Lionel, Zola, Flaubert, and others sat in aisle seats towards the middle.
At the strong insistence of the government, the Church had reserved two rows of seats for the writers.
Lionel's gaze calmly swept across the bizarre and grotesque scene, finally settling on the figure bound to a specially designed wooden chair before the altar—Édouard-Benoît de Villeneuve.
He wore a coarse white prison uniform, his hair disheveled, his face looking unusually pale in the candlelight, his eyes staring blankly into the void, his lips quivering silently, whether in prayer or curse, no one knew.
Professor Meinert and Freud were arranged in a clear observation spot in a side aisle.
The old professor's expression was stern, while the young student intently observed every subtle reaction from Villeneuve and the surrounding crowd.
As brass bells, handbells, and metal clappers rang out one after another, Archbishop Gilbert Guillaume Mermet de Bohan of Paris, donned in his most solemn golden chasuble, walked with heavy, slow steps to the center of the altar.
He was the host of this "grand ceremony."
Soon, Archbishop Gilbert's sonorous and rhythmic Latin prayers echoed beneath the massive dome, sacred and solemn; many devout believers in attendance even began to weep profusely.
Father Jean-Joseph Fourcade, as a papal envoy and exorcist, appeared wearing a black vestment embroidered with crosses and exorcism runes, holding a large silver crucifix.
He first walked slowly around Villeneuve, muttering incantations, his expression alternating between pity and sternness.
Each time the crucifix came near, each time a loud rebuke:
"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I command you, unclean spirit, reveal yourself and depart from this creation of God!"
It caused a wave of suppressed gasps and commotion among the crowd.
Villeneuve seemed to have entered some kind of state.
His body began to tremble violently, the intensity growing, like a leaf in a gale.
The ropes binding him cut deep into his flesh.
Inhuman, beast-like gurgles and incomprehensible roars emanated from his throat, sometimes shrill and piercing, sometimes deep like distant thunder; sweat quickly soaked his prison uniform.
Suddenly, he jerked his head up, his eyeballs rolled horribly upwards, almost showing only the whites, and facing Father Fourcade, he roared broken sentences in a twisted, hoarse voice utterly unlike his own:
"...Abyss... Fire... Pain..."
"...Covenant... I signed it! Power! Give me power!"
"...Laugh! Foolish lambs! You are all on hell's menu! Hahaha—!"
This "demonic declaration" plunged the entire assembly into immense terror and frenzy.
Some shrieked aloud, some trembled, crossing themselves, while others turned beet red with excitement, as if they had personally witnessed a clash between gods and demons.
"It's the devil! He's truly possessed by a demon!"
Gasps and exclamations rose and fell throughout the crowd.
Reporters' pencils twitched furiously, almost tearing through the pages.
Archbishop Gilbert's face showed a flicker of imperceptible satisfaction—this impostor truly was a brilliant actor.
The ritual began to enter its climax.
Father Fourcade's face was twisted and flushed with "holy" fervor.
He raised high a gem-studded, ancient-looking holy water bottle in his hand, and with all his might, in a solemn and sacred voice, he cried out:
"Cleanse with holy water! In the name of the Lord, I cast out you, filth from the abyss! In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit!"
The clear stream of water, under the gaze of countless eyes, bearing a "sacred" radiance, splashed repeatedly onto Villeneuve's upturned face, slick with sweat and contorted from his roars!
Once, twice, thrice...
"Hiss—!!!"
A scream of unimaginable agony, utterly inhuman, like fabric being ripped apart, instantly drowned out all prayers, gasps, and whispers!
There was no golden light, no dissipation of black smoke, no holy radiance indicating the devil's departure.
Instead, dense, substantial plumes of white smoke billowed from Villeneuve's face! accompanied by a chilling sizzling sound, like raw flesh dropped into boiling oil!
"Ah—!!! My eyes! My face! It's burning! Help me—!!!"
Villeneuve's screams were heart-wrenching; only the purest physical agony and immense psychological despair and terror could produce such a sound.
He thrashed and struggled wildly in the chair like a fish thrown onto land, violently shaking his head from side to side, trying to shake off the bone-corroding, heart-burning liquid.
The thick white smoke quickly diffused, carrying a pungent, acrid odor!
Front-row spectators who were close by covered their mouths and noses in horror, retreating repeatedly.
As the smoke slightly dispersed, Villeneuve's face was revealed—a sight that made everyone gasp in horror, their blood seeming to freeze instantly!
The left side of his face was still intact, but the right side, from forehead to chin, a large area of skin visibly blackened, festered, blistered, and peeled back!
As if it had just been scorched by flames!
His right eye bore the brunt of it; his eyelids were red, swollen, and corroded, the surface of his eyeball a cloudy greyish-white, clearly destroyed by the holy water!
Charred flesh mixed with an unknown oozing liquid, forming a horrific, hellish tableau!
"The devil! The devil has revealed himself! The holy water is burning his true form!"
A fanatical believer shrieked in extreme terror.
"No! It's not the devil! It's strong acid! That's not holy water!"
A reporter who understood chemistry cried out in horror, his voice distorted.
"Murder! This is murder!"
Chief Gigo of the Paris Police Department, his face pale, shouted uncontrollably.
Sergeant Claude beside him tried to lead his officers to the altar to control the situation, but the panic and chaos of the crowd acted like a wall, blocking them firmly.
Archbishop Gilbert's voice lost its composure for the first time:
"Doctor! Call a doctor quickly!"
He looked at Father Fourcade with terror, whose face was ashen white, his hand holding the empty holy water bottle trembling like a dry leaf in the wind, his eyes filled with bewilderment
—Father Fourcade had no idea what was happening!
The scene in Notre Dame was utterly out of control!
Screams, cries, shoves, overturning chairs, guards' shouts... converged into a chaotic wave that swept through the entire nave.
Amidst this extreme chaos and the pungent, acrid smell mixed with blood, Professor Meinert suddenly stood up.
Ignoring the surrounding commotion, he pushed through the crowd with his student Freud to the side of Édouard-Benoît, who was still convulsing wildly in agony and letting out inhuman screams.
His speech was remarkably rapid as he continuously made diagnoses and gave instructions:
"Acute traumatic delirium! Accompanied by severe pain and pathological hyperactivity!"
"Loss of consciousness, complete loss of behavioral control! Typical organic brain damage inducing mental breakdown!"
"Give him a morphine injection immediately! Quick! Otherwise, he will die from painful shock!"
He practically roared the commands, while Freud fumbled to retrieve medicines and needles from his portable medical kit.
Just as Professor Meinert was making his diagnosis, on the other side of the chaotic crowd, Sophia Dourova-Scherbatova stood up with extreme elegance.
All anxiety, anger, and pallor had vanished from her face, replaced by an extreme, icy calm.
She glanced from afar at the human form on the altar, writhing in pain, screaming in agony, and disfigured beyond recognition, then cast a cold glance at Professor Meinert, who was administering aid, a cruel mockery playing on her lips.
50,000 francs could not sway a principled professor from the University of Vienna, but to make some greedy priest in Notre Dame take a risk, only 5,000 francs were needed.
She didn't utter a word, didn't spare a second glance; merely adjusted the hem of her ice-blue dress slightly, then, head held high, back straight, like a queen, she walked with unhurried steps directly towards Notre Dame's massive exit.
Lionel was also stunned by this horrific turn of events, while Flaubert, Zola, and the others were utterly distraught.
This was the craziest day in Paris in ten years!
At this moment, several cameras flashed with intense white light and crackling burning sounds, capturing this moment forever.
(End of chapter)
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