Gilles de Rais was born about 1404 on the boundary between Brittany and Anjou, in the château de Mâchecoul.

We know nothing of his childhood.  -Là-bas, Joris-Karl Huysmans

The Little Marshal was sitting on a rock by the river when a stranger approached him. She was a girl, perhaps a little older than he was, dressed in a rough gray tunic. Her hair, cut short like a boy’s, clung damply to her temples. Her skin was the color of ermine, and her eyes were gray-blue, as deep and still as the river itself.

“What is your name?” she asked.

“Gilles.”

“Gilles who?”

“Gilles de Rais. People call me the Little Marshal.” 

She smiled softly. “I’ve heard about you and your family. You are rich.”  The Little Marshal sighed and shrugged.

“Why do they call you the Little Marshal?” she asked.

Gilles hesitated for a moment before answering, “Because my grandfather says that one day, I will be Marshal of France.”

The girl clicked her tongue and tilted her head, studying him. 

“And how does your grandfather know this?” she asked, putting her hands to her hips. 

“He had a dream.”

“A dream?”

“Yes, a dream.” 

The girl reached behind the boy’s ear, pulling out a silver coin. She tossed it into the air, and when it fell into her hand, the coin had turned into a small white feather. 

“How did you do that?” asked the boy. 

The girl only smiled.

*** 

The second time the girl appeared, she was swimming in the river. The water must have been icy cold; during the night, temperatures had dropped and a thin layer of snow now clung to the grass. 

The Little Marshal stood on the bank, watching her.

When the girl saw the boy, she swam toward him and got out of the water. 

“We meet again,” she said, shaking the water off her body like a dog.

“Aren’t you cold?”

“No, not at all. The water is warmer than it looks. Come, sit with me on this rock,” she said.

The Little Marshal followed her.  

The pair did not speak. They looked across the river, their eyes reaching as far as they could. 

After a while, the Little Marshal said, “Teach me magic.” The girl laughed. 

“Where to begin?”

“At the beginning.”

“Okay, I will explain to you how a coin can become a feather.”

The Little Marshal smiled. The girl explained the trick and many others. She said,

“Anything can become anything, you see. Just focus.”

After a while, she said, “Shouldn’t you go home? Someone will be looking for you.”

The Little Marshal shrugged, “No, not really.”

“Don’t you have someone who might worry about you?”

“I can roam the forest all day. My grandfather couldn’t care less. The same goes for my brother, René.”

“What about your parents?”

“My father died two years ago, killed by a boar while hunting in the woods. My mother left us. She remarried.”

The girl didn’t know what to say, so she said, “Poor Little Marshal.” 

*** 

When the Little Marshal returned to the castle, his brother René was waiting for him at the main entrance, dressed in a gaudy costume and fancy hat. The Little Marshal was wary of his brother, who although two years younger was much taller and stronger. René was a turbulent child whose violent nature frightened the servants and preoccupied his teachers. He did not like to play with Gilles because, as he said, “You play like a girl.”  “You’re a sissy,” René would sneer. 

“What’s a sissy?” Gilles would ask. 

René would burst out laughing, spit on the floor, and walk off. 

“Where have you been?” René asked, blocking the doorway.

“To the river.”

“What did you do there?” 

“Nothing special. I met a girl.”

“A girl? What was her name?”

“I don’t know. She didn’t tell me. May I go through now?” asked the Little Marshal. 

“Beware of strangers. They’re up to no good. They’re either after your money or your reputation.”

With that, René shoved Gilles to the floor and fled to the kitchen, where he could soon be heard tormenting the cooks. 

Gilles pulled himself up and began to cry. At that moment, he felt utterly lonely and helpless.

Instead of going up to his room, the Little Marshal went to the chapel on the other side of the castle. He knelt in front of the altar and prayed for a long time. 

The Little Marshal believed in and feared God. All he wanted was to be good, and for those around him to be good as well. He prayed for his mother to return and for a gentle sign from his father from above.

*** 

After supper, the Little Marshal went to his room. He played with the miniature sword his grandfather had given him two Christmases ago, slicing the air and trying to look chivalrous. He lunged forward as if attacking an invisible enemy.  

“You will die!” he shouted into the darkness.

Then, the Little Marshal went to bed. He was suddenly very tired. Yet he lay awake for much of the night. His room was sinister, with large, drafty Gothic windows, dark drapes, and heavy black furniture. There was a smell of mildew and rot, and his father’s name, Guy, seemed to whisper from the walls, like an incantation, a call. 

The Little Marshal hoped for a good-night kiss in the dark, but it never came. 

*** 

The next day, the Little Marshal went back to the river. He knew not where else to go. 

Until recently, he had played with the village children, but he no longer felt welcome in their homes. He greatly missed Guimer, a sweet boy with dark curls and rosy cheeks. The two of them would stroll the fields hand in hand, picking purple flowers to give to Guimer’s mother. The Little Marshal had made a great impression on her; she had never seen a boy so well dressed, with such impeccable manners. He was soft-spoken, intelligent, versed in Latin and Greek, and sang beautifully. He entertained Guimer and his mother with songs and even taught Guimer some Latin.

Guimer’s mother was delighted and prayed that Gilles and her son would be friends forever. But one day, her husband, whom she thought was dead, returned after being away for months. He did not like the games his son and the Little Marshal played.

“This little boy is too pretty,” he said. “He must be the devil.” 

His wife protested, “But he is a sweet boy, and he’s been good for our son!”  It was no use. The husband forbade her ever to utter Gilles de Rais’s name again. 

The Little Marshal was so distraught over losing his friend that he would sometimes linger near Guimer’s house, softly calling his name. But the father would come out with an angry look and throw rocks at him, and the Little Marshal would flee, his soul crushed and vilified. 

When the Little Marshal arrived at the river, the girl was already there.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said. 

“I wasn’t going to come.”

“Why not?”

“I was going to play with my friends.”

“And what stopped you?”

“They were busy,” said the Little Marshal, his cheeks turning red.

“Busy?” 

“Yes, they needed to help their mothers.” 

“Do you have many friends?” she asked. 

“Yes, many.”

“Good,” said the girl with a smile.

After a moment of silence, the girl said, “Let’s play a game.”

“What game?”

“A game of cards.”

“Okay.”

The girl reached into her tunic and drew out a deck that shimmered faintly. The cards looked like glass, thin panes etched with moving symbols. 

“Take a card at random, look at it, memorize it, and put it back in the deck.” The Little Marshal did as he was told. 

The girl shuffled the cards and one dropped from the deck. The Little Marshal picked it up. He gasped. It was the card he had picked. 

The girl showed the Little Marshal many tricks and when it got dark, the Little

Marshal said, “It’s time for me to go home.”   

“Come back tomorrow,” she said. 

“I will,” Gilles murmured sadly. 

*** 

That night, the Little Marshal dreamed of the same girl. She was sitting under a tree. Her lips moved quickly, but no sound came out. Her eyes were fixed on a distant point. Suddenly, she began to tremble, then gasped and leapt up. She ran home, shouting to everyone who would listen, “I saw him! I saw her!” Then, the Little Marshal saw the girl in armor. How was this possible? That’s when he realized he was dreaming. The girl appeared again, this time on horseback, riding into a church. Her hair was cut short, like a boy. She said, “My name is Jeanne. My mission is to deliver a message to a little boy named Gilles:  your father is alive, and your mother is finally coming home.” 

Then, the Little Marshal woke up, drenched in sweat, his mouth open, as if screaming.

***

The Little Marshal had breakfast in the rose garden that morning. He heard the servants whispering and gossiping. At first, he could not make out the words, but then he heard “dead,” “murder,” and “woods.” He summoned a nurse to find out what was happening. Bursting into tears, she told him that a little boy had been found dead in the forest, his face smashed against a rock, his hair matted with clotted blood.

“Who?” asked the Little Marshal. 

The nurse did not reply, only sobbing quietly.

“Do we know who it is?” he insisted. “Answer me!”

“Your friend, sir.”

“Guimer?” 

“Yes, Guimer is dead, sir.”

 A darkness and a void came and lingered. The Little Marshal must have fainted.  What happened after he heard the terrible news is unclear. 

***

The next thing we know, the Little Marshal is running through the forest, heading toward the river. He stops at the edge of the woods, panting, enormous tears cascading down his cheeks and falling heavily on the grass. 

Then the Little Marshal walks into the gray-blue water of the river, fully clothed.          

He swims, though not very well. In the middle of the river, he climbs onto a rock. He sees something shiny – a glare, the reflection of the sun on a knife, a looking glass? – something on the opposite bank that draws him closer. 

He must continue. But how? 

Suddenly, he loses his balance and falls into the river. The waters turn wild. Panicking, the little boy kicks and flails, but his head quickly submerges. He surfaces briefly, choking. The water rages around him. The current drags him under again. A face appears in the water: a man with mischievous, cruel eyes, laughing hysterically. “Come, come with me,” the man says in a voice not unlike that of his grandfather’s. “Come to me, young child. It’s time.”

 Then the mysterious girl appears on the bank. The Little Marshal sees her waving her arms wildly. She dives into the river and swims toward the drowning boy. She is almost there, fighting the current. Suddenly, she is no longer swimming but gliding through the water as if propelled by an unseen force. She is there now. Reaching the boy, she calms the waters with a motion of her hand. She seizes Gilles by the hair and pulls him onto her back. She is a lot stronger than she looks. Then she carries him to the shore and lays him on the grass. 

The girl looks down at him and whispers, “This is hell – eternal pain! Gilles de Rais cannot die!”

There is a long silence, a void. The air grows colder. Time stops. The child’s lips and the skin beneath his eyes are blue. His body appears shrunken; his shoulders seem to have collapsed. He is dead. 

The girl kneels beside him. 

“This is not death,” she whispers. “It is the beginning.” 

She places her hand upon his heart. A light flares beneath her palm, white, searing, almost holy. 

When she lifts her hand, the Little Marshal draws a breath so deep it seems to tear the sky. The boy comes back from the dead.

When Gilles next saw the mysterious girl, she was wearing men’s clothing and a suit of armor. 

“I must be going now. So long.”

The Little Marshall started to cry. 

“Don’t go!” he screamed.  

“Remember me,” she said. “When you’re lonely. Remember that you’re not alone.”

Then she was gone.