Chapter Seven
The phantom’s icy-cold hand pulled him through the furiously spinning whirlwind of blinding light – soon bringing him out into the warm night air. Diego looked around: he was standing in the middle of a narrow street of cobblestone, surrounded by houses immersed into semi-darkness.
"Where are we?" he asked his ghostly companion.
"Paris. August 24, 1572."
"Saint Bartholomew’s Night?" Diego gasped.
"I see you are aware of that event," the phantom remarked approvingly. "Now you can see some of it with your own eyes." He cocked his head slightly, listening to something only he could hear, and then announced calmly, "It has begun."
"What?"
"Listen."
Diego heard faint sounds in the distance. The sounds grew louder, and soon the whole street became awake, filled with deafening cries. He saw crowds of people armed with anything from kitchen knifes to axes and swords storm through the street, running in and out of buildings, and, as they did so, the cries intensified mixing with the clinking of the metal.
"Catherine de Medicis and Henri de Guise," the phantom commented, "decided to put an end to the influence of a certain Coligny – leader of French Protestants – at the court. Catherine convinced her son, Charles IX, that a wedding ceremony between her daughter, Marguerite, and Henri de Navarre – also a Huguenot, would be a good time to eliminate Coligny as well as all the major Protestant leaders who would be in Paris for that occasion. At Charles’ consent, the French Catholics were given a chance to do what they have always wanted."
The phantom waved his hand to the side, and, suddenly, the walls of the houses around them became transparent, revealing to astonished Californiano all the horrors that no history book he read before could have related.
He saw the thick wooden doors being broken to chips under the blows of raging axes, and their owners bursting in, chopping and destroying everything in their way, killing the helpless occupants who had no time to escape through the windows. But even those who did manage to get out of what became the death rooms were cut down by the eager murderers on the streets.
He saw an old man stagger out of his tiny room, pressing his right hand to a big gaping wound on his side. With a look of utter despair, the old man reached out for some bloody lifeless form on the floor, screaming out the name of her he loved. And then he choked with his own blood and fell down beside his dead wife, having been silenced forever.
Diego saw a young woman – her pretty face distorted with fear. She dropped to her knees, imploringly holding out her hands to her ruthless executioner, begging him to spare her little baby. But the executioner pushed her aside, paying no attention to her cries and tears, took the tiny form out of its cradle and smashed the baby’s head against the wall before the eyes of the mother. The poor woman went mad with horror and grief. She dropped to the floor with a soul-tearing cry. She was hardly aware any more of the butcher who raised his ever-bloodthirsty sword above the helpless body of his writhing victim.
Diego staggered as if he himself had been stricken by the murderer’s blade. He could not bear to watch any longer, but his eyes refused to shut. The cold voice of the phantom resounded in his ears like a thunderous deafening echo.
"Three thousand Protestants were killed in Paris that night. And it was not over then. The massacre continued for over a month in several cities, killing more than 12,000 people. Why?" The phantom paused for a second, looking askance at the young don who froze on the spot, and then responded to his own dark question: "For something as ridiculous as preaching and praying in French instead of Latin; for being Huguenots not Catholics."
Diego watched the murderous crowd stride triumphantly back out onto the streets; their clothes soaked in blood of their victims, their faces splattered with drops of dried blood and distorted with odious smiles. Was that the face of humanity?
"Let us get out of here, please," he muttered, unable to watch any more.
The phantom raised the flap of his cloak, and the black satin obscured momentarily the view for the young Californiano. Diego felt himself being pulled upward again. "Where are we going now?" he asked.
"You have seen a glimpse of the past," the phantom answered, "now I will show you some of the future."
Chapter Eight
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