lenoir’s from the Auvergne, their housekeeping arrangements were complete. Barry’s watch brought a tremendous price, four gold pieces, enough to live on for a year. They sold it as a wondrous new timepiece from Illyria, and the buyer, a Court chamberlain looking for a nice present to give the king, looked at the inscription—Hamilton Bros., New Haven, 1881—and nodded sagely. Unfortunately he was shut up in one of King Louis’s cages for naughty courtiers at Tours before he had presented his gift, and the watch may still be there behind some brick in the ruins of Plessis; but this did not affect the two scholars. Mornings they wandered about sightseeing the Bastille and the churches, or visiting various minor poets
Odd Arne Westad, J. M. Roberts