"Are you of our fraternity? I see you are not. The secret which
Mademoiselle de Bechamel confided to me in her mad triumph and wild
hoyden spirits--she was but a child, poor thing, poor thing, scarce
fifteen;--but I love them young--a folly not unusual with the old!"
(Here Mr. Pinto thrust his knuckles into his hollow eyes; and, I am
sorry to say, so little regardful was he of personal cleanliness,
that his tears made streaks of white over his guarled dark hands.)
"Ah, at fifteen, poor child, thy fate was terrible! Go to! It is
not good to love me, friend. They prosper not who do. I divine
you. You need not say what you are thinking--"
In truth, I was thinking, if girls fall in love with this sallow,
hook-nosed, glass-eyed, wooden-legged, dirty, hideous old man, with
the sham teeth, they have a queer taste. THAT is what I was
thinking.
"Jack Wilkes said the handsomest man in London had but half an
hour's start of him. And, without vanity, I am scarcely uglier
than Jack Wilkes. We were members of the same club at Medenham
Abbey, Jack and I, and had many a merry night together. Well, sir,
I--Mary of Scotland knew me but as a little hunchbacked music
master; and yet, and yet, I think she was not indifferent to her
David Riz--and SHE came to misfortune. They all do--they all do!"
"Sir, you are wandering from your point!" I said, with some
severity. For, really, for this old humbug to hint that he had
been the baboon who frightened the club at Medenham, that he had
been in the Inquisition at Valladolid--that under the name of D.
Riz, as he called it, he had known the lovely Queen of Scots--was a
LITTLE too much. "Sir," then I said, "you were speaking about a
Miss Bechamel. I really have not time to hear all of your
biography."
"Faith, the good wine gets into my head." (I should think so, the
old toper! Four bottles all but two glasses.) "To return to poor
Blanche. As I sat laughing, joking with her, she let slip a word,
a little word, which filled me with dismay. Some one had told her
a part of the Secret--the secret which has been divulged scarce
thrice in three thousand years--the Secret of the Freemasons. Do
you know what happens to those uninitiate who learn that secret? to
those wretched men, the initiate who reveal it?"
As Pinto spoke to me, he looked through and through me with his
horrible piercing glance, so that I sat quite uneasily on my bench.
He continued: "Did I question her awake? I knew she would lie to
me. Poor child! I loved her no less because I did not believe a
word she said. I loved her blue eye, her golden hair, her
delicious voice, that was true in song, though when she spoke,
false as Eblis! You are aware that I possess in rather a
remarkable degree what we have agreed to call the mesmeric power.
I set the unhappy girl to sleep. THEN she was obliged to tell me
all. It was as I had surmised. Goby de Mouchy, my wretched,
besotted miserable secretary, in his visits to the chateau of the
Marquis de Bechamel, who was one of our society, had seen Blanche.
I suppose it was because she had been warned that he was worthless,
and poor, artful and a coward, she loved him. She wormed out of
the besotted wretch the secrets of our Order. 'Did he tell you the
NUMBER ONE?' I asked.
"She said, 'Yes.'
"'Did he,' I further inquired, 'tell you the--'
"'Oh, don't ask me, don't ask me!' she said, writhing on the sofa,
where she lay in the presence of the Marquis de Bechamel, her most
unhappy father. Poor Bechamel, poor Bechamel! How pale he looked
as I spoke! 'Did he tell you,' I repeated with a dreadful calm,
'the NUMBER TWO?' She said, 'Yes.'
"The poor old marquis rose up, and clasping his hands, fell on his
knees before Count Cagl---- Bah! I went by a different name then.
Vat's in a name? Dat vich ye call a Rosicrucian by any other name
vil smell as sveet. 'Monsieur,' he said, 'I am old--I am rich. I
have five hundred thousand livres of rentes in Picardy. I have
half as much in Artois. I have two hundred and eighty thousand on
the Grand Livre. I am promised by my Sovereign a dukedom and his
orders with a reversion to my heir. I am a Grandee of Spain of the
First Class, and Duke of Volovento. Take my titles, my ready
money, my life, my honor, everything I have in the world, but don't
ask the THIRD QUESTION.'
"'Godfroid de Bouillon, Comte de Bechamel, Grandee of Spain and
Prince of Volovento, in our Assembly what was the oath you swore?'
The old man writhed as he remembered its terrific purport.
"Though my heart was racked with agony, and I would have died, aye,
cheerfully" (died, indeed, as if THAT were a penalty!) "to spare
yonder lovely child a pang, I said to her calmly, 'Blanche de
Bechamel, did Goby de Mouchy tell you secret NUMBER THREE?'
"She whispered a oui that was quite faint, faint and small. But
her poor father fell in convulsions at her feet.
"She died suddenly that night. Did I not tell you those I love
come to no good? When General Bonaparte crossed the Saint Bernard,
he saw in the convent an old monk with a white beard, wandering
about the corridors, cheerful and rather stout, but mad--mad as a
March hare. 'General,' I said to him, 'did you ever see that face
before?' He had not. He had not mingled much with the higher
classes of our society before the Revolution. I knew the poor old
man well enough; he was the last of a noble race, and I loved his
child."
"And did she die by--?"
"Man! did I say so? Do I whisper the secrets of the Vehmgericht?
I say she died that night: and he--he, the heartless, the villain,
the betrayer,--you saw him seated in yonder curiosity shop, by
yonder guillotine, with his scoundrelly head in his lap.
"You saw how slight that instrument was? It was one of the first
which Guillotin made, and which he showed to private friends in a
hangar in the Rue Picpus, where he lived. The invention created
some little conversation among scientific men at the time, though I
remember a machine in Edinburgh of a very similar construction, two
hundred--well, many, many years ago--and at a breakfast which
Guillotin gave he showed us the instrument, and much talk arose
among us as to whether people suffered under it.
"And now I must tell you what befell the traitor who had caused all
this suffering. Did he know that the poor child's death was a
SENTENCE? He felt a cowardly satisfaction that with her was gone
the secret of his treason. Then he began to doubt. I had MEANS to
penetrate all his thoughts, as well as to know his acts. Then he
became a slave to a horrible fear. He fled in abject terror to a
convent. They still existed in Paris; and behind the walls of
Jacobins the wretch thought himself secure. Poor fool! I had but
to set one of my somnambulists to sleep. Her spirit went forth and
spied the shuddering wretch in his cell. She described the street,
the gate, the convent, the very dress which he wore, and which you
saw to-day.
"And now THIS is what happened. In his chamber in the Rue St.
Honore, at Paris, sat a man ALONE--a man who has been maligned, a
man who has been called a knave and charlatan, a man who has been
persecuted even to the death, it is said, in Roman Inquisitions,
forsooth, and elsewhere. Ha! ha! A man who has a mighty will.
"And looking toward the Jacobins Convent (of which, from his
chamber, he could see the spires and trees), this man WILLED. And
it was not yet dawn. And he willed; and one who was lying in his
cell in the convent of Jacobins, awake and shuddering with terror
for a crime which he had committed, fell asleep.
"But though he was asleep his eyes were open.
"And after tossing and writhing, and clinging to the pallet, and
saying 'No, I will not go,' he rose up and donned his clothes--a
gray coat, a vest of white pique, black satin small-clothes, ribbed
silk stockings, and a white stock with a steel buckle; and he
arranged his hair, and he tied his queue, all the while being in
that strange somnolence which walks, which moves, which FLIES
sometimes, which sees, which is indifferent to pain, which OBEYS.
And he put on his hat, and he went forth from his cell: and though
the dawn was not yet, he trod the corridors as seeing them. And he
passed into the cloister, and then into the garden where lie the
ancient dead. And he came to the wicket, which Brother Jerome was
opening just at the dawning. And the crowd was already waiting
with their cans and bowls to receive the alms of the good brethren.
"And he passed through the crowd and went on his way, and the few
people then abroad who marked him, said, 'Tiens! How very odd he
looks! He looks like a man walking in his sleep!' This was said
by various persons:--
"By milk women, with their cans and carts, coming into the town.
"By roysterers who had been drinking at the taverns of the Barrier,
for it was Mid-Lent.
"By the sergeants of the watch, who eyed him sternly as he passed
near their halberds.
"But he passed on unmoved by their halberds,
"Unmoved by the cries of the roysterers,
"By the market women coming with their milk and eggs.
"He walked through the Rue St. Honore, I say:--
"By the Rue Rambuteau,
"By the Rue St. Antoine,
"By the King's Chateau of the Bastille,
"By the Faubourg St. Antoine.
"And he came to No. 29 in the Rue Picpus--a house which then stood
between a court and garden--
"That is, there was a building of one story, with a great coach
door.
"Then there was a court, around which were stables, coach-houses,
offices.
"Then there was a house--a two-storied house, with a perron in
front.
"Behind the house was a garden--a garden of two hundred and fifty
French feet in length.
"And as one hundred feet of France equal one hundred and six feet
of England, this garden, my friend, equaled exactly two hundred and
sixty-five feet of British measure.
"In the center of the garden was a fountain and a statue--or, to
speak more correctly, two statues. One was recumbent,--a man.
Over him, saber in hand, stood a Woman.
"The man was Olofernes. The woman was Judith. From the head, from
the trunk, the water gushed. It was the taste of the doctor:--was
it not a droll of taste?
"At the end of the garden was the doctor's cabinet of study. My
faith, a singular cabinet, and singular pictures!--
"Decapitation of Charles Premier at Vitehall.
"Decapitation of Montrose at Edimbourg.
"Decapitation of Cinq Mars. When I tell you that he was a man of
taste, charming!
"Through this garden, by these statues, up these stairs, went the
pale figure of him who, the porter said, knew the way of the house.
He did. Turning neither right nor left, he seemed to walk THROUGH
the statues, the obstacles, the flower beds, the stairs, the door,
the tables, the chairs.
"In the corner of the room was THAT INSTRUMENT, which Guillotin had
just invented and perfected. One day he was to lay his own head
under his own ax. Peace be to his name! With him I deal not!
"In a frame of mahogany, neatly worked, was a board with a half
circle in it, over which another board fitted. Above was a heavy
ax, which fell--you know how. It was held up by a rope, and when
this rope was untied, or cut, the steel fell.
"To the story which I now have to relate, you may give credence, or
not, as you will. The sleeping man went up to that instrument.
"He laid his head in it, asleep."
"Asleep?"
"He then took a little penknife out of the pocket of his white
dimity waistcoat.
"He cut the rope asleep.
"The ax descended on the head of the traitor and villain. The
notch in it was made by the steel buckle of his stock, which was
cut through.
"A strange legend has got abroad that after the deed was done, the
figure rose, took the head from the basket, walked forth through
the garden, and by the screaming porters at the gate, and went and
laid itself down at the Morgue. But for this I will not vouch.
Only of this be sure. 'There are more things in heaven and earth,
Horatio, than are dreamed of in your philosophy.' More and more
the light peeps through the chinks. Soon, amidst music ravishing,
the curtain will rise, and the glorious scene be displayed. Adieu!
Remember me. Ha! 'tis dawn," Pinto said. And he was gone.
I am ashamed to say that my first movement was to clutch the check
which he had left with me, and which I was determined to present
the very moment the bank opened. I know the importance of these
things, and that men change their mind sometimes. I sprang through
the streets to the great banking house of Manasseh in Duke Street.
It seemed to me as if I actually flew as I walked. As the clock
struck ten I was at the counter and laid down my check.
The gentleman who received it, who was one of the Hebrew
persuasion, as were the other two hundred clerks of the
establishment, having looked at the draft with terror in his
countenance, then looked at me, then called to himself two of his
fellow clerks, and queer it was to see all their aquiline beaks
over the paper.
"Come, come!" said I, "don't keep me here all day. Hand me over
the money, short, if you please!" for I was, you see, a little
alarmed, and so determined to assume some extra bluster.
"Will you have the kindness to step into the parlor to the
partners?" the clerk said, and I followed him.
"What, AGAIN?" shrieked a bald-headed, red-whiskered gentleman,
whom I knew to be Mr. Manasseh. "Mr. Salathiel, this is too bad!
Leave me with this gentleman, S." And the clerk disappeared.
"Sir," he said, "I know how you came by this: the Count de Pinto
gave it you. It is too bad! I honor my parents; I honor THEIR
parents; I honor their bills! But this one of grandma's is too
bad--it is, upon my word, now! She've been dead these five-and-
thirty years. And this last four months she has left her burial
place and took to drawing on our 'ouse! It's too bad, grandma; it
is too bad!" and he appealed to me, and tears actually trickled
down his nose.
"Is it the Countess Sidonia's check or not?" I asked, haughtily.
"But, I tell you, she's dead! It's a shame!--it's a shame!--it is,
grandmamma!" and he cried, and wiped his great nose in his yellow
pocket handkerchief. "Look year--will you take pounds instead of
guineas? She's dead, I tell you! It's no go! Take the pounds--
one tausend pound!--ten nice, neat, crisp hundred-pound notes, and
go away vid you, do!"
"I will have my bond, sir, or nothing," I said; and I put on an
attitude of resolution which I confess surprised even myself.
"Wery veil," he shrieked, with many oaths, "then you shall have
noting--ha, ha, ha!--noting but a policeman! Mr. Abednego, call a
policeman! Take that, you humbug and impostor!" and here with an
abundance of frightful language which I dare not repeat, the
wealthy banker abused and defied me.
Au bout du compte, what was I to do, if a banker did not choose to
honor a check drawn by his dead grandmother? I began to wish I had
my snuff-box back. I began to think I was a fool for changing that
little old-fashioned gold for
this slip of strange paper.
Meanwhile the banker had passed from his fit of anger to a paroxysm
of despair. He seemed to be addressing some person invisible, but
in the room: "Look here, ma'am, you've really been coming it too
strong. A hundred thousand in six months, and now a thousand more!
The 'ouse can't stand it; it WON'T stand it, I say! What? Oh!
mercy, mercy!
As he uttered these words, A HAND fluttered over the table in the
air! It was a female hand: that which I had seen the night before.
That female hand took a pen from the green baize table, dipped it
in a silver inkstand, and wrote on a quarter of a sheet of foolscap
on the blotting book, "How about the diamond robbery? If you do
not pay, I will tell him where they are."
What diamonds? what robbery? what was this mystery? That will
never be ascertained, for the wretched man's demeanor instantly
changed. "Certainly, sir;--oh, certainly," he said, forcing a
grin. "How will you have the money, sir? All right, Mr. Abednego.
This way out."
"I hope I shall often see you again," I said; on which I own poor
Manasseh gave a dreadful grin, and shot back into his parlor.
I ran home, clutching the ten delicious, crisp hundred pounds, and
the dear little fifty which made up the account. I flew through
the streets again. I got to my chambers. I bolted the outer
doors. I sank back in my great chair, and slept. . . .
My first thing on waking was to feel for my money. Perdition!
Where was I? Ha!--on the table before me was my grandmother's
snuff-box, and by its side one of those awful--those admirable--
sensation novels, which I had been reading, and which are full of
delicious wonder.
But that the guillotine is still to be seen at Mr. Gale's, No. 47,
High Holborn, I give you MY HONOR. I suppose I was dreaming about
it. I don't know. What is dreaming? What is life? Why shouldn't
I sleep on the ceiling?--and am I sitting on it now, or on the
floor? I am puzzled. But enough. If the fashion for sensation
novels goes on, I tell you I will write one in fifty volumes. For
the present, DIXI. But between ourselves, this Pinto, who fought
at the Colosseum, who was nearly being roasted by the Inquisition,
and sang duets at Holyrood, I am rather sorry to lose him after
three little bits of Roundabout Papers. Et vous?