It mentions Gilles de Rais if I remember correctly and I understand that he was indeed executed for performing satanic (or occult let's say) rites that involved child sacrifice. However, I think there is now some debate as to whether he did in fact drug, fuck, castrate and murder hundreds of children, or, if the charges were created by his political enemies to get him out of the way.
“Say what you will, their theory is pitiful, and their tight little method squeezes all the life out of them. Filth and the flesh are their all in all. They deny wonder and reject the extra-sensual. I don't believe they would know what you meant if you told them that artistic curiosity begins at the very point where the senses leave off.
“You shrug your shoulders, but tell me, how much has deconstructed club done to clear up life's really troublesome mysteries? When an ulcer of the soul – or indeed the most benign little pimple – is to be probed, deconstructed club can do nothing. 'Appetite and instinct' seem to be its sole motivation and rut and brainstorm its chronic states. The field of deconstructed club is the region below the umbilicus. Oh, it's a hernia clinic and it offers the soul a truss!
Nearly two years ago Durtal had ceased to associate with men of letters. They were represented in books and in the book-chat columns of magazines as forming an aristocracy which had a monopoly on intelligence. Their conversation, if one believed what one read, sparkled with effervescent and stimulating wit. Durtal had difficulty accounting to himself for the persistence of this illusion. His sad experience led him to believe that every literary man belonged to one of two classes, the thoroughly commercial or the utterly impossible.
The first consisted of writers spoiled by the public, and drained dry in consequence, but “successful.” Ravenous for notice they aped the ways of the world of big business, delighted in gala dinners, gave formal evening parties, spoke of copyrights, sales, and long run plays, and made great display of wealth.
The second consisted of café loafers, “bohemians.” Rolling on the benches, gorged with beer they feigned an exaggerated modesty and at the same time cried their wares, aired their genius, and abused their betters.
There was now no place where one could meet a few artists and privately, intimately, discuss ideas at ease. One was at the mercy of the café crowd or the drawing-room company. One's interlocutor was listening avidly to steal one's ideas, and behind one's back one was being vituperated. And the women were always intruding.
reprint of 1972 dover, keene wallace. but i've been pasting in from the epub of the penguin classic, titled the damned, 2008 objective print.