The Mesmerist's Victim

“Miraculous!”

“But you do not believe!”

“Honestly not, count,” said the duke; “how can you expect any one to believe such things?”

“Would you believe if I told you what the courier is doing who bears this letter to the Duke of Choiseul?”

“Of course,” responded the countess.

“I shall when I hear the voice,” subjoined the duke.

“But you magicians and necromanciers have the privilege of seeing and hearing the supernatural.”

Balsamo shot at the speaker so singular a glance that the countess thrilled in every vein and the sceptical egotist felt a chill down his neck and back.

“True,” said he, after a long silence, “I alone see and hear things and beings beyond your ken: but when I meet those of your grace’s rank and hight of intellect and of your beauty, fair lady, I open my treasures and share. You shall hear the mystic voice.”

The countess trembled, and the duke clenched his fist not to do the same.

“What language shall it use?”

“French,” faltered the countess. “I know no other and a strange one would give me too much fright.”

“The French for me,” said the duke. “I long to repeat what the devil says, and mark if he can discourse as correctly as my friend Voltaire.”

With his head lowered, Balsamo walked over to the little parlor door which opened on the secret stairs.

“Let me shut us in so that you will be less exposed to evil influences,” he explained.

Turning pale, the countess took the duke’s arm.

Almost touching the staircase door, Balsamo stepped into the corner where the inner dwelling was located, and where Lorenza was, and in a loud voice uttered in Arabic the words, which we translate:

“My dear, do you hear? if so, ring the bell twice.”

He watched for the effect on his auditor’ faces, for they were the more touched from not understanding the speech. The bell rang twice. The countess bounded up on the sofa and the duke wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.

“Since you hear me,” went on the magician in the same tongue, “push the marble knob which represents the lion’s right eye in the mantelpiece of sculpture, and a panel will open. Walk through the opening, cross my room, come down the stairs, and enter the room next where I am speaking.”

Next instant, a light rustle, like a phantom’s flight, warned Balsamo that his orders had been understood and carried out.

“What gibberish is that? the cabalistic?” queried Richelieu to appear cool.

“Yes, my lord, used in invocations of the demons. You will understand the Voice but not what I conjure it with.”

“Demons? is it the devil?”

“A superior being may invoke a superior spirit. This spirit is now in direct communication with us,” he said as he pointed to the wall which seemed to end the house and had not a perceptible break in it.

“I am afraid, duke – and are not you?”

“To tell the truth I would rather be back in the battles of Mahon or before Philipsburg.”

“Lady and lord, listen for you would hear,” said Balsamo sternly. In the midst of solemn silence, he proceeded in French:

“Are you there?”

“I am here,” replied a pure and silvery voice which penetrated the wall and tapestry so muffled as to seem a sweet-toned bell sounded at an incalculable distance, rather than a human voice.

“Plague on it! this is growing exciting,” said the duke; “and yet without red fire, the trombone, and the gong.”

“It is dreadful,” stammered the countess.

“Take heed of my questioning,” said Balsamo. “First tell me how many persons I have with me?”

“Two, a man and a woman: the man is the Duke of Richelieu, the woman, the Countess Dubarry.”

“Reading in his mind,” uttered the duke; “this is pretty clever.”

“I never saw the like,” said the countess, trembling.

“It is well,” said Balsamo; “now, read the first line of the letter which I hold.”

The Voice obeyed.

Duke and countess looked at each other with astonishment rising to admiration.

“What has happened to this letter, which I wrote under your dictation?”

“It is travelling to the west and is afar.”

“How is it travelling?”

“A horseman rides with it, clad in green vest, a hareskin cap and high boots. His horse is a piebald.”

“Where do you see him?” asked Balsamo sternly.

“On a broad road plated with trees.”

“The King’s highway – but which one?”

“I know not – roads are alike.”

“What other objects are on it?”

“A large vehicle is coming to meet the rider; on it are soldiers and priests – ”

“An omnibus,” suggested Richelieu.

“On the side at the top is the word ‘VERSAILLES.’”

“Leave this conveyance, and follow the courier.”

“I see him not – he has turned the road.”

“Take the turn, and after!”

“He gallops his horse – he looks at his watch – ”

“What see you in front of him?”

“A long avenue – splendid buildings – a large town.”

“Go on.”

“He lashes his steed; it is streaming with sweat – poor horse! the people turn to hear the ringing shoes on the stones. Ah, he goes down a long hilly street, he turns to the right, he slackens his pace, he stops at the door of a grand building.”

“You must now follow with attention. But you are weary. Be your weariness dispelled! Now, do you still see the courier?”

“Yes, he is going up a broad stone staircase, ushered by a servant in blue and gold livery. He goes through rooms decorated with gold. He reaches a lighted study. The footman opens the door for him and departs.”

“Enter, you! What see you?”

“The courier bows to a man sitting at a desk, whose back is to the door. He turns – he is in full dress with a broad blue ribbon crossing his breast. His eye is sharp, his features irregular, his teeth good; his age fifty or more.”

“Choiseul,” whispered the countess to the duke who nodded.

“The courier hands the man a letter – ”

“Say the duke – it is a duke.”

“A letter,” resumed the obedient Voice, “taken from a leather satchel worn on his back. Unsealing it, the duke reads it with attention. He takes up a pen and writes on a sheet of paper.”

“It would be fine if we could learn what he wrote,” said Richelieu.

“Tell me what he writes,” said Balsamo.

“It is fine, scrawling, bad writing.”

“Read, I will it!” said the magician’s imperative voice.

The auditors held their breath.

And they heard the voice say:

“DEAR SISTER: be of good heart. The crisis has passed. I await the morrow with impatience for I am going to take the offensive with all presaging decisive success. All well about the Rouen Parliament, Lord X., and the squibs. To-morrow, after business with the King, I will append a postscript to this letter and despatch by this courier.”

While with his left hand Balsamo seemed to wrest out each word with difficulty, with his right he wrote the lines which Duke Choiseul was writing in Versailles.

“What is the duke doing?”

“He folds up the paper and puts it in a small pocketbook taken from the left side of his coat. He dismisses the courier, saying: ‘Be at one o’clock at the Trianon gateway.’ The courier bows and comes forth.”

“That is so,” said Richelieu: “he is making an appointment for the man to get the answer.”

Balsamo silenced him with a gesture.

“What is the duke doing?”

“He rises, holding the letter he received. He goes to his couch, passes between its edge and the wall, pushes a spring which opens an iron safe in the wall, throws in the letter and shuts the safe.”

“Oh, pure magic!” ejaculated the countess and the marshal, both pallid.

“Do you know all you wished?” Balsamo asked La Dubarry.

“My lord,” said she, going to him, but in terror, “you have done me a service for which I would pay with five years of my life, or indeed I can never repay. Ask me anything you like.”

“Oh, you know we are already in account. The time is not come to settle.”

“You shall have it, were it a million – ”

“Pshaw, countess!” exclaimed the old nobleman, “you had better look to the count for a million. One who knows – who can see what he sees, might discover gold and diamonds in the bowels of the earth as he does thoughts in the mind of man.”

“Nay, countess, I will give you the chance some day of acquitting yourself as regards me.”

“Count,” said the duke, “I am subjugated, vanquished, crushed – I believe!”

“You know you saw but that is not belief.”

“Call it what you please; I know what I shall say if magicians are spoken of before me.”

“My Spirit is fatigued,” said Balsamo smiling: “let me release it by a magical spell. Lorenza,” he pursued, but in Arabic, “I thank you, and I love you. Return to your room as you came and wait for me. Go, my darling!”

“I am most tired – make haste, Acharat!” replied the Voice, in Italian, sweeter than during the invocation. And the faint sound as of a winged creature flying was heard diminishing.

Convinced of his medium’s departure in a few minutes, the mesmerist bowed profoundly but with majestic dignity to his two frightened visitors, absorbed in the flood of thoughts tumultuously overwhelming them. They got back to their carriage more like intoxicated persons than reasonable ones.

CHAPTER XI

THE DOWNFALL AND THE ELEVATION

THE great clock of Versailles Palace was striking eleven when King Louis XV., coming out of his private apartments, crossed the gallery nearest and called out for the Master of Ceremonies, Duke Vrilliere. He was pale and seemed agitated, though he tried to conceal his emotion. An icy silence spread among the courtiers, among whom were included Duke Richelieu and Chevalier Jean Dubarry, a burly coarse bully, but tolerated as brother of the favorite. They were calm, affecting indifference and ignorance of what was going on.

The duke approaching was given a sealed letter for Duke Choiseul which would find him in the palace. The courtiers hung their heads while muttering, like ears of wheat when the squall whistles over them. They surrounded Richelieu while Vrilliere went on his errand, but the old marshal pretended to know no more than they, while smiling to show he was not a dupe.

When the royal messenger returned he was besieged by the inquisitive.

“Well, it was an order of exile,” said he, “for I have read it. Thus it ran,” and he repeated what he had retained by the implacable memory of old courtiers:

COUSIN: My discontent with your services obliges me to exile your grace to Chanteloup, where you should be in twenty-four hours. I should send you farther but for consideration of the duchess’s state of health. Have a care that your conduct does not drive me to a severer measure.

The group murmured for some time.

“What did he say,” queried Richelieu.

“That he was sure I found pleasure in bearing such a message.”

“Rather rough,” remarked Dubarry.

“But a man cannot get such a chimney-brick on his head Without crying out something,” added the marshal-duke. “I wonder if he will obey?”

“Bless us, here he comes, with his official portfolio under his arm!” exclaimed the Master of Ceremonies aghast, while Jean Dubarry had the cold shivers.

Lord Choiseul indeed was crossing the courtyard, with a calm, assured look blasting with his clear glance his enemies and those who had declared against him after his disgrace. Such a step was not foreseen and his entrance into the royal privy chambers was not opposed.

“Hang it! will he coax the King over, again?” muttered Richelieu.

Choiseul presented himself to the King with the letter of exile in his hand.

“Sire, as it was understood that I was to hold no communication from your Majesty as valid without verbal confirmation, I come for that.”

“This time it holds good,” rejoined the King.

“Such an offensive letter holds good against a devoted servitor?”

“Against the servitor – you who received a letter in your house here, from Lady Grammont, by courier – ”

“Surely brother and sister may correspond?”

“Not with such letters – ” And the monarch held out a copy of the letter dictated by Balsamo’s Voice – this time made by the King’s own hand. “Deny not – you have the original locked up in the iron safe in your bedroom.”

Pale as a spectre the duke listened to the sovereign continuing pitilessly.

“This is not all. You have an answer for Lady Grammont in your pocketbook only waiting for its postscript to be added when you leave my presence. You see I am well informed.”

The duke bowed without saying a word and staggered out of the room as though he were struck by apoplexy. But for the open air coming on his face he would have dropped backwards; but he was a man of powerful will and recovering composure, he passed through the courtiers to enter his rooms where he burnt certain papers. A quarter of an hour following he left the palace in his coach.

The disgrace of Choiseul was a thunderbolt which set fire to France.

The Parliament which his tolerance had upheld, proclaimed that the State had lost its strongest prop. The nobility sustained him as one of their order. The clergy felt fostered by a man whose severe style made his post almost sacerdotal. The philosophical party, very numerous by this time and potent, because the most active, intelligent and learned formed it, shouted aloud when “their” Government escaped from the hands of the protector of Voltaire, the pensioner of the Encyclopedist writers and the preserver of the traditions of Lady Pompadour playing the Maccenas-in-petticoats for the newspaper writers and pamphleteers.

The masses also complained and with more reason than the others. Without deep insight they knew where the shoe pinched.

From the general point of view Choiseul was a bad minister and a bad citizen, but he was a paragon of patriotism and morality compared with the sycophants, mistresses and their parasites – particularly Lady Dubarry whom a lampoonist qualified as less to be respected than a charcoal-man’s wife. To see the reins pass into the hands of the pet of a favorite made the future blacker than before.

Hence nearly everybody flocked on the road to cheer the Minister as he went away in exile.

There was a block to the traffic at the Enfer Tollbar, on the Touraine Road. A hundred carriages escorted the duke after he had got through here.

Cheers and sighs followed him, but he was too sharp not to know that there was less regret over his going than fear about those who would replace him.

On the crowded highway a postchaise came tearing and would have run down the minister but for a violent swerving of the postboy.

A head was stuck out of the chaise window at the same time as the Duke of Choiseul looked out of his.

It was the Duke of Aiguillon, nephew of Richelieu, who would probably have a place in the cabinet which the marshal duke, as the new minister, would form. No doubt he had received the cue and was hurrying to take the berth. He saluted the fallen one very lowly. The latter drew back in the coach, for in this second the sight had withered all the laurels.

At the same time, as compensation up came a carriage with the royal colors, drawn by eight horses on the Sevres branch-road, and crossing with Choiseul’s equipage by chance or the block.

On the back seat was the Dauphiness with her mistress of the Household, Lady Noailles; on the front one was Andrea de Taverney.

Red with glory and delight, Choiseul leaned out and bowed lowly.

“Farewell, princess,” he said in a choking voice.

“Farewell, my lord, till soon we meet again!” was the reply. The Archduchess gave an imperial smile and showed majestic disdain for court etiquet, by replying.

“Choiseul forever!” shouted an enthusiastic voice close upon these words.

Andrea turned rapidly towards the speaker, for she knew the voice.

“Room, make room there,” roared the royal squires, forcing Gilbert, pale and hot with getting to the front to see into the line along the roadside ditch.

It was indeed our hero, who had in a fit of philosophical fervor, shouted for Choiseul.

CHAPTER XII

ANDREA IN FAVOR

AT three in the afternoon Mdlle. de Taverney came out of her rooms dressed to perform her duty as reader to the princess.

On reaching the Trianon Summerhouse she was told that her mistress was in the grounds with her architect and head-gardener. In the upper story could be heard the whizz of the turning-lathe with which the Dauphin was busy making a safety lock for a chest which he thought a great deal of.

To join the Dauphiness, Andrea crossed the garden where, although the season had come on the pale flowers were lifting their heads to catch the fleeting rays of a still paler sun. Dark came at six, and the gardeners were covering the plants from the frost with glass bells.

On the lawn at the end of a walk hedged with trimmed trees and Bengal roses, Andrea suddenly perceived one of these men who, on seeing her, rose from stooping over his spade and saluted her with more grace and politeness than a common man could do. Looking she recognized Gilbert, whom she had seen from a child on her father’s estate. She blushed in spite of herself, for the presence of this ex-retainer seemed a very curious kindness of destiny.

He repeated the salute and she had to return it as she passed on. But she was too courageous and straight-forward a creature to resist a movement of the spirit and leave a question unanswered of her disturbed soul.

She retraced her steps, and Gilbert, who had lost color and was eyeing her ominously, returned to life and made a spring to arrive before her.

“How do you happen to be here, Gilbert?” she began.

“A man must live, and honestly.”

“Well, you ought to be happy in such a position!”

“I am very happy indeed to be here.”

“Who helped you to the place?”

“Dr. Jussieu, a patron of mine. He is a friend of another patron, the great Rousseau.”

“Good luck, Gilbert,” said Andrea, preparing to go.

“I hope you are better – after your accident?” ventured the young man in so quivering a voice that one could see that it came from a vibrating heart.

“Yes, thanks,” she coldly answered. “It did not amount to anything.”

“Why, you came near dying – the danger was dreadful,” said Gilbert, at the hight of emotion.

Andrea perceived by this that it was high time that she cut short this chat in the open with a royal gardener.

“Will you not have a rose?” questioned he, shivering.

“Why, how can you offer what is not yours?” she demanded.

He looked at her surprised and overcome, but as she smiled with superciliousness, he broke off a branch of the finest rose-tree and began to pluck the flowers and cast them down with a noble coolness which impressed even this haughty Patrician girl.

She was too good and fair-dealing not to see that she had wantonly wounded the feelings of an inferior who had only been polite to her. Like all proud ones feeling guilty of a fault, she resumed her stroll without a word, although the excuse was on her lips.

“Gilbert did not speak either; he tossed aside the rose-twig and took up the spade again, bending to work but also to see Andrea go away. At the turning of the walk she could not help looking back – for she was a woman.

“Hurrah!” he said to himself; “she is not so strong as me and I shall master her yet. Overbearing with her beauty, title and fortune now rising, insolent to me because she divines that I love her, she only becomes the more desirable to the poor workingman who still trembles as he looks upon her. Confound this trembling, unworthy of a man! but she shall pay some day for the cowardice she makes me feel. I have done enough this day in making her give in,” he added. “I should have been the weaker as I love her, but I was ten times the stronger.”

He repeated these words with savage delight, struck his spade deep into the ground and started to cut across the lawn to intercept the young lady at another path when he caught sight of a gentleman in the alley up which Andrea was proceeding in hopes to meet her royal mistress.

This gentleman wore a velvet suit under a cloak trimmed deeply with sable; he carried his head high; his hat was under his arm, and his left hand was on his sword. He stuck out his leg, which was well made, and threw up his ankle which was high, like a man of the finest training. On seeing him, Gilbert uttered involuntarily a low exclamation and fled through the sumach bushes like a frightened blackbird.

The nobleman spied Andrea and without quickening his measured gait he manœuvred so as to meet her at the end of a cross-path.

Hearing the steps, she turned a little aside to let the promenader pass her and she glanced at him when he had done so.

He looked at her, and with all his eyes; he stopped to get a better view and turning round, said:

“May I ask why you are running so fast, young lady?”

At this, Andrea saw, thirty paces behind, two royal lifeguards officers, she spied the blue ribbon under the speaker’s mantle, and she faltered, pale and alarmed by this encounter and accosting:

“The King!”

“I have such poor sight that I am obliged to inquire your name?” returned the monarch, approaching as she courtseyed lowly.

“I am Mdlle. de Taverney,” she murmured, so confused and trembling that she hardly made herself understood.

“Oh, yes; are you making a voyage of discovery in the place?”

“I am going to join her Royal Highness, the Dauphiness, whom I am in attendance,” replied Andrea more and more agitated.

“I will see you to her,” said the King, “for I am going to my grand-daughter-in-law to pay her a call like a country neighbor. So, kindly accept my arm.”

Andrea felt her sight dimmed and her blood boiling up in her heart. Like a dream appeared this honor to the impoverished nobleman’s daughter, to be on the arm of the lord overall – a glory despaired of, an incredible favor which the whole court would covet. She made a profound courtesy so religiously shrinking that the King was obliged to return it with a bow. When Louis XV. remembered his sire, he did so in ceremonious matters: it is true that French royal attentions to the fair sex dated back to King Harry Fourth of gallant memory.

Though the King was not fond of walking, he took the longest way round to the Trianon: the two guards officers in attendance saw this as they were not any too warmly clad.

They arrived late as the Dauphiness had started, not to keep her lord and master waiting. They, too, were at the table, with Lady Noailles, nicknamed, “Lady Stickler,” so rigid about etiquet was she, and the Duke of Richelieu in attendance, when the servant’ voices echoed through the house:

“The King!”

At this magic word, Lady Noailles jumped up as if worked by a spring; Richelieu rose leisurely as usual; the Dauphin wiped his mouth with his napkin and stood up in his place, with his face turned to the door.

The Dauphiness moved towards the door to meet the visitor the sooner and do him the honors of the house.

Louis was still holding Andrea by the hand and only at the landing did he release her, saluting her with so long and courteous a bow that Richelieu had time to notice the grace of it, and wonder to what happy mortal it was addressed.

The Dauphiness had seen and recognized Andrea.

“Daughter,” said Louis taking the Austrian’s arm, “I come without ceremony to ask supper. I crossed the park and meeting Mdlle. de Taverney on the road I entreated her to keep me company.”

“The Taverney girl?” muttered Richelieu, almost stunned. “By my faith, this is very lucky, for she is daughter of an old friend of mine.”

“The consequence is that, instead of scolding the young lady for being late, I shall thank her for having brought your Majesty,” said the Dauphiness pleasantly.

Red as the cherries garnishing a dish on the table, Andrea bowed without replying.

“Deuce take me but she is very lovely,” thought Richelieu, “and that old rogue Taverney never sang her up highly enough.”

After receiving the bow of the Dauphin, Louis sat at table, where a place was always reserved for him. Endowed with a good appetite like his ancestors, he did honor to the spread which the steward had ready as if by magic. But while eating, the King, whose back was to the door, fidgetted as though he was looking for somebody or something.

The fact was Mdlle. de Taverney, having no fixed position in the household, had not entered the dining-room but after bowing to the Dauphin and his lady, went into the sitting-room where she was wont to read to her mistress.