René Descartes and the Cross of Blood
Title Card: Paris, 1622
Interior: a dark attic room in 17th-century Paris, crowded with books and alchemical apparatus. We see purple twilight through the shutters. There’s a knock on the door. No answer. Another knock, louder. Still nothing.
Finally the door opens, but it’s just as dark in the hall so all we see is the silhouette of a man with a big hat, wrapped up in a black cloak shiny with rain. He calls out, “Monsieur Pfau?” Still no answer.
The man moves carefully through the dark room to the fireplace, stoops, and reaches for the basket of kindling. Closeup as his hand touches a big rolled-up sheet of paper. He starts to pull it out, then puts it aside and grabs some straw instead. He lights the straw from the coals in the fireplace, then stands up with it blazing in his hand. As he lights a candle we see his face. It’s RENÉ DESCARTES. Cue the famous theme music by Ennio Morricone, quiet and slow.
Descartes looks around, sees something. He kneels. On the floor by the messy bed there’s a body. Musical sting. A man in a pool of drying blood. Descartes touches him gently. “Pfau?” He picks up a cast-lead figure of a ram. It’s bent out of shape and one side of it is bloody. Descartes puts it down again.
He stands and looks around. There’s something draped over the back of a chair. He holds it up in front of him and we see that it’s a black hooded robe, like a monk’s habit. Descartes gazes into the empty face of the hood for a moment, then puts it down. Closeup on the bottom hem, which is streaked with white chalk dust.
He moves back to the fireplace and picks up the paper again. It’s a broadsheet on heavy paper, and he spreads it out on the desk. Descartes bends over and reads, holding the candle to one side so it won’t drip on the paper. Over his shoulder we can see what’s printed on the page, as we hear a lone violin playing an ominous new theme.
WE, the deputies of the
COLLEGE of the ROSY CROSS,
now sojourning, visible and invisible, in this town, advise all those who seek entrance into Our society to become initiated into the knowledge of the MOST HIGH, in whose cause We are at this day assembled, and We will transform them from visible beings into invisible, and they shall be transported into every foreign country to which their desire may lead them. BUT, to arrive at the knowledge of these marvels, We warn the reader that We can DIVINE HIS THOUGHTS, that if mere curiosity should prompt the wish to see Us, he will never communicate with Us, but if an earnest determination to inscribe himself on the register of Our confraternity should actuate him, We will make manifest to such an one the truth of our promises, since simple thought, joined to the determined will of the reader, will be sufficient to make Us known to him, and reveal him to Us.
Descartes studies it for a while and straightens up again. His expression is amused, then gets hard. He glances again at Pfau before taking a little book out of his doublet. “I came to return this.” He looks at it. “I don’t suppose it will do you any good now.” He hefts the book, puts it on a stack of others by the desk. “It was very instructive. I would have enjoyed discussing it with you over a pipe and a bottle of wine. Adieu, Monsieur Pfau.” He blows out the candle and goes out.
Exterior: later that night, at the Palais de Justice. It’s raining. Descartes comes out, arguing with an officer of the city watch, Captain LEBOEUF.
“Nothing was taken, so we cannot trace the killer that way,” says the Captain. “Nobody at the house saw anything. He stayed at the Sign of the Two Brothers tavern until midnight last night, and that’s the last time anyone saw him.”
“Except the man who murdered him.”
“Unless that gentleman is good enough to come confess his crime, there is no way we can find him.”
“You can’t simply ignore what has been done—Pfau is dead!”
LeBoeuf looks sympathetic. “He was a good friend of yours, Monsieur?”
“A friend?” Descartes thinks for a moment. “Not really. I met him years ago, in Prague.”
(Descartes continues in voiceover as we see sepia-tinted flashbacks of the Battle of the White Mountain and Imperial troops marching into Prague. Tragic military music.) “I was with the Duke of Bavaria’s army when the city fell. Some soldiers found his alchemical laboratory and were preparing to hang him as a wizard. I intervened.” (Sepia shot of Pfau struggling with a noose around his neck as three soldiers haul on the rope. One of them pauses and looks alarmed, and we pull back to reveal Descartes holding a pistol to the back of the soldier’s head.)
Cut back to Descartes and LeBoeuf talking in the rain. “We had several conversations about alchemical science, and he lent me a volume of Basil Valentine before the Duke’s army left Bohemia—The Triumphal Chariot of Antimony. That’s the book I was returning earlier this evening when I found him.”
“If you hardly know the man, why do you care so much about finding his killer?”
“His murder offends me. He was a wise man, an educated man. Now all his knowledge is lost to the world. And since no one else seems to care, I take it as my own duty.” Descartes raises a forefinger. “Let us apply logic, Monsieur LeBoeuf. The killer did not steal from poor Pfau, therefore he must have had some other reason for murdering him. Find the reason and you find the man.”
LeBoeuf just shrugs. “A reason to kill him? I can think of a hundred—and I’ve seen any number of murders done for no reason at all, Monsieur.”
Descartes shakes his head irritably. “All actions have a cause. What about that proclamation? Surely that suggests something?”
“Proclamation?” LeBoeuf looks Descartes straight in the face as the ominous violin theme returns. “I saw no proclamation in Pfau’s room,
Monsieur—and neither did you.”
“But I—”
“There was no proclamation, Monsieur. That is what my superiors have told me, and it would be foolish for you to claim otherwise. Understand? Monsieur Pfau was killed by some common brigand, and that is the end of the matter.”
Furious, Descartes pulls his hat down to shelter his face from the rain and splashes away into the darkness.
Exterior: later still. It’s still raining, but now there’s wind, and somewhere a clock chimes midnight. Descartes sees a tavern sign swinging in the breeze. It reads “Les Deux Frères,” and there’s a much-weathered painting of Cain clubbing Abel.
A gust blows just as Descartes goes into the tavern. All the candles flicker, and half a dozen people look at him. He coughs uncontrollably as he makes his way to a seat by the fireplace.
The tavern is a quiet, collegiate kind of place. A well-stuffed bookcase stands by one wall, and a couple of customers are playing chess. A tired-looking serving-maid, JEANNE, comes over to Descartes, and he asks for cider. Then, more loudly, he asks her “Have you heard about poor Monsieur Pfau?”
“No,” she says, not really interested. She just wants to get his cider and maybe catch some sleep.
“He’s dead,” says Descartes.
Jeanne looks up, shocked, and crosses herself. “God rest him,” she says. “What did he die of?”
“I don’t know why he died,” says Descartes.
“It’s terribly sad,” she says. “Still, my master will be pleased.” She nods her head sideways at the tavern-keeper, a thin, scholarly-looking guy dozing by the wine kegs at the back of the room.
“Pleased that he is dead?”
“Oh, no, Monsieur—I didn’t mean that. I mean he will be pleased that Monsieur Pfau paid his account in full just a couple of days ago. It’s always so hard to collect when someone dies.”
Descartes picks up the iron fireplace poker and stirs the coals. “It would have been better if he had died owing money. Then at least someone would miss him.”
Jeanne goes off to fetch his cider. Descartes closes his eyes.
“Did I understand you to say Monsieur Pfau has died?” says a voice, startling Descartes awake again. It’s CLOVIS MARIN, a beefy bald man who never seems to blink. He sits down across from Descartes.
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“He was a learned man. It is a great tragedy.” The two of them shake their heads over it, then Marin continues. “Pardon me for asking, Monsieur, but is it true you are recently returned from the wars in Germany?”
“For now,” says Descartes. He’s already starting to look bored.
“And you are said to be a gentleman of great learning yourself. Tell me: in Germany did you hear anything of the invisible Order of the Rosicrucians?”
Descartes looks sharply at him for an instant, then tries to act casual. “The fellows from that proclamation a few days ago?”
“Exactly. Have you seen it?” Marin takes out a folded copy of the proclamation we saw in Pfau’s room. The lone violin theme sounds again as he opens it. We can see the page is the same as Pfau’s, only Marin’s copy is a bit more beat-up, with holes in the corners and water stains.
“Yes,” says Descartes, still watching him closely.
“They are here, in Paris! Right at this very moment! Perhaps even here among us, unseen.”
“I should think they would have better things to do. You seem very interested in these invisible Rosicrucians, Monsieur Marin.”
“I am! I have read all the writings which discuss them—the Confession, the Alchemical Wedding of Christian Rosenkreutz, the works of the Englishman Fludd, and others. They possess the secret of the Philosopher’s Stone and the Universal Medicine. They can multiply gold and pass through walls.”
Descartes is losing interest again. He picks up the bellows from the fireplace beside him and begins puffing little jets of air at himself as he speaks. “It always seemed odd to me that an unseen order should go to so much trouble to make sure everyone has heard of them.”
“Perhaps they are seeking new members,” said Marin, and he leans close to Descartes and looks around. “It strikes me that a man of great learning, who has recently been to Germany, might know more about the Rosicrucians than he is telling.” He raises his eyebrows significantly.
“Ah, but Monsieur Marin, I cannot be a member of the invisible college of Rosicrucians,” says Descartes.
“Oh? Why is that?”
“I am not invisible,” says Descartes, and puffs at Marin with the bellows. Jeanne comes up just then with his cider. He thanks her and gives her a coin. He takes a swig. “Ah, much better. Tell me, Monsieur Marin—were you here last night?”
“Yes. I come here often. I enjoy the conversation of educated men. In fact, I have prepared a little thesis of my own, about the Great Work of alchemy, which I hope—” Marin starts to take a folded sheaf of paper out of his doublet.
“Was Pfau here? Was anyone with him? Or did he leave with anybody?”
“I didn’t notice,” says Marin. “Now as to my thesis: I undertake to demonstrate the proposition that—”
Descartes polishes off his cider. “Perhaps he went out with one of those unseen Rosicrucians!” He gets up and pulls on his damp cloak again. “Good night, Monsieur!” he says, and hurries away before Marin can get a word in.
Exterior: A dark Paris street. The rain has stopped. Descartes hurries along, splashing in puddles. He stops to cough some more, and when he finishes he cocks his head, listening. Somewhere out in the darkness there’s the sound of splashing footsteps. Descartes moves on some more, now looking about him alertly.
The other footsteps sound louder now, closer. Descartes picks up the pace. After a moment, the other steps quicken. The tempo of the background music matches their speed. Descartes ducks down an alley. As he emerges into another street we can see behind him a cloaked figure silhouetted against the other entrance to the alley. The figure pauses, then comes hurrying after Descartes. The footsteps are louder now, echoing.
Descartes rounds a corner and stops. His house is just up the street. A couple of lackeys with an ornate sedan chair stand outside the front door. Descartes collects himself and walks toward the house. We hear the approaching footsteps stop, then recede again.
The lackeys stop leaning against the sedan chair when they see Descartes approach. When he looks quizzically at them, one says “Madamoiselle is inside.”
More curious than ever, Descartes climbs the stairs to his rooms. His lackey, GASTON, meets him on the landing. “Monsieur, it is a lady. She would not give her name, but what with the rain I thought it best to put her in the study to wait.”
“Good man,” says Descartes. “Now it is late, so off you go. I will manage for myself.” He opens the door to his study.
A masked woman sits by the fireplace. She wears an expensive dress of green silk, and her mask is decorated with an embroidered crab in copper thread. Muted brass music picks up when we see her.
“Monsieur Descartes. Forgive me for calling at such a late hour. Your valet was kind enough to let me in.”
“I would have thrashed him for making a lady wait outside,” he replies. He takes off his own cloak and hangs it by the fire. The green of his doublet exactly matches her dress. “What shall I call you?” he asks her.
“Sophia de Montsegur,” she answers. “I am here to ask about my cousin, Christian Pfau. They say you found him.”
Descartes sits in a chair across from her. “I did. I was returning a book.”
“Did he—say anything?”
“He was cold and stiff—forgive me for speaking so bluntly. I have been much in the company of soldiers and mathematicians.”
She dabs at her eyes through the holes of the mask. “And do you know who killed him?”
“No, do you?”
She looks at him a moment, eyes wide behind the mask. Then she forces a polite laugh. “More of your mathematical bluntness, Monsieur?”
“I notice you do not answer my question.”
She drops her arch pose and flippant manner of speaking. “No, Monsieur Descartes. I don’t know who killed Pfau.”
“Who is not your cousin. He was a German from Wittenberg, and your accent is pure Gascon. Unless your family is unusually widespread, I think you are no more related to him than I am.”
“Forgive me, Monsieur. Most of the men I meet are fools, and I have fallen into the habit of thinking they all are equally thick-headed.”
“You flatter me. If I differ from other men it is only because I know I know nothing. Now, why are you so curious about Pfau?”
“A person of some importance—don’t ask me to name him—has taken an interest in the affair. You were the one who discovered Pfau; you may know something about it.”
“Someone smashed him over the head with a lead statue. Someone he trusted enough to welcome into his rooms late at night.” He gets up and lightly touches his fingers to her bare palm. “I don’t think it was you. These hands are accustomed to gentleness.” His fingers remain where they are. The brass music turns seductive, almost jazzy.
Her face is close to his. “You are venturing into dangerous territory, Monsieur.” Her voice is a little breathless.
“I am not afraid,” he murmurs. Their faces come closer, and her eyes close behind the mask.
Cut back to the two lackeys outside, waiting with her sedan chair. One of them has a bottle of wine, and he puts the mouth of the bottle to his lips and takes a long drink.
Interior: morning. Descartes wakes in his bed—alone. He looks around, starts to get up. A coughing fit stops him for a moment, then he gets to his feet and pulls on a shirt.
His rooms have been thoroughly searched while he slept. He goes to the door. “Gaston!”
His man appears, and his smirk dissolves when he sees the mess. “Did she take anything?”
Descartes glances around. “No. I suspect what she was looking for no longer exists. Find some clothing for me; I’m going out.”
Exterior: the streets of Paris. It’s a nice day, so Descartes doesn’t bother with his cloak. He looks very stylish in green and white. He walks out of the house and takes a deep breath. No coughing for now.
Cut to a narrow street lined with printers’ shops. Burly men are toting bales of paper, others carry stacks of printed handbills or pamphlets. The cobblestones underfoot are almost hidden by discarded pages.
Descartes works his way down the street, looking at the broadsheets and pamphlets on sale in the shops.
A PRINTER in an ink-stained smock hails him. “Monsieur! I have something for you! The ink is still drying but I’m sure you will want one. The latest from Italy—a new work by Signor Galilei on comets. He refutes the notion that they move beyond the Moon and demonstrates that they are simply flaming clouds. Let me fetch you one! They are nearly dry.”
“Put one aside and I’ll send my man for it later. Right now I am seeking something in particular.”
“Oh? A mathematical work?”
“No. A seventy-two-point Garamond upper-case R with a gap at the bottom of the loop between the legs.”
The printer looks indignant. “You won’t find anything of that sort in my shop! All new type, straight from the foundry this past November.”
“Then I must look elsewhere. Good luck with the Galilei pamphlet.”
Montage of Descartes working his way down the street, peering at printed sheets, looking at type set on a press, picking up individual letters from a typesetter’s case. The music is an uptempo flute version of the Descartes theme.
At last, at the shop of JACQUES LEONARD, he finds what he is looking for. He holds up the letter to catch the sunlight and we clearly see the missing bit at the bottom of the R.
Leonard, a jolly-looking printer, is puzzled but willing to humor Descartes. “You have found it, Monsieur?”
“Yes. Four or five days ago a broadsheet was printed on your press, announcing the presence of the Rosicrucians in Paris. Who hired you to print it?”
Leonard looks honestly puzzled. “Five days ago? I printed no broadsheet then, Monsieur. Just some pamphlets of satirical verses.”
Descartes looks around the shop, eyeing all the apprentices and journeymen carefully. First their faces, then their shoes. All of them are wearing beat-up old shoes, a couple are even barefoot—except one JOURNEYMAN PRINTER, who has a brand-new pair of leather shoes. Descartes looks at his face and the young man flinches.
“How much did they pay you?” he asks the journeyman printer.
The boy’s trapped and he knows it. He looks pleadingly at Monsieur Leonard, then at the other apprentices, then back at Descartes. “Five livres,” he says, and everyone gasps. He quickly adds “But I had to spend some of that on paper and ink!”
“Five livres!” is all M. Leonard can say. “What did you do with it all?”
“I sent four to my parents to keep for me,” says the journeyman miserably. “And I bought some things.”
“You owe me!” Leonard shouts. “You owe me for the use of my press!” The shop turns into a melee as everyone starts shouting at once. Some of the apprentices are mad at the journeyman, others are defending him. Leonard is mad at everyone.
Descartes elbows his way to the unhappy journeyman and gets his face right next to the young man’s head. “Who?” he yells over the noise around them. “Who hired you?”
“A foreigner!” the journeyman shouts back. “Named Pfau!”
“Thank you!” Descartes presses a coin into his fist, then wriggles away through the crowd as several of the other apprentices lunge at the young man and try to pry it out of his grip.
Interior: Notre Dame cathedral. The inside of the church is dim, but the open door lets in a flood of sunlight. Descartes comes in, and for a moment seems to glow against the dim background. He takes off his hat and finds an empty pew.
“Mon Dieu, I pray for the repose and comfort of the soul of Christian Pfau. He was a heretic and a Protestant, but he was led into error and did not sin from pride or love of wickedness. May he rest in peace.” Descartes crosses himself and starts to rise.
A man in friar’s robes with the hood pulled down to hide his face slides in next to him. “Upstairs,” he whispers. “You’re wanted.”
Descartes looks at him, but the man has begun telling a rosary and shouldn’t be interrupted. Finally Descartes gets up and heads for the stairway to the roof.
By the time he’s at the top he’s breathing heavily, and stops for a coughing fit before he goes out onto the roof of the cathedral. To his left the lead-covered roof slopes up like a mountain. To his right there’s a stone parapet and then a sheer hundred-foot drop down to earth.
Descartes walks slowly along the narrow space between the roof and the parapet. There’s a burly soldier standing there, watching him approach. When Descartes reaches the man, he nods respectfully, then tips his head to the right, as if to say “keep going.”
Another man stands alone a few yards further on, looking out over the city. He’s tall and thin, with a small pointed beard and mustache, wearing a fur-lined cloak despite the warm day. Descartes approaches, recognizes him, and bows very formally. “Your Grace.”
The man turns and we can see it is RICHELIEU, not yet a Cardinal but already a rising star at the court of King Louis XIII. Music is regal brass with ominous organ chords. He nods his head politely to Descartes.
“Let the dead rest, Monsieur Descartes,” he says. “There is no profit in exhuming what has already been buried.”
“Do you know who killed Christian Pfau?”
“No,” says Richelieu. “And an investigation would disturb some delicate machinery I have been at some pains to construct. Once again, Monsieur: let the dead remain buried. Go back to your mathematics.”
“Your Grace, I—I cannot do as you ask. I must know.”
Richelieu sighs, like a tolerant parent losing patience. “Monsieur Descartes, you are a man of the world. Must I explain it to you? Investigating Pfau’s death will uncover things which powerful people—including myself—wish to keep hidden. How will learning the truth profit you if you are ruined, or worse?”
“I am curious. It is my nature.”
“What is your price, then? Would you like a comfortable post in the Church? Or the Army?”
“My wants are simple. I live within my means.”
Richelieu talks past Descartes to the burly soldier, who has come up behind Descartes without being heard. “Hermes, please take hold of Monsieur Descartes.”
Before Descartes can react, his arms are pinned in the guard’s grip.
“Shall I have him toss you over the parapet? There is no one to see, and it would simplify things considerably.”
“I made my peace with death when I was a small child, Your Grace. It doesn’t terrify me.”
Richelieu shakes his head. “Hermes, you may release him. Monsieur Descartes, you really are impossible, do you know that? Go now, before I change my mind and decide to have you killed after all. But be certain of this: if you cause me any inconvenience, you will cease to exist.”
Descartes bows politely—the man is a bishop, after all—and withdraws, keeping an eye on Hermes.
Interior: Descartes’s room. Descartes lies fully dressed on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. His eyes dart about and he’s obviously thinking hard.
Someone scratches at the door. His valet peeks in. “Monsieur? I beg your pardon, but a man brought a message. I did not wish to disturb your meditations but he said it was urgent—and it is from the lady.”
Descartes smiles slightly and sits up. The seductive brassy music sounds again, faintly, as he reads the note. I must see you again. Meet me at the Palais de Justice at noon.
“I will be needing my good doublet and hat,” says Descartes.
Cut to a close-up of Descartes’s best hat, with an elaborate green peacock feather streaming from the band. Pull back to show he’s just entering the Palais de Justice. Captain LeBoeuf meets him at the gateway and the two of them go upstairs, past courtrooms and offices, through a secret panel, and finally to a chamber inside a tower roof. Sophie de Montsegur is there, perched on the arm of a big chair where an immense older man is sitting. He’s magnificently dressed all in white, except for a crimson sash like a bloodstain. His fingers are heavy with rings. It is the DUKE DE LA VIEUVILLE, the King’s Finance Minister.
“Good day to you, Monsieur,” he says as Descartes bows respectfully. “Leave us,” he adds without looking at LeBoeuf. The captain goes out and shuts the door behind him.
“You are trying to discover who killed Christian Pfau,” says the Duke. “Why?”
Descartes gives a little sigh. “He lent me a book and I regret that I did not return it sooner.”
The Duke chuckles at that. “Very conscientious of you, I’m sure. There is no other reason?”
“I am curious by nature.” Descartes’s eyes dart briefly to Sophie. She casually touches her lips with her folded fan.
“Yes, very curious indeed.” The Duke chuckles some more. “Does the word ‘Vitriol’ mean anything to you?” He watches Descartes like a hawk as he says this.
“Oil of vitriol? It is a very potent solvent; even a droplet of it burns the skin.”
“Have you studied alchemy, Monsieur?”
“I have studied enough to understand how much of it is nonsense,” says Descartes. “The fact that most alchemists I have met are poor as church mice supports that hypothesis.”
“That is because the true secret of the Great Work is closely hidden, known only to—”
“The Invisible College,” says Descartes, sounding weary. “The Brotherhood of the Rosy Cross. Have you seen these Invisibles, my lord?”
There’s a moment of silence. The Duke just looks smug, almost pitying. Finally he says, “I had heard rumors you were an initiate yourself. Now I see they are false.”
Descartes is puzzled. “My lord, if we may return to the question of poor Monsieur Pfau for a moment—”
The Duke waves his hand dismissively. “You are wasting your time. His killer entered his room invisibly, passing through doors and walls as if through air.”
“Are you sure of this?”
The Duke still looks smug.
“Do you know why he was killed?”
“I have not been told. I expect he had served his purpose and was no longer useful. You should keep that in mind yourself, Monsieur. Don’t meddle where you aren’t wanted.”
“You might be surprised at how many people have been telling me that lately,” says Descartes.
“I have made contact with the Invisible College,” says the Duke. “Nothing must endanger that. If you are an initiate, then you understand why I must protect the secret. If you are not, then you shouldn’t poke your nose into secret matters beyond your understanding.”
Descartes doesn’t answer. He looks at Sophie, then back at the Duke. “I begin to understand now, my lord. No doubt you have many demands on your time, so unless you have need of me, I will take my leave.” He bows again, very gracefully, and goes out.
Exterior: the garden of Pierre Descartes’s house. It’s an hour later, and René is having a midday meal with his older brother PIERRE. His brother is a lot more “respectable” than René, and wants to stay that way. It’s a warm day, so they’re eating under an awning in the garden.
A servant girl brings a basin of water and towel, and René splashes his face and washes his hands. “Ah, that is refreshing. I think one gets dirtier walking half a mile in Paris than following an army thirty miles on campaign.”
“I’m surprised you’re not in the field right now,” says his brother. “There is certainly no shortage of wars nowadays.”
René pours himself some wine and begins to break apart a cold boiled lobster. “To be honest, soldiering has begun to bore me.”
“Let me guess: they don’t allow you to lie in bed until noon every day.”
“All too true. And the only diversions in camp are gambling, whoring, and the occasional brawl.”
“I always thought it odd for you, of all people, to play at being Mars.”
René shoots him a look. His older brother knows exactly where to poke him. Then he smiles. “I am not entirely ready to give up warfare yet. Perhaps I shall rejoin the army next spring. There are still some places I wish to visit.”
“Where would you like to go?” asks Pierre. “Next time I see His Majesty I shall ask him to start a war to suit you.”
They’re silent for a bit as the serving girl sets down plates of pork rillettes on sliced bread. René suddenly looks more serious. “Pierre, you are often at Court, and I’m sure you hear all the gossip. Do you know the Duke de la Vieuville?”
“The Minister of Finance? I know of him, but we haven’t met.”
“Do you know anything about his own finances?”
“René, it’s hardly appropriate for a gentleman to inquire—”
“That means you do know something. Otherwise you would simply say no. Tell me.”
Pierre acts reluctant, but we can tell he’s enjoying the chance to show off what a big shot he is to René. “This mustn’t go beyond this table, you understand. I happened to be drawing up a contract for—for a gentleman of the court. He was borrowing money from a Jew and wanted it all in writing. As surety for the loan the gentleman put up a mortgage which he holds on some of Vieuville’s estates.”
René looks a little puzzled. “That’s hardly—”
“Wait! A couple of weeks later he came back to me and asked me to revise it. Apparently the moneylender wouldn’t take the Vieuville mortgage as collateral.”
Pierre is smirking over this juicy news, but it takes René a couple of seconds to figure it out. “If your client’s mortgage is worthless as collateral, that means the moneylender thinks the land is worthless.”
“Not the land, René, the loan based on it. A promissory note from a bankrupt isn’t worth much. Vieuville must be in debt up to the crown of his hat.”
“But surely as Minister of Finance he . . .” René looks off at nothing, his face very intent. His theme plays softly but urgently in the background. It swells to a crescendo as René gives a little nod to himself.
“René? Are you well?”
“Very well, thank you, Pierre. I have just realized something. Until now I have mistrusted everything I have been told—acted as though everything, even the evidence of my own senses, was monstrous deception. But now I realize that was a mistake. Nobody has lied to me at all.”
“Well, what on Earth does that mean?”
René grins. “It means I know why poor Pfau died. And now let me trust to my senses some more, and try this really excellent-looking pork.”
Interior: Descartes’s house, late that afternoon. Descartes enters. “Gaston?” he calls out but there’s no answer. “Gaston!” he shouts, then mutters “Damn him” and goes into his study. He sits down beneath a painting of Chiron the centaur. As he sits down we can see through the open door into the hallway, where ominous shadows appear on the wall.
Closeup of Descartes’s eye. It flicks up and catches movement reflected in the polished surface of the candle-holder on the table in front of him.
Two men with arquebuses come through the door. Music sting. The Descartes theme now plays, uptempo with plenty of brass and drums. He leaps from his chair, rolling sideways to hit the floor next to it just as one man fires. The blast sounds like thunder, and the shot blows apart the cushion where Descartes’s head was resting. The air fills with smoke and burning feathers.
Descartes kicks the chair at his attackers, then snatches up the nearest weapon, a fireplace poker, as he gets to his feet.
The first man is struggling to reload, but the second has his arquebus leveled at Descartes. “You should have listened to the Duke,” he says. But instead of the boom of his gun there’s a sudden “Thwock!” and the gunman clutches his shoulder where an arrow just hit him. Pan around to show us Gaston standing in the doorway with a crossbow.
Descartes doesn’t waste an instant. He hits the uninjured man’s gun barrel with his poker. The would-be killer loses his grip on it. Loose bullets and gunpowder scatter on the floor. The gunman scrambles to recover his weapon, then halts when he feels Gaston’s dagger pressed against the side of his neck.
Meanwhile Descartes has disarmed the other fellow. “Don’t kill him,” he tells Gaston. “The landlord would charge an outrageous sum for cleaning bloodstains out of the rug. As for you two”—he grabs the uninjured gunman by the collar—“tell your master I have a message for him. Tell him I am indeed an initiate, and all this was a test of his worthiness. Tell him he has failed, and will never be accepted by the Invisible College of the Rosy Cross. Now get out of here.” He shoves the man toward the door and the other follows, still clutching his bloody shoulder. Gaston follows with the loaded arquebus until they are out of the house.
Descartes gathers up some books which fell to the floor during the fight. Gaston comes back in. “Master, please forgive me. A messenger came and told me you wanted me at your brother’s house.”
“Even if the world is not a conspiracy to deceive us, discerning the truth is very difficult. I am very glad you came back when you did.”
Gaston hesitates for a moment. “Master—what you said to that fellow just now—is it true? Are you really one of them?”
Descartes laughs out loud. “No, Gaston. In fact, tonight the Brotherhood of the Rosy Cross disbands for ever. Now go up to the attic and fetch my campaign chest, then lay out some clothing. Something that won’t show blood.”
Interior: the Deux Frères tavern, night. Descartes comes in, wrapped up in a big black cloak lined with scarlet. He takes his usual seat by the fireplace and signals the serving-girl, Jeanne. “My dear! Bring me red wine of Touraine—and a glass for everyone in the place! I am celebrating a transformation!”
She brings out an armload of bottles and begins pouring for the dozen or so customers in the place, who raise their cups to Descartes. Clovis Marin pushes through the knot of people around him to sit down across from Descartes. “What are you celebrating, Monsieur?”
“I have found the secret of the Rosy Cross, Marin! The secret is VITRIOL.”
“Oil of vitriol?”
Descartes shakes his head. “No. It’s an acrostic. Basil Valentine devised it: ‘Visita Interiora Terrae Rectificando Invenies Occultum Lapidem.’” He writes on the tabletop with his finger, spelling out the word as he speaks. In the background we hear the Rosicrucian violin theme again. “’Visit the interior of the earth and purifying reveals the hidden stone.’”
“Where did you hear of this?”
“From the lips of a man who has been initiated himself,” says Descartes. “I have no doubt that it will lead me to the truth.”
He beckons to Jeanne. “Here, my dear.” He presses a gold piece into her hand and whispers to her, then gets up and waves his hat. “Goodbye, gentlemen! I cannot stay!”
Descartes plunges through the crowd to the door. Marin tries to follow, but is snagged by Jeanne’s hand on his collar. “Monsieur,” she says politely. “There is the matter of settling your account.”
Exterior: the street. Descartes stops just a few doors down from the Deux Frères. Gaston hands him a bundle of weapons. Descartes buckles on his sword and shoves two pistols into his doublet. He nods to his servant and hurries off into the darkness.
At the city gate he hands a small bag of coins to a guard, and is allowed to pass through, into the suburb of Montrouge. He ignores the taverns clustered around the gate, where customers come to take advantage of the lower tax on wine, and hurries along one of the roads leading into the darkness.
A few hundred yards along he finds what he’s looking for: the entrance to the old stone quarries underground. The gate is rusty but unlocked, and the stairs leading down the long vertical shaft are very rickety. He lights a candle and descends. The wooden steps are damp and slippery, and once a rotten board gives way when he puts his weight on it. At the bottom a pair of galleries stretch off into blackness on either side. Descartes sets down his candle on the bottom step and lights a second one before taking the passage to the right. The gallery widens out into a real room after a hundred paces.
Descartes looks at the floor: it’s surprisingly clean for an abandoned quarry, and he can see the stumps of five candles forming the points of a star. His boots are coated with white dust from the passage. On one wall there’s a big rose and cross design, freshly painted in red.
He lights more candles and puts one in each corner, then stands in front of the bloody cross, waiting.
In the distance we hear the squeak of the rusty gate. The Rosicrucian theme sounds, now uptempo and menacing, full orchestra. Footsteps on the stairs. Then, shadowy against the candle light, a dark shape comes along the gallery. It looks just like the mysterious pursuer who followed René home the night before. The footsteps sound the same, too.
Descartes tosses aside his own cloak. Instead of his usual green doublet he’s wearing red. The intruder pauses at the entrance of the room, then steps inside. We still can only see a cloaked figure with his hat pulled down.
“Welcome to the Invisible College, Monsieur Marin,” says Descartes.
Marin takes off his hat and looked around the room, then back at Descartes. “Are they here? Truly?”
“They do not exist, Marin. They never existed.”
“No! You lie! I heard you earlier this evening—the VITRIOL acrostic! I must speak with them—I wish only to learn.”
“You never learn. Pfau told you the same thing, didn’t he? There was a copy of the proclamation in his room, freshly printed and crisp, not torn from a wall.”
“Yes! I noticed it also! He was a member, or their agent, and yet—” Marin stops, his eager expression turning to dismay.
“And yet he refused to tell you how to find the brethren of the Rosy Cross. When you insisted, I expect he told you they are nothing but a fantasy, a fraud designed to snare the gullible.”
“He lied! They are real!” Marin fumbles at his cloak.
Descartes draws his sword. “Don’t—” he begins, but the other man’s hand is on his own sword hilt. Descartes lunges, stabbing Marin in the flesh of his right forearm.
Marin draws his sword, clutching it in a clumsy fist as the yellow silk of his sleeve begins to turn red.
“I expect you said the same to Pfau, and he laughed in your face. Told you not to be a fool. You grew enraged, just as you are now.” Descartes hangs back, sword at the ready. Marin is bleeding, and he is content to let the man weaken. “Give up, and let me get you to a surgeon.”
“They are real! They must be!” Marin charges forward, slashing at Descartes without any subtlety or technique. René deflects his first thrust, but the big man’s strength is overwhelming.
René backs up again and his heel touches the wall behind him. Marin wades in, ignoring René’s stop thrust to his face as he swings wildly, like a peasant scything wheat. His blade gashes Descartes’s thigh, and René barely blocks a cut at his belly.
Marin’s face and arm are streaming blood now, but he doesn’t slow down and doesn’t seem to be weakening. René sidesteps to the left, wincing at the pain in his own thigh, and cuts down hard on Marin’s outstretched sword arm.
The other man drops his sword, but it doesn’t make him any less furious. His left hand clutches René by the throat. Descartes tries to bring up his sword, but it’s tangled in Marin’s cloak. They’re body-to-body now, and Descartes can only punch the side of Marin’s head with his free hand. Marin has him pinned to the wall and his grip on René’s throat is like iron.
Slightly out of focus image as Descartes grows dizzy. He hits Marin hard on his injured right arm, then knees him in the stomach. This weakens the madman’s grip enough for Descartes to pry his hand loose. He shoves Marin away and takes a great breath of fresh air. The image snaps back into clarity.
Marin charges him again, pinning his arms and slamming René against the wall. Descartes braces his back against the wall and kicks out with both feet. The two men tumble to the floor on opposite sides of the little chamber.
Marin screams and charges again, but this time Descartes gets one hand inside his doublet first. They roll on the floor, wrestling and biting, and then there’s an ear-splitting blast and a bright flash as Descartes fires his pistol.
Marin’s expression changes from rage to desperation as he tries to breathe but only makes a horrible gurgling, sucking noise. Descartes scrambles away as Marin clutches at his bleeding neck. Close-up on René’s red-spattered face as we hear Marin choking on his own blood, and finally silence.
Interior: Descartes’s house, morning. René is changing the bandage on his gashed leg and washing the wound with a basin of hot water. His servant Gaston enters, breathless.
“You delivered it?”
“I did, Monsieur. It took me a while, but I placed it in his own hands.”
“Excellent. Now help me get dressed. I expect we will have visitors very soon.”
Close-up of a red-gloved hand knocking on the front door. Gaston opens it. Pull back to reveal four men in matching scarlet and gold livery waiting with a sedan chair in front of the house. Descartes, in his usual green plume, limps out and climbs into the chair.
Montage: aerial shot of the chair making its way through the crowded streets, the chair being carried across the bridge, and finally the sedan chair arriving in front of a grand house in the Place Royale. The Descartes theme plays in a minor key.
Interior: A lavish room in the house. Four or five kittens play among the papers piled on two large desks by the window. A couple more are scavenging from a plate of fish. In the center of the room Richelieu stands on a stool while three tailors hover about him fitting a set of glorious crimson Cardinal’s robes on his thin frame.
Descartes enters and bows.
“It seems rather odd to accuse me of committing a crime when you killed another man for it just last night,” says Richelieu without preface.
“I did not say you committed the crime, I said you were responsible for it.”
Richelieu turns his palms toward Descartes. “These arms did not strike down Pfau.”
“No.” Descartes sighs. “But it was you who built the machinery. Your scheme to entrap the Duc de la Vieuville in a false Rosicrucian Order was like a great water-mill. Marin and Pfau were caught in the gears and destroyed. I assume the lovely Mademoiselle Sophie was one of your mill-wrights.”
“Not entrap. Expose. I suspected that Vieuville might be taking bribes, but I needed to know for certain. From what he told the actors I hired to portray the Invisible College, I have enough evidence to make a formal accusation. He will be gone by Christmas.”
“Pfau and Marin are gone already.”
“Pfau was a useful man and I am sorry to lose him. But this Marin suffered from a kind of mania or fascination with conspiracies and secret orders. This was true long before I hired Pfau to create the Invisible College. Surely it would have destroyed him in time.”
“Do you feel no regret at all?”
“I do not.” Richelieu steps down from the stool and approaches Descartes. “You understand, I hope, that all of this must remain secret. Explaining why Marin killed Pfau would expose my part in the affair, and conditions are not right for me to permit that. Mademoiselle de Montsegur would also be in jeopardy if the Duke were to suspect she is one of my agents.”
“Is it not better to let all the world know that justice has been done?”
“You and I are probably the only ones who care. So long as we are satisfied, the matter can rest there.”
Descartes can’t think of a reply, so he bows again—a little less deeply, perhaps—and turns to leave.
“I am not done,” says Richelieu quietly, and Descartes stops short. “You have served justice in your own way, Monsieur Descartes. I will not reward you with gold; you once said you live within your means. Instead I will give you some advice. Leave Paris. Leave France. You think too much. It makes you dangerous. I would not wish to see your ears cut off, or your tongue branded for stating unwelcome truths, or your head on a pike somewhere. Nor would I wish to give the orders myself. Go someplace like Holland or England, where men care more about money than ideas, so you can think what you like as long as it doesn’t interfere with business.”
“I will do as you say, Your Grace—or should it be Your Eminence?”
“Goodbye, Monsieur Descartes.” Richelieu indicates the door with a glance. Descartes limps out. Camera stays on his face as he does.
Behind him Richelieu watches him for a moment, then turns away, steps back on the stool and snaps his fingers for the tailors. “Make me look like . . . an archangel!” he says.
The door shuts behind Descartes and for a moment he looks directly into the camera, then gives us a polite nod before moving out of frame. We hear him whistling his theme song as he goes downstairs. Fade to white, roll credits.