Lionel, Zola, Flaubert, and others sat in the side seats in the middle. At the strong request of the government, the church reserved two rows of seats for writers.
Lionel's gaze calmly swept across the bizarre scene, finally settling on the figure tied to a specially made wooden chair in front of the altar—Édouard-Benoît de Villeneuve.
He wore a rough white prisoner's uniform, his hair was disheveled, his face appeared exceptionally pale in the candlelight, and his eyes stared blankly into space, his lips silently moving, whether in prayer or curse.
Professor Meynert and Freud were arranged in an observation seat in the side aisle with a clear view.
The old professor's expression was stern, while his young student intently observed every subtle reaction from Villeneuve and the surrounding crowd.
As the bronze bell, small bells, and clappers rang in succession, Bishop Gibel Guillaume Merme de Boan of the Archdiocese of Paris, wearing his most solemn golden cope, walked with heavy, slow steps to the center of the altar.
He was the officiant of this "grand ceremony."
Soon, Bishop Gibel's resonant and rhythmic Latin prayers echoed beneath the colossal dome, sacred and solemn, and many devout believers present even began to weep profusely.
Father Jean-Joseph Fourcade, as the Papal Envoy and exorcism executor, appeared in a black chasuble embroidered with crosses and exorcism runes, holding a large silver crucifix.
He first walked slowly around Villeneuve, muttering incantations, his expression alternating between compassion and severity.
Each time the crucifix approached, each time a loud rebuke: "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I command you, unclean spirit, to manifest and leave this creation of God!" caused a suppressed gasp and commotion in the crowd.
Villeneuve seemed to enter some kind of state.
His body began to tremble violently, with increasing amplitude, like a leaf in a strong wind.
The ropes binding him dug deep into his flesh. His throat emitted inhuman, beast-like guttural sounds and unintelligible roars, sometimes sharp and piercing, sometimes deep like muffled thunder, and sweat quickly soaked his prisoner's uniform.
Suddenly, he violently threw his head back, his eyeballs terrifyingly rolling upwards, almost only the whites showing, and roared broken sentences towards Father Fourcade in a distorted, hoarse voice completely unlike his own:
"…Abyss…fire…suffering…"
"…The contract…I signed it! Power! Give me power!"
"…Mock! You foolish lambs! You are all on hell's menu! Hahaha—!"
This "declaration of the devil" plunged the entire audience into immense terror and frenzy.
Some shrieked, some made the sign of the cross and trembled, while others were flushed with excitement, as if witnessing a divine-demonic confrontation firsthand.
"It's the devil! He really is possessed by the devil!"
Gasps rose and fell among the crowd.
The journalists' pencils trembled rapidly, almost tearing through the paper.
Bishop Gibel's face showed a subtle hint of satisfaction—this imposter was truly a brilliant actor.
The ritual began to reach its climax.
Father Fourcade's face was distorted and flushed with "holy" fervor. He raised a gem-encrusted, ancient-looking holy water bottle high in his hand and, with all his might, shouted in a solemn and sacred voice:
"Purify with holy water! In the name of the Lord, cast out this filth from the abyss! In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit!"
Crystal-clear streams of water, under the focus of countless gazes, carrying "holy" radiance, splashed repeatedly onto Villeneuve's upturned, sweaty, and distorted face from his roars!
Once, twice, thrice…
"Screech—!!!"
A shriek of extreme agony, utterly inhuman, like tearing cloth, instantly drowned out all prayers, gasps, and whispers!
There was no golden light, no black smoke dissipating, no holy light of a demon leaving the body.
Instead, dense, almost tangible, rolling white smoke rose from Villeneuve's face! Accompanied by a horrifying "hissing" sound, like raw meat thrown into boiling oil!
"Ah—!!! My eyes! My face! It's burning! Help me—!!!"
Villeneuve's screams were heart-rending; only the purest physical agony and immense psychological despair and fear could produce such a sound.
He thrashed and struggled wildly in the chair like a fish thrown ashore, violently shaking his head from side to side, trying to escape the bone-corroding, heart-burning liquid.
The dense white smoke quickly spread, carrying a pungent, acrid smell!
The front-row spectators who were close by covered their mouths and noses in horror, backing away repeatedly.
As the smoke slightly dispersed, Villeneuve's face was revealed—a sight that made everyone gasp, their blood seemingly freezing instantly!
The left side of his face was still intact, but the right side, from forehead to chin, a large area of skin turned black, festered, blistered, and curled back at a visible speed!
As if it had just been scorched by flames!
His right eye bore the brunt; the eyelid was red and swollen, the surface of the eyeball a cloudy greyish-white, clearly destroyed by the holy water!
Charred flesh and an unknown liquid oozing out mixed together, forming a horrifying, hellish scene!
"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 journalist with knowledge of chemistry shouted in horror, his voice distorted.
"Murder! This is murder!" Chief Gigo of the Paris Police Department roared, his face ashen and out of control.
Beside him, Inspector Claude tried to lead his officers to rush towards the altar to control the situation, but the crowd's panic and chaos acted like a wall, blocking them completely.
Bishop Gibel's voice lost its composure for the first time: "Doctor! Call a doctor quickly!"
He looked at Father Fourcade with fear, whose face was ashen, 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 had happened!
The scene in Notre Dame was completely out of control!
Screams, cries, shoving, overturned chairs, guards' shouts… merged into a chaotic wave that swept through the entire nave.
Amidst this extreme chaos and the pungent, acrid, and bloody smell, Professor Meynert suddenly stood up. Disregarding the surrounding commotion, he and his student Freud pushed through the crowd and came to Édouard-Benoît, who was still convulsing wildly in agony and emitting inhuman howls.
He spoke at an incredibly fast pace, constantly making diagnoses and decisions:
"Acute traumatic delirium! Accompanied by severe painful and pathological excitement!"
"Loss of consciousness, complete loss of behavioral control! Typical organic brain damage inducing mental breakdown!"
"Inject him with morphine immediately! Quickly! Otherwise, he will die from painful shock!"
He practically roared the instructions, while Freud fumbled to retrieve medicine and needles from his medical kit.
Just as Professor Meynert made his diagnosis, on the other side of the chaotic crowd, Sofia Durova-Shcherbatova 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 twisted, howling, disfigured human form on the altar, then coldly at Professor Meynert, who was administering aid, a cruel mockery on her lips.
Fifty thousand francs could not sway a principled University of Vienna professor, but to make a greedy priest in Notre Dame take such a risk, only five thousand francs were needed.
She did not say a word, did not take a second glance, merely adjusted the hem of her ice-blue dress slightly, then lifted her head and straightened her back, like a queen, and walked with unhurried steps directly towards the massive exit of Notre Dame.
Lionel was also stunned by this horrific turn of events, and Flaubert, Zola, and others were even more distraught.
This was the craziest day in Paris in ten years!
At this moment, several cameras emitted strong white flashes and crackling burning sounds, capturing this moment forever.