Читать книгу Cerise: A Tale of the Last Century - G. J. Whyte-Melville - Страница 9

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The death of the great king, and the first transactions of the Regency, left little leisure to Abbé Malletort for the thousand occupations of his every-day life. With the busy churchman, to stagnate was a cessation of existence. As some men study bodily health and vigour, carefully attending to the development of their frames by constant and unremitting exercise, so did the Abbé preserve his intellect in the highest possible training by its varied use, and seemed to grudge the loss of every hour in which he either omitted to learn something new or lay a fresh stepping-stone for the employment of knowledge previously acquired. Like Juvenal’s Greek, he studied all the sciences in turn, but his labour was never without an object, nor had he the slightest scruples in applying its results to his own advantage. Malletort was qualified to deal with the most consummate knave, but he might have been unconsciously out-manœuvred by a really honest man, simply from his own habitual disregard of the maxim, as true in ethics as in mathematics, which teaches that the shortest way from any one given point to another is a straight line.

The Abbé had therefore many irons in his fire, careful, however, so to hold them that he should preserve his own fingers from being burnt; and amongst others, he often applied his spare hours to the study of chemistry.

Now in the time of which I am speaking the tree of knowledge had not been entirely denuded of its parasite credulity. Science and superstition were not yet finally divorced, and the philosopher’s stone was still eagerly sought by many an enthusiast who liked to regenerate the world in a process of which the making a colossal fortune for himself should be the first step. Not that the Abbé quite believed in the possibility of creating gold, but that, true to his character, he was prepared to be satisfied with any glittering substitute which the world could be induced to accept in its stead. So he too had his little laboratory, his little forge, his little crucibles, and vials, and acids, and essences, all the rudiments of science, and some faint foreshadowings of her noblest discoveries.

If a man goes into his garden, and seeks eagerly on hands and knees, we will suppose, for a four-leaved shamrock, I am not prepared to say that he will succeed in finding that rare and abnormal plant; but in his search after it, and the close attention thereby entailed, he will doubtless observe many beauties of vegetation, many curious arrangements of nature that have hitherto escaped his notice; and though he fails to discover the four-leaved shamrock, he makes acquaintance with a hundred no less interesting specimens, and returns home a wiser naturalist than he went out. So was it with the adepts, as they called themselves, who sought diligently after the philosopher’s stone. They read, they thought, they fused, they dissolved, they mingled; they analysed fluids, they separated gases; they ascertained the combinations of which one substance was formed, and the ingredients into which another could be resolved. They missed the object of their search, no doubt, but they lost neither for themselves nor their successors all the result of their labours; for while the precious elixir itself escaped them, they captured almost everything else that was worth learning for the application of chemistry to the humbler purposes of every-day life. Unfortunately, too, in tampering with so many volatile essences, they became familiar with the subtler kinds of poison. A skilful adept of that school knew how to rid a patron of his enemies in twenty-four hours without fail, and to use the while no more overt weapon than the grasp of a gloved hand, a pinch of scented snuff, or the poisoned fragrance of a posy of flowers.

Such men drove a thriving trade in Paris during the Regency, and our Abbé, himself no mean proficient in the craft, was in the habit of spending many an hour in the laboratory of one who could boast he was a match for the most skilful of the brotherhood.

It was for this purpose that Malletort crossed the Seine, and penetrated into one of the loftiest, gloomiest, and narrowest streets of Old Paris—how different from Imperial Paris of to-day!—to thread its windings, with his accustomed placid face and jaunty step, ere he stopped at the door of the tallest, most dilapidated, and dirtiest building in the row.

The Abbé’s face was, if possible, more self-satisfied, his step even lighter than usual. He was in high favour with the Regent, and the Regent, at least among the lower classes, was still the most popular man in France. They were aware of his vices, indeed, but passed them over in a spirit of liberality, bordering on want of principle, with which the French, in this respect so unlike ourselves, permit their leading men a latitude of private conduct proportioned to their public utility. Had the Abbé doubted his patron’s popularity, he need only have listened to an impudent little urchin, who ran almost between his legs, shouting at the top of his voice a favourite street song of the day called “The Débonnaire.”

“’Tis a very fine place to be monarch of France,

Most Christian king, and St. Louis’s son,

When he takes up his fiddle the others must dance,

And they durstn’t sit down till the music’s done.

But I’d rather be Regent—eh! wouldn’t you, Pierre?

Such a Regent as ours, so débonnaire.

Tra-la-la—tra-la-la—such a mien, such an air!

Oh, yes! our Regent is débonnaire.

“A monarch of France, when they bring him to dine,

They must hand him a cloth, and a golden bowl;

But the Regent can call for a flagon of wine,

And need never sit down till he’s emptied the whole.

He wouldn’t give much for your dry-lipped fare,

This Regent of ours, so débonnaire.

Tra-la-la—tra-la-la—how he’ll stagger and swear,

Oh, yes! our Regent is débonnaire.

“A monarch of France has a mate on the throne,

And his likings and loves must be under the rose;

But the Regent takes all the sweet flowers for his own,

And he pulls them by handfuls wherever he goes.

Of the bright and the fair, the rich and the rare,

Our Regent, you see, is so débonnaire.

Tra-la-la—tra-la-la—he puts in for his share,

Oh, yes! our Regent is débonnaire.

“A monarch of France has his peers in a row,

And they bring him his boots with the morning light;

But our Regent is never caught bare-footed so,

For his roués and he, they sit booted all night!

And they drink and they swear, and they blink and they stare—

And never a monarch of France can compare,

Neither Louis the Fat, nor yet Philip the Fair,

With this Regent of ours, so débonnaire.

Tra-la-la—tra-la-la—let us drink to him, Pierre!

Oh, yes! our Regent is débonnaire.”

“Tra-la-la, tra-la-la, he is débonnaire!” hummed the Abbé, as he mounted the wooden staircase, and stopped at the first door on the landing. “Monsieur le Duc is welcome to make all the music for our puppet dance so long as he leaves it to Monsieur l’Abbé to pull the strings.”

Two gaudily dressed footmen answered Malletort’s summons and admitted him obsequiously, as being a well-known friend of their master’s, before he had time to ask if Signor Bartoletti was within. The Abbé had visited here too often to be surprised at the luxuries of the apartment into which he was ushered, so little in character with the dirt and dilapidation that prevailed outside; but Signor Bartoletti, alleging in excuse the requirements of his southern blood, indulged in every extravagance to which his means would stretch, was consequently always in difficulties, and therefore ready to assist in any scheme, however nefarious, provided he was well paid.

The Signor’s tastes were obviously florid. Witness the theatrical appearance of his lackeys, the bright colour of his furniture, the gaudy ornaments on his chimneypiece, the glaring pictures on his walls; nay, the very style and chasing of a massive flagon of red wine standing on the table by a filagree basket of fruit for his refection.

The man himself, too, was palpably over-dressed, wearing a sword here in the retirement of his chamber, yet wearing it as one whose hand was little familiar with its guard. Every resource of lace, velvet, satin, and embroidery had been employed in vain to give him an outward semblance of distinction, but there was an expression of intellect and energy in his dark beetle-browed face, with its restless black eyes, that, in spite of low stature and ungainly make, redeemed him from the imputation of utter vulgarity.

His hands, too (and there is a good deal of character in the hand), were strong, nervous, and exceedingly well-shaped, though sadly stained and scorched by the acids he made use of in the prosecution of his art.

A less keen observer than the Abbé might not have remarked beneath the signor’s cordial greeting symptoms of anxiety, and even apprehension, blended with something of the passive defiance which seems to say, “I am in a corner. I have no escape. I don’t like it; but I must make the best of it.”

A less keen observer, too, might not have detected a ring of bravado in the tone with which he accosted his visitor as a disciple and fellow-labourer in the cause of science.

“Welcome, monsieur,” said he—“welcome to the teacher who needs the assistance of his pupil every step he travels on the radiant path. Have you made discoveries, Monsieur l’Abbé? Fill your glass, and impart them. Have you encountered difficulties?—Fill your glass, and conquer them. Have you seen the true light glimmering far, far off across the black waters?—Fill your glass, I say, and let us drink success to our voyage ere we embark once more in search of the Great Secret.”

“Faith, I believe we’re nearer it than you think for, Bartoletti,” answered Malletort, smiling coldly; “though I doubt if you could look to the right point of the compass for it with all your geography. What do you think of the Scotchman’s banking scheme, my gold-seeking friend? Is not Monsieur Las[2] a better alchemist than either of us? Has he not discovered the Great Arcanum? And without fire or bellows, crucible, alembic, or retort? Why, the best of us have used up every metal that the earth produces without arriving—though I grant you we have come very near it—yet without arriving at perfection; and here’s an Englishman only asks for a ton or so of paper, a Government stamp, and—presto!—with a stroke of the pen he turns it all to gold.”

“Have you, too, bought Mississippi Stock?” asked the Signor, eagerly. “Then the scheme is prospering; the shares will rise once more. It is good to hold on!”

“Not quite such a fool!” answered the Abbé; and Bartoletti’s swarthy face fell several inches, for he had a high opinion of his visitor’s financial perceptions.

“And yet the Rue Quincampoix was so thronged yesterday, I was compelled to leave my coach, and bid my lackeys force a passage for me through the crowd,” urged the Signor. “Madame was there, and the Duc du Maine, and more peers of France than you would see at the council. There must be life in it! All the world cannot be dupes. And yet the shares have fallen even since this morning.”

“All the world are not likely to be on the winning side,” replied the Abbé, quietly, “or who would be left to pay the stakes? From whom do you suppose Monsieur Las makes his profits? You know he has bought the Hôtel Mazarin. You know he has bought Count de Tessé’s house, furniture, pictures, plate, and all, even to the English carriage-horses that his coachman does not know how to drive. Where do you suppose the money comes from? When a society of people are engaged in eating one another, it seems to me that the emptiest stomach has the best chance.”

His listener looked thoughtfully on his scorched, scarred fingers. It might be that he reflected in how many ways he had burnt them.

“What do you advise me to do?” he asked, after a pause, during which he had filled and emptied a goblet of the red wine that stood at his elbow.

“Realise,” was the answer. “Realise, and without delay. The game is like tennis, and must be played with the same precision. If your ball be not taken at the first rebound, its force is so deadened that your utmost skill falls short of cutting it over the net.”

The Abbé’s metaphor, drawn from that fashionable pastime which had been a favourite amusement of the late king, was not without its effect on his listener. Like a skilful practitioner, he suffered his advice to sink into the adept’s mind before he took advantage of its effects. In other sciences besides chemistry and cookery, it is well to let your ingredients simmer undisturbed in the crucible till they are thoroughly fused and amalgamated.

He wanted the Signor malleable, and nothing, he knew by experience, rendered Bartoletti so obliging as a conviction that he lacked means to provide for his self-indulgence. Like the general public, he had been tempted by the great Mississippi scheme, and had invested in its shares the small amount of ready money at his command. It was gradually dawning on him that his speculations would entail considerable loss—that loss he felt, and showed he felt, must be made good. This was the Abbé’s opportunity. He could offer his own price now for the co-operation of his friend.

“We are wasting time sadly,” said the visitor, after a pause. “Let us go to our studies at once,” and he led the way to an inner apartment, as though he had been host and teacher rather than visitor and disciple.

The Signor followed, obedient though unwilling, like a well-trained dog bid to heel by its master.

Malletort turned his cuffs back, seized a small pair of bellows, and blew a heap of powdered coal, mingled with other substances, into a deep violet glow.

“By the by,” he asked as if suddenly recollecting something of no importance, “have you ever had any dealings with negroes? Do you know anything of the superstitions of Obi?”

“I know something of every superstition in the world,” answered the other, “Christian as well as pagan, or how could I afford to drink such wine as you tasted in the next room?”

He laughed while he spoke, heartily enough, and so did Malletort, only the mirth of the latter was assumed. He believed in very little, this Abbé, very little indeed, either for good or evil; but he would have liked, if he could, to believe in the philosopher’s stone.

“I have made acquaintance with an Obi-woman lately,” pursued he; “she may be useful to us both. I will bring her to see you in a day or two, if you will refresh your mind in the meantime with what you can remember of their mysteries, so as to meet her on equal terms.”

Bartoletti looked much relieved, and indeed gratified, when informed that this Obi-woman, instead of being a hideous old negress, was a fine-looking quadroon.

“Is that all you wanted?” said he, quite briskly; but his countenance fell once more on perceiving that the Abbé made no preparations for departure.

“Not quite,” replied the latter. “I am hardly perfect yet in the nature of those essences we studied at my last lesson. Let us go over their powers and properties again.”

The Signor turned a shade paler, but taking down some phials, and two or three papers of powders from a shelf, he did as he was bid, and proceeded systematically enough to explain their contents, gaining confidence, and even growing enthusiastic in his subject as he went on.

At the third packet the Abbé stopped him.

“It is harmless, you say, as a perfume when sprinkled in the form of a powder?”

The Signor nodded.

“But a deadly poison, mixed with three drops of St. Mark’s balsam?”

“Right!” assented the Italian.

“And combined with any vegetable substance, its very odour would be dangerous and even fatal to animal life?”

“You are an apt pupil,” said the other, not without approval, though he turned paler still. “It took me seven weeks’ close study, and a hundred experiments, to find that out.”

“You worked with the glass mask on, of course,” continued the Abbé; “what would have been the effect had you inhaled the odour?”

“I should have come out in red spots at the first inspiration, turned black at the second, and at the third Monsieur l’Abbé should have been lost to the world, to science, and to you,” was the conclusive reply.

“I am not quite satisfied yet,” said Malletort. “I will take a packet home with me for further examination, if you please, and ten drops of St. Mark’s balsam as well.”

“It is worth a thousand francs a drop,” observed the adept, producing at the same time a tiny sealed phial from a drawer under his hand.

“Of course you name your own price,” replied Malletort, snatching up his purchase with impatience, and leaving in its place a purse through which the gold shone temptingly, and which clanked down on the table as if the weight of its lining was satisfactory enough.

The two men seemed to understand each other, for almost before the Signor’s grasp was on the purse his visitor had left the house; but Bartoletti, locking up the drawer, returned to his gaudy sitting-room, with a twitching lip and a cold sweat bursting from his brow.

Till the adept had summoned his theatrical footman, and ordered another flagon of the red wine, he gasped and panted like a man awaking from a nightmare; nor did he recover his equanimity till the flagon was three-parts emptied.

By that time, however, he was scarce in a condition to pursue his researches after the philosopher’s stone.