[Illustration: "HE SAW A DULL HEAVY SMOKE ARISE TO THE CEILING."
[_Page 171._]]
A MODERN ALADDIN
_OR, THE WONDERFUL ADVENTURES
OF OLIVER MUNIER_
=An Extravaganza in Four Acts=
BY HOWARD PYLE
AUTHOR OF "PEPPER AND SALT" ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK
HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE
1892
Copyright, 1891, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
_All rights reserved._
ILLUSTRATIONS.
"HE SAW A DULL HEAVY SMOKE ARISE TO THE CEILING" _Frontispiece_
"HE WAS A TALL, DARK GENTLEMAN, DRESSED IN BLACK
FROM HEAD TO FOOT" _To face page_ 8
"'I AM THY UNCLE,' SAID THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN" " " 12
"AT THAT MOMENT SHE LOOKED UP" " " 18
"HE SUDDENLY BEGAN AN UNCOUTH, GROTESQUE DANCE" " " 22
"HE LIGHTED A MATCH AND DROPPED IT INTO THE VASE" " " 30
"OLIVER GAVE A PIPING CRY" " " 36
"AT THE OPEN DOOR-WAY STOOD GASPARD AND HIS MASTER" " " 42
"CREEPING CAUTIOUSLY FORWARD, OLIVER CAME TO THE
CHIMNEY-PIECE" " " 46
"'GOOD-DAY, MONSIEUR,' SAID A FAMILIAR VOICE" " " 56
"THE QUESTION WAS SO SUDDEN AND SO STARTLING THAT
OLIVER SANK BACK IN HIS SEAT" " " 58
"SUCH WAS THE WORKSHOP IN WHICH THE TWO LABORED
TOGETHER" " " 70
"THEY SAW ARNOLD DE VILLENEUVE, THE GREAT MASTER,
UPON THE FLOOR" " " 74
"SHE HELD THE BOOK IN THE FLAMES WHILE TALKING, HER
EYES FIXED INTENTLY UPON IT" " " 84
"HE LEANED OVER AND LOOKED INTO HER FACE" " " 86
"AND STRIPPED THE FALSE BODY OFF OF HIM AS YOU MIGHT
STRIP OFF A MAN'S COAT" " " 94
"HE SAW WITHIN AN OVAL MIRROR SET IN A HEAVY FRAME OF
COPPER" " " 98
"THE INNKEEPER SERVED HIM IN PERSON" " " 102
"'MAD!' SAID OLIVER, 'WHY AM I MAD?'" " " 110
"HE IS CLAD IN A LOOSE DRESSING-ROBE OF FIGURED CLOTH,
AND LIES IN BED READING HIS BOOK" " " 114
"OLIVER SPREAD OUT THE GEMS UPON THE TABLE WITH HIS
HAND" " " 124
"ENTER OLIVER AND MADEMOISELLE CÉLESTE" " " 130
"'DO YOU KNOW,' SAID THE MARQUIS, 'WHAT A THING IT IS
THAT YOU ASK?'" " " 136
"HE SANK ON HIS KNEES BESIDE HER" " " 140
"SHE DREW HER DOWN UNTIL THE GIRL KNEELED UPON THE
FLOOR BESIDE HER" " " 146
"'MONSIEUR THE COUNT DE ST. GERMAINE!'" " " 148
"THE COUNT DE ST. GERMAINE, WITHOUT REMOVING HIS EYES
FROM HIS VICTIM, TOOK ANOTHER DEEP, LUXURIOUS
PINCH OF SNUFF" " " 152
"OLIVER FIXED HIS GAZE UPON THE SMOOTH, BRILLIANT
SURFACE OF THE GLASS" " " 166
"THEY BEHELD THEIR MASTER LYING UPON HIS FACE UNDER
THE TABLE" " " 176
"SUDDENLY SOME ONE TOUCHED OLIVER SLIGHTLY UPON THE
SHOULDER" " " 178
"'CÉLESTE!' BREATHED OLIVER THROUGH THE CRACK OF THE
DOOR" " " 186
"HE FOUND IN HIS CLINCHED HAND A LACE CRAVAT" " " 194
"OVER HIS SHOULDERS HE CARRIED SOMETHING LIMP, LIKE AN
EMPTY SKIN, OR A BUNDLE OF CLOTHES TIED TOGETHER" " " 198
[Illustration]
A MODERN ALADDIN;
OR,
THE WONDERFUL ADVENTURES OF OLIVER MUNIER.
An Extravaganza in Four Acts.
[Illustration]
A MODERN ALADDIN.
PROLOGUE.
The Comte de St. Germaine was a real historical character. Of all
the many adventurers brilliant and volatile that flitted across
the polished surface of Parisian life during the gay butterfly
days of La Pompadour, none was more interesting, none left a more
fascinating reflection, than he. No one knew who he was, no one knew
his antecedents, no one knew whence he came, but there he suddenly
appeared, to shine transiently and somewhat luridly for a year or two
in a certain heaven of quasi high life.
Nothing could have been more sudden than his advent. One day he was
unheard of; the next, all the world talked of him, gazed at him, and
wondered. Great people adopted him and made much of him; courtiers and
cabinet ministers bowed to him; the king petted him, talked with him
in his privy closet by the hour, and held long and intimate discourse
with him. He possessed the rare and distinguished privilege of a free
and familiar entrée to Madame de Pompadour's dressing-room--a crowning
honor, and one only enjoyed by the greatest and most favored courtiers.
And, indeed, the Parisian world had more cause to wonder and to marvel
at him than at many another star that shone at different times in that
firmament. First it was a whisper that got about that he was three,
some said four, and others five hundred years old. Then it was said
that there were those who had known him, gay, handsome, brilliant,
fifty years before--as gay, as handsome, as brilliant. Then came a
second whispering rumor--that he was the richest man in the world--a
rumor also somewhat confirmed, for there were those, whose word was
indisputable, who vouched to his having shown them incalculable
treasures of diamonds. He himself never laid claim either to the
extreme age or to the incalculable treasure, but the world claimed the
one and talked of the other for him. And all the talk and gossip seemed
to be built upon good foundation.
For example, said Madame de Pompadour to him one day, "But you do not
tell us your age, and yet the Comtess de Gergy, who was ambassadress
at Vienna more than fifty years ago, says that she saw you there then
exactly the same as you now appear."
"It is quite true, madame," replied St. Germaine, quietly, "that I knew
Madame de Gergy many years ago."
"But, according to her account, you must be more than a hundred years
old?"
"That is not impossible," said he; and then added, laughing, "but it is
quite possible that the countess is in her dotage."
As for his vast wealth, that also stood upon substantial foundation.
The Baron de Sleichen says, in his Memoirs, that one day the count
showed him so many diamonds that he thought he saw all the treasures
of Aladdin's lamp spread out before him. He showed Madame de Pompadour
a little box of precious stones worth more than half a million livres.
Says Madame de Hausset: "The count came to see Madame de Pompadour,
who was very ill. He showed her diamonds enough to furnish a king's
treasury. At still another time, when a number of the principal
courtiers were present, he visited madame's apartments wearing
magnificent diamond knee and shoe buckles. At her request he went into
an adjoining apartment and removed them for closer inspection. They
were worth, M. de Gontat said, not less than twenty thousand livres."
So it came about that the Comte de St. Germaine shone, a brilliant
star in his firmament, for a while; then suddenly he vanished, and the
Parisian world saw him no more. For six days that world wondered and
speculated concerning his disappearance; then, on the seventh day, it
forgot him.
ACT I.
SCENE FIRST.--_A street in Flourens, the house of the late
Jean Munier, tailor, in the foreground._
Flourens was a little town lying quite out of the usual route of
young English travellers of rich connections making the "grand tour,"
and so, having nothing to recommend it in itself, was unknown to the
great world without--dull, stupid, stagnant. Hardly ever a visitor
from that great outside world appeared within the circle of its
hopeless isolation. So it was a very strange thing to the town when
one morning a great coach, as big as a house, dragged by four horses,
with postilions clad in scarlet faced with blue, their legs incased
in huge jack-boots, and each with a club queue as thick as his wrist
hanging down his back, came whirling, rattling, lumbering, in the midst
of a swirling cloud of dust, into the silence of the town. It was
twice wonderful when the coach stopped at the inn, and it was thrice
wonderful when an odd, lean, wizened little man, evidently the servant,
let down the steps and helped a strange gentleman from within. He was
a tall, dark gentleman, dressed in black from head to foot--from the
black hat with the black feather to the black silk stockings. From the
gentleman's shoulder hung a long black cloak trimmed and lined with
black fur, and Flourens had never seen his like before. He neither
looked to the right nor to the left, but, without saying good or bad to
any living soul, he and the odd, lean little servant entered the inn,
leaving the crowd that stood without staring and gaping after him. Then
the great coach disappeared through the arched gate that led to the
stable-yard, but it was a long time before the crowd began to disperse,
before the gossiping began to cease, before the cloud of silence and
dullness and stagnation settled by degrees upon the town again. How it
was maybe an hour and a half, and the last of those who had looked and
wondered had gone about their business.
All is quiet, dull, heavily silent again, and in all the bald stretch
of road nothing is to be seen but two women gossiping at a gate-way,
and a solitary cat upon a garden wall watching two sparrows chirping
and fluttering upon the eaves.
[Illustration: "HE WAS A TALL, DARK GENTLEMAN, DRESSED IN BLACK FROM
HEAD TO FOOT."]
It is with this setting that the play opens, and Oliver Munier, the
son of the late Jean Munier, is discovered leaning against the wall
of the house, basking in the sun, his blouse tucked up, his hands in
his pockets, and a straw in his mouth, which he now and then chews
passively in drowsy laziness. Within, his mother is busied about the
house-work, now and then rattling and stirring among the pots and pans,
now and then scolding at him in a shrill, high-pitched voice, to which
he listens with half-shut eyes, chewing his straw the while.
"I know not," said she, stopping for a moment in her work that her
words might have more force in the pause--"I know not whether thou wert
born so, but thou art the laziest scamp that ever my two eyes saw. Here
art thou eighteen years old, and yet hast never earned a single sou
to pay for keeping body and soul together since thy poor father died
five months ago. Poor soul! with him it was snip, snip, snip, stitch,
stitch, stitch. There was never a tailor in Picardy like him. His poor
legs were bent like crooked billets from sitting cross-legged, and his
poor fingers were as rough as horn from the prick of the needle. Thou
lazy vagabond, with him it was work, work, work."
"Perhaps," said Oliver, without turning his head, "it was hard work
that killed my poor father."
"Perhaps it was," said his mother; "but it will never do thee a harm."
Oliver shifted the straw he was chewing from one side of his mouth to
the other. "Very well," said he. "Is not one in the family enough to
die of the same thing?"
"Humph!" said his mother, and went back to her work with more clatter
than ever.
Just then, at the farther end of the street, the inn door opened, and
the strange gentleman in black came out, followed first by his servant,
and then by Pierre, the landlord. He stopped for a moment at the head
of a flight of stone steps, and Pierre pointed, as Oliver thought,
towards their house. Then the strange gentleman came slowly down the
steps, and picking his way around the puddles where the water from the
trough flowed across the road and followed by his servant, came down
the street towards where Oliver stood. At his coming a sudden breeze
of interest seemed to awaken in the street. The two gossips turned and
looked after him; the cat sat up on the wall, and also looked; and
the two sparrows stopped chirping, and seemed to look. Two or three
women appeared at the door-ways with children; three or four heads
were thrust out at the windows, and Oliver, taking his hands out of
his pockets, removed the straw that he might see better without the
interruption of chewing.
The strange gentleman, when he had come to within a little distance
of Oliver, stopped, and beckoning to the little lean serving-man who
followed him, held a short whispered talk with him. The little lean
serving-man nodded, and then the stranger came straight across the
street.
Oliver gaped like a fish.
"You are Oliver Munier?" said the strange gentleman.
"Yes," said Oliver, "I am."
The strange gentleman opened his arms, and before Oliver knew what had
happened, he found himself being embraced in the open street, with all
those looking on.
"I am thy uncle," said the strange gentleman, with a gulp, and
thereupon, releasing Oliver, he took a fine cambric handkerchief out of
his pocket and wiped his eyes.
Oliver stood dumb and gaping. He did not know whether he was asleep or
awake. "My uncle!" he repeated, stupidly, at last.
"Yes, thy uncle."
"My uncle!" repeated Oliver again.
"And thy dear mother?" asked the strange gentleman.
"She is in the house," said Oliver; and then he called, "Mother!
mother!"
And his mother, stopping the clattering with the pots and pans, came to
the door, and then, seeing a strange gentleman, stood quite still and
stared.
"Mother," said Oliver, "here is a man who says he is my uncle."
"Your what?" said his mother.
"My uncle."
"Your uncle?"
"His uncle," said the strange gentleman.
"I never knew the child had one," said Oliver's mother.
"What," said the strange gentleman. "Did Jean Marie never speak of
me--his brother Henri? Ah me! Well, perhaps he was ashamed of me, for
I was the black-sheep of the flock. I have been to the Americas ever
since I ran away from home two-and-thirty years ago, and now I have
come back rich--very rich."
[Illustration: "'I AM THY UNCLE,' SAID THE STRANGE GENTLEMAN."]
At the word "rich," Oliver's mother started as if she had been stung.
"Oliver," she cried, "why do you stand gaping there like a stupid
sot? You lazy vagabond, bring your uncle into the house! And you,
Monsieur Brother, come in, come in!" And she almost dragged the strange
gentleman through the door-way. "Brush your uncle a chair, Oliver,
brush your uncle a chair! There, Monsieur Brother, that is very good.
Now will you not sit down and rest after having come all the way from
the Americas?"
"My servant--" began the strange gentleman.
"We have room for him also; we have room for him as well," said
Oliver's mother. "Come, Monsieur Servant. Oliver, dust him a chair
also."
"Very good," said the strange gentleman; "but it is not that. I had
thought that a little supper--"
"He shall have his supper," said Oliver's mother. "There is enough for
him and for all the rest of us; but no thanks to that son of mine for
that. As lazy a vagabond as ever you saw, Monsieur Brother. He, too,
might have been a tailor, as was his father; but no, he will not work.
He would rather beg or starve than work."
"That is of no importance," said the strange gentleman. "Oliver will
have no need to work; we shall make a gentleman of Oliver. But I was
about to say that I have ordered a little supper at the inn, and my
servant will go and bring it. Go, Gaspard, and see that all is done
well. In the mean time let us talk over family matters among ourselves.
See, here am I, come, as I said, from the Americas, and without a
soul belonging to me but my servant Gaspard. Let us, then, all live
together--you, my sister, and Oliver and me and Gaspard. To-night I
will sleep here in your house. To-morrow Oliver and I shall go to Paris
and choose another lodging, for this is a poor place for the sister and
the nephew of a rich American to live."
Oliver's mother looked around her. "Yes," said she, "that is true. It
is a poor place, a very poor place."
* * * * *
"Here is Gaspard with the little supper," said Oliver's new uncle.
Some one had knocked. Oliver opened the door, and Gaspard came in,
followed by Jacques, the man from the inn, carrying a great basket
upon his head. Oliver and his mother stared with open eyes and mouths,
for they had never seen such a little supper as the ugly servant had
fetched from the inn.
"Gaspard saw to the cooking," said the new uncle. "Gaspard is a famous
cook, and I do not know how I could get along without him."
Oliver watched the servant furtively, and the longer he looked the
more he felt something that made his skin creep. The servant was, as
was said, a little thin, wiry man, and he had a lean, livid face and
straight black hair that almost met the slanting eyebrows; he had a
pair of little twinkling black eyes, mouse-like and cunning; he had
thin, blue, grinning lips that showed every now and then beneath them
a set of large white teeth; he had a long, sharp chin that stuck out
like that of a punchinello; he was unpleasant to look at, but then he
was a good servant--yes, he was a good servant; he might have had felt
upon his feet for all the noise he made, and he spread the table with
only a faint chink or tingle now and then to show that he was at work.
So Oliver sat watching him from under his brows, while the new uncle
talked with his mother.
At last Gaspard drew back from the table and bowed.
"Come," said the new uncle, drawing up a chair, "let us have supper."
SCENE SECOND.--_Midnight in Flourens; a flood of moonlight falling
across the bare and naked street, mystic, colorless._
Oliver felt himself rising like a bubble through the black waters of
sleep. A noise, a shrill, penetrating noise, was ringing in his ears,
and then suddenly, as the bubble breaks, he became wideawake and sat
up. At first he did not know where he was; then he remembered the
strange gentleman--his new-found uncle--and knew that he was in the
garret, and that the uncle was sleeping upon his (Oliver's) bed in the
room below. So recollection came back to his newly awakened senses by
bits and pieces, but all the while the shrill, penetrating sound rang
in his ears. It was like, and yet it was unlike, the crying of a cat.
It was the same high-pitched, tremulous strain, like the wailing of an
impish baby; yet there was a difference--a subtle difference--between
the crying of a cat and the long-drawn, quavering, unearthly sound that
he heard, voiceless and inarticulate, in the silent loneliness of the
midnight and the bewilderment of his new awakening--a difference that
set his limbs to shaking, and sent the chills crawling up and down his
back like cold fingers.
The sound that he heard neither rose nor fell, but continued to shrill
on and on through the silence without, as though it would never come to
an end. Then suddenly it ceased. Oliver sat in darkness upon the garret
floor, with the blankets gathered about his chin, his teeth chattering
and rattling and his limbs shuddering, partly through nervous, partly
through actual chill. "Chicker, chicker, click!" sounded his teeth
loudly in the hush of silence that followed. It seemed as though that
silence was even harder to bear than the sound itself. "It was only
a cat, it was only a cat," he muttered to himself. Then, "The devil!
there it is again!"
Yes, that same strange noise was beginning again; at first so faint
that Oliver was not sure that he heard it, then rising higher and
higher and more and more keen. "It is only a cat, it is only a cat,"
muttered Oliver, faintly. He felt his scalp creeping.
Again the noise ceased as suddenly as before into the same death-like
silence.
Some one was stirring in the room below; it was the American uncle. A
great wave of relief swept over Oliver to find that another besides
himself was awake. The next moment he heard the window that looked out
into the street beneath softly and cautiously raised.
Near where he lay was an open unglazed window. It looked out into the
moonlight just above the one that he had heard raised in the room
below. A faint thrill of curiosity began to stir in the depth of the
chaos of his fright. Strengthened by the companionship of wakefulness,
he crept softly to the square hole and peered fearfully out.
The houses across the way stood black and silent against the pale
moonlit sky behind. The street between was bathed in the white glamour.
In the middle of it and facing the house stood the motionless figure
of a woman wrapped in the folds of a long black cloak. Just below
Oliver was the window that he had heard softly raised a moment since,
and out of it a head was looking. Oliver could only see the back of
the head, but he knew very well that it was the American uncle's. He
must have made some noise, for the head suddenly turned and looked up.
He drew back with a keen thrill, afraid--but not knowing why he was
afraid--of being seen. For a while he stood waiting and listening with
bated breath and a beating heart, but all was silent below. Then again
he peeped cautiously out over the window-sill; the head below was gone
now, but the silent, motionless figure in the street was yet there.
[Illustration: "AT THAT MOMENT SHE LOOKED UP."]
At that moment she looked up, and Oliver saw her face. It was
beautiful, but as livid as death; just such a face as might utter the
sound that had awakened him to his blind terror. The eyes were fixed
upon him, but not as though they saw him, and he leaned far out of the
window, gazing fascinated. Presently the thin lips parted, he saw the
white teeth glitter in the moonlight, and for the third time he heard
that quavering, unearthly wail break out upon the night.
Suddenly the door of the house beneath opened noiselessly, and two
figures stepped out into the pale glamour. One was the American uncle,
the other was the clever servant Gaspard. The latter carried over his
arm something that looked like a long black cloak. At their coming the
sound instantly ceased, and the woman slowly turned her white ghostly
face towards them. The American uncle strode up to her and caught her
fiercely by the wrist, but she moved no more than if she had been dead.
Oliver saw the American uncle stand looking this way and that, like one
seeking for some escape; then he looked at Gaspard. The clever servant
was mouthing and grimacing in a horrible, grotesque manner. Oliver
could see him as plain as day, for the white moonlight shone full in
his lean grisly face. He opened what he carried upon his arm; it was a
long, black, bag-like hood.
Once again the tremulous, wailing cry cut through the night, at first
faint, then rising higher and higher and clearer and clearer. Oliver
saw his uncle shudder. Gaspard grinned; he crouched together, and held
the black bag open in his hands. Oliver heard the American uncle utter
a sharp word that he could not understand, and saw him fling the wrist
he held away from him.
What next passed happened in an instant. There was a leap, a swift,
silent, horrible struggle, and the sound was stilled. Gaspard had
drawn the black bag over the woman's head and shoulders. Then, without
pausing an instant, he picked her up, flung her limp and helpless form
over his shoulder like a sack of grain, turned, and with noiseless
feet ran swiftly down the street. Oliver watched him as he ran into
an inky shadow, flitted across a patch of moonlight, disappeared in a
shadow again, appeared, disappeared, was gone. "My God!" he muttered to
himself; "the bridge and the river are down there. Would he--"
When he looked again he saw that his uncle had gone back into the house.
For a long time the street below lay deserted in the silence of the
moonlight. In the stillness Oliver could hear the far-away sound of
running water and the distant barking of a dog. He leaned against the
side of the window, watching with fascinated interest for the return
of the serving-man. At last he thought that he saw a movement far down
upon the moonlit street. It was Gaspard returning, without his burden.
He appeared, disappeared, passed through the silent blocks of shadow,
of moonlight, of shadow, with the same swift, noiseless steps, until he
reached the road in front of the house. Then he stopped short; there
was a momentary pause, and then he looked quickly and suddenly up. It
was the face of a grinning devil from hell that Oliver saw.
Their glances met; Gaspard's eyes glistened in the moonlight. That
meeting of glances was but for an instant. The next, Gaspard clapped
his hands to the pit of his stomach, and bending over, writhed and
twisted and doubled himself in a convulsion of silent, crazy laughter.
After a while he straightened himself again, and as Oliver gazed,
fascinated, he suddenly began an uncouth, grotesque dance. Around and
around he spun, hopping and bobbing up and down; around, around, with
his black shadow--pot-bellied, long-limbed, and spider-like--hopping
beneath him. So hopping and bobbing, with wagging head and writhing,
twisting limbs, he drew nearer and nearer to the door. Another leap,
and he had hopped into the house, and the street was silent and
deserted once more in the white moonlight.
For a while Oliver continued leaning out of the window, dazed,
bewildered with what he had seen. Then he slowly drew his head in
again, and with trembling limbs and quaking body crawled back to his
blankets that lay in a heap upon the floor in the darkness. He heard a
distant clock strike two; he would have given ten years of his life for
a ray of good, honest sunlight.
_The Morning._
"Did the cats annoy you last night?" said Oliver's mother, as they sat
at breakfast.
"No," said the new uncle. Gaspard and he looked as if they had never
opened their eyes the whole night through.
Oliver sat with the untasted breakfast before him, heavily burdened
with the recollection of what he had seen. For one moment he woke to
the question and answer, and wondered vaguely whether the little supper
of the night before had given him the nightmare. Then his heart sank
back, heavier than ever, for he knew that what he had seen he had seen
with his waking eyes.
Suddenly the new uncle looked up. "We will start for Paris," said he,
"at nine o'clock."
Oliver's heart thrilled at the words. It was on his tongue to say, "I
do not want to go to Paris," but Gaspard's mouse-like eyes were fixed
upon him, and he gulped, shuddered, and sat silent.
[Illustration: "HE SUDDENLY BEGAN AN UNCOUTH, GROTESQUE DANCE."]
SCENE THIRD.--_Paris._
It was all like the hideous unreality of a nightmare to poor Oliver.
For twelve hours they had travelled on and on and on, Oliver and those
two dreadful mysterious beings, with only a brief stop now and then to
change horses, and now and then for a bite to eat. At such times that
one whom Oliver afterwards knew as "the master," got out and walked up
and down, while the other attended to his duties as servant. But Oliver
always sat still, and shrunk together in the corner of the coach,
weighed down with the tremendous remembrance of what had passed the
night before, and by no less looming apprehensions of what was to come.
Gaspard always brought him something to eat, but he had no appetite
for the food, and he shuddered at the lean, grisly face whenever it
appeared at the door of the coach.
Then again the master would enter, and they would resume the
never-ending journey. At last, overpowered by the continued intensity
of the strain, Oliver fell into an uneasy sleep, in which all manner of
ugly visions flitted through his mind. At last the sudden thunderous
rumbling of the coach over stony streets aroused him again, and when
he awoke it was to find himself in Paris. He unclosed his eyes and
looked stonily out of the window. He had fallen asleep while the sun
was still quite high in the sky; now it was night. The lights from the
street lanterns flashed in at the window, traversed the gloomy interior
of the coach, and then flashed out again; a perpetual glare shone
from the windows of shops and stores; hundreds of people, passing and
repassing, came and went; but poor Oliver, bewildered and stupefied,
saw and felt all as a part of those dull, leaden dreams that had
disturbed him in his sleep.
Nevertheless he noticed that as they still rumbled on and on, the
lights grew less and less brilliant and frequent and that the
travellers grew less and less numerous; that the streets grew crookeder
and narrower, and the dark and gloomy houses upon either hand more
ancient and crazy.
Suddenly, in a space of darkness, a hand was laid upon his knee, and
a voice spoke his name--"Oliver!" He started wide awake, and a keen,
sharp pang shot through him. Just then they again passed a lantern,
and as the light traversed the interior of the great coach it flashed
across the face of his companion thrust close to his own. The cloak
which he had wrapped around him after nightfall had fallen away,
his eyes shone with a strange light, and his lips were parted with a
strange smile. "Were you frightened at what you saw last night?" he
said.
Oliver felt as though a thunder-bolt had fallen. Twice or thrice he
strove to speak, but his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth, and
refused to utter a sound; he could only nod his head. The very worst
thing that he feared had happened to him. He was so frightened that it
gave him the stomachache. What was to befall him next? It was through a
veil of dizzy terror that he looked into that face shut up with him in
the narrow confines of the coach. All had become darkness again; but in
the humming silence the eyeballs of his soul still saw that strangely
smiling face as the eyes of his body had seen it when the lantern
light flashed upon it. He crouched in his corner, shrunk together
like a rabbit before the face of a serpent. Again there came another
traversing flash of light, and then he saw that the face had widened to
a grin.
"And you know that I am not your rich uncle from the Americas?"
Oliver nodded his head once more.
The other began laughing. "Come," said he; "you are frightened. But I
am not so bad as you take me to be, or Gaspard either, for the matter
of that, though he has strange habits. Also you saw what he did last
night?"
For the third time Oliver nodded his head. His throat grew tighter and
tighter, and he felt as though he would choke.
"Very well," said the other. "Then you understand that Gaspard and I
are not to be trifled with. We are now at the end of our journey, and
there is something that I would have you do for me. It was for that
that I hunted you up at Flourens, and it was for that that I brought
you here to Paris. If you do my bidding, no harm shall happen to you;
if not--" The hand which rested upon Oliver's knee gripped it like the
clutch of a hawk. "Do you understand?"
"Yes," croaked Oliver, finding his voice at last.
"Very good," said the other. "Now when we stop I shall get out first
of all, then you, then Gaspard. He will follow close behind us, and if
you make so much as one noise, one little outcry--" The speaker stopped
abruptly. They were now in the black gloom of a crooked, unlighted
street, with high walls beetling upon either side, but even in the
blackness of the gloom Oliver could feel that the other made a motion
with his hands as though drawing a sack or bag over his head, and he
shrank together closer than ever.
Then suddenly the coach stopped. The next moment the door was flung
open, and there stood Gaspard waiting. Oliver's companion stepped out
upon the pavement. "Come," said he, and there was that in his voice
that told Oliver that there was but one thing to do--to obey. The poor
lad's legs and arms moved with a jerky, spasmodic movement, as though
they did not belong to him, and Gaspard had to help him out of the
coach, or else he would have fallen upon the pavement.
"That is good," said his travelling companion when he at last stood
upon the sidewalk. "Our legs are cramped by sitting so long, but we
will be better by the time we have walked a little distance;" and he
slipped his hand under Oliver's arm.
Oliver groaned.
The moon had now risen, and though it did not reach the pavement, the
still pallid light bathed the upper stories of the houses upon the
other side of the street above the sharp black demarcation of the lower
shadows. They passed two or three strange spirit-like shapes, ragged
and wretched; but soon leaving even these behind, and turning down a
sudden crooked way, they came to a dark, lonely, narrow court, utterly
deserted, and silent as death. At the farther side of this court was
a brick wall, black with moss and mildew. Upon this wall the pallid
moonlight lay full and bright, showing a little arched door-way that
seemed to lead through it to, perhaps, a garden upon the other side.
Here they stopped, and Gaspard, stepping forward, drew from his pocket
two rusty keys tied together by a piece of twisted parchment. He chose
one of the keys, and thrust it into the lock of the gate. The lock was
old and rusty. Gaspard twisted at the key until his bony fingers were
livid, then with a grating noise the key slowly turned in the rusty
lock. The gate opened--not into the garden, as Oliver had expected to
see, but into the inky darkness of the passage-way built into the wall.
"Come, my child," said Oliver's companion. "Come with me, and Gaspard
will follow behind and close the gate."
Oliver looked about him with helplessly despairing eyes. Not a soul was
in sight but the two. There was no help, no hope; there was nothing
to do but to follow. He stepped into the passage-way after the other.
The next moment Gaspard closed the gate, and he found himself in inky
blackness.
"Take my hand and follow," said he who led; and his voice echoed and
reverberated up and down the hollow darkness. Oliver reached blindly
out until he touched the unseen hand.
With shuffling feet they moved slowly along the passage-way for the
distance of twenty or thirty paces, the American uncle leading the way
and holding Oliver by the hand, and Gaspard following so close behind
them that sometimes it seemed to Oliver that he could feel the other's
hot breath blowing upon his neck. Suddenly Oliver's guide stopped for a
moment, and Oliver could hear him feeling with his feet upon the floor
in front of him. Then again his echoing voice sounded, reverberating
through the darkness. "Take care of the steps," said he, "for they are
narrow and slippery."
In answer Oliver felt out instinctively with his foot. His toe touched
the edge of a step, the first of a flight that led steeply downward
into the darkness.
Down, down they went, Oliver in the middle and the other behind.
"We are at the bottom of the steps," said the echoing voice in front
of Oliver, and the next instant he felt the startling jar of missing a
step. Although the blackness was impenetrable, it seemed to Oliver that
they had now reached a large room, for their footsteps echoed with a
hollow sound, as though from high walls and a vaulted roof. His guide
laid a hand upon his arm, and at the signal he stopped. Presently he
heard Gaspard fumbling and rustling, and the next moment a shower of
sparks were struck with flint and steel. As the tinder blazed under his
breathing, Oliver saw that Gaspard leaned over a small brazen vase that
sat upon the ground. He lighted a match and dropped it into the vase,
and instantly a vivid greenish light blazed up, dancing now higher,
now lower, and lighting up all the surrounding space. Then Oliver saw
that he was indeed in a high, vaulted, cellar-like apartment, without
window or other entrance than that through which they had come. In the
centre of this vaulted space, and not far from where they stood, was a
trap-door of iron, to which was attached an iron ring; a wide, heavy
iron bar, fastened to the floor at one end by a hinge and at the other
by a staple and padlock, crossed the iron plate, and locked it to the
floor. Again Gaspard drew out the two keys, and fitting the second
into the padlock, gave it a turn. The padlock gaped. He loosed it from
the staple, and swung back the iron bar, creaking and grating upon its
rusty hinge; then, clutching the ring in the lid of the trap, he bent
his back and heaved. The iron plate swung slowly and heavily up, and
as Oliver looked down, he saw a glimmering flight of stone steps that
led into the yawning blackness beneath.
[Illustration: "HE LIGHTED A MATCH AND DROPPED IT INTO THE VASE."]
Gaspard reached down into the square hole, and after fumbling around
for a moment, drew forth an ancient rusty lantern with the end of a
half-burnt candle still in it, which he proceeded to light.
Then he who was the master spoke again. "Oliver, my child," said he,
smoothly, "down below there are three rooms; in the farthermost room of
the three is a small stone pillar, and on it are two bottles of water.
Bring them up here to me, and I will make you so rich that you shall
never want for anything more in this world."
"Am I--am I to go down there alone?" said Oliver, hoarsely.
"Yes," said the other, "alone; but we, Gaspard and I, will wait here
for you."
"And what then?"
"Then I will make you rich."
Oliver looked into the face of the other. In its cold depth he saw
something that chilled his heart to the very centre. He turned, and,
leaning forward, gazed stupidly down into the gaping hole at his feet;
then he drew back. "My God!" he said, "I--cannot go--down there alone."
"But you must go," said the other.
"I--I cannot go alone," said Oliver again.
The other turned his head. "Gaspard!" said he. That was all; but the
perfect servant understood. He stepped forward and laid his hand upon
Oliver's wrist, and his fingers were like steel wires.
Oliver looked into his face with wide eyes. He saw there that which he
had seen the night before. "I--will--go," said he, in a choking voice.
He reached out blindly a hand as cold as death, and trembling as with
a palsy. One of the others, he knew not which, thrust the lantern into
it. Then he turned mechanically, and, automaton-like, began descending
the narrow steps. There were ten or a dozen of them, leading steeply
downward, and at the bottom was a small vestibule a few feet square.
Oliver looked back, and saw the two faces peering down at him through
the square opening above; then he turned again. In front of him was an
arched door-way like that through which he had first come. On the wall
around the door-way and on the floor was painted a broad, blood-red,
unbroken line, with this figure marked at intervals upon it:
[Symb 32]
The door was opened a crack. Oliver reached out and pushed it, and then
noiselessly, even in that dead silence, it swung slowly open upon the
darkness within.
SCENE FOURTH.--_The three mysterious rooms._
Oliver hesitated a moment, and then entered the cavernous blackness
beyond. There he stopped again, and stood looking about him by the
dusky glimmer of the lantern, which threw round swaying patches of
light upon the floor and on the ceiling above, and three large squares
of yellow light upon the walls around.
Oliver wondered dully whether he was in a dream, for such a place he
had never beheld before in all his life. Upon the floor lay soft, heavy
rugs and carpets, blackened and mildewed with age, but still showing
here and there gorgeous patches of coloring. Upon the wall hung faded
tapestry and silken hangings draped in dark, motionless, mysterious
folds. Around stood divans and couches covered with soft and luxurious
cushions embroidered with silk long since faded, and silver thread long
since tarnished to an inky blackness.
In the middle of the room stood an ebony table inlaid with ivory and
mother-of-pearl; above it hung a lamp inlaid with gold and swung from
the arched stone ceiling above by three golden chains. Beside the table
stood a chair of some dark red wood, richly inlaid like the table, with
ivory and mother-of-pearl, and by the chair leaned a lute ready strung,
as though just laid aside by the performer, though the strings, long
untouched, were thick and fuzzy with green mildew. Upon the chair was
a tasselled cushion, one time rich and ornate, now covered with great
blotches of decay. Upon the table were two golden trays--one of them
containing a small mass of mildew that might at one time have been
fruit or confections of some sort; the other, an empty glass vase or
decanter as clear as crystal, but stained with the dry dregs of wine,
and two long crystal glasses, one of them overset and with the stem
broken. In a dim distant corner of this one-time magnificent room stood
a draped couch or bed, with heavy hangings tattered and stained with
rot, the once white linen mildewed and smeared with age.
All these things Oliver saw as he stood in the door-way looking slowly
and breathlessly around him; then, of a sudden, his heart tightened
and shrunk together, the lantern in his hand trembled and swayed, for
upon the bed, silent and motionless, he saw the dim, dark outline of a
woman's figure lying still and silent.
"Who--who is there?" he quavered, tremulously; but no answering voice
broke the silence.
As he stood there, with his heart beating and thumping in his throat,
with beads of cold sweat standing on his forehead, and now and then
swallowing at the dryness in his throat, a fragment of the hangings
above the bed, loosened perhaps by the breath of air that had come
in through the open door behind, broke from its rotten threads, and
dropped silent and bat-like to the floor. Oliver winked rapidly in the
intensity of high-keyed nervous strain. How long he stood there he
could never tell, but suddenly the voice of the master breathed through
the stillness behind him and from above: "Hast thou found the bottles
of water?"
Oliver started, and then, with the same jerky automaton-like steps
with which he had descended the stone stair-way from above, he began
crossing the room to the arrased door-way which he dimly distinguished
upon the other side of the apartment.
Midway he stopped, and, turning his head, looked again at the silent
figure lying upon the bed. He was nearer to it now, and could see it
more clearly in the dim yellow light of the lantern. The face was
hidden, but the floating, wavy hair, loosened from a golden band which
glimmered faintly in the raven blackness, lay spread in shadow-like
masses over the stained and faded surface of the silken pillow upon
which the head lay.
Impelled by a sudden impulse of a grotesque curiosity, Oliver, after
a moment's hesitation, crept slowly and stealthily towards that
silent occupant of the silent room, holding his lantern forward at
arm's-length before him.
As the advancing light crept slowly around the figure, Oliver saw first
one thing and then another. First, the quaint and curious costume of a
kind of which be had never seen before, woven of rich and heavy silk,
and rendered still more stiff by the seed-pearls with which it was
embroidered. Then the neck and breast, covered by the folds of a faded
silken scarf. Then, as the light crept still farther around the figure,
he saw it twinkle upon a gold and jewelled object.
Oliver knew very well what it was, and his knees smote together when
he saw it. It was the haft of a dagger, and the blade was driven up to
the guard into the silent bosom. He raised the lantern still farther,
and the light shone full in the face. Oliver gave a piping cry, and,
stumbling backward, nearly let fall the lantern upon the floor. He
had seen the face of a grinning skull gazing with hollow, sightless
sockets, into his own eyes.
[Illustration: "OLIVER GAVE A PIPING CRY."]
For a while Oliver stood in the middle of the room, staring with blank,
stony horror at the silent figure. Then for a second time the voice of
the watcher above breathed through the silence--"Have you found the
water yet?"
Oliver turned stupidly, and with dull, heavy steps passed through the
door-way into the room beyond, holding the lantern before him.
Here, again, were the same rotting, mildewed richness and profusion,
but they were of a different character. A long table in the centre of
the room, covered with the remnant of what had once been a white linen
table-cloth, and set with blackened and tarnished plates and dishes,
and dust-covered goblets, and beakers of ancient cut and crystal-like
glass, showed that it was a dining apartment into which he had now
come. Two richly-carved chairs, with their indented cushions, were
pushed back as though their occupant had but just now quitted them.
Oliver felt a wave of relief; here was no silent figure to frighten him
with its ghostly, voiceless presence.
Upon the other side of this room was another tapestried door-way
similar to that through which he had just entered. Passing through it,
he found himself in a low, narrow passage, barred at the farther end by
a heavy iron-bound door, worm-eaten and red with the stain of rust,
and with great wrought-iron hinges spreading out upon its surface like
twisted fingers. Oliver pressed his foot against it. It was not locked,
and it swung slowly and stiffly open with a dull groaning of the rusty
hinges. Within was a stone-paved apartment, very different from those
which he had just left.
All around were scattered quaint and curious jars and retorts of coarse
glass and metal. Rows of bottles of different shapes and sizes stood
upon the shelves, and in the corner was a great heap of mouldering,
dusty books, huge of size, and fastened with metal clasps. Built into
the middle of the farther wall was a wide brick chimney-place, black
with ancient soot, wherein were several furnaces of different sizes,
all long since cold, and with the sparks of fiery life dead in their
bosoms. Nevertheless, everything had been left as though the room had
been newly deserted. One pot-bellied retort reclined tipsily upon its
bed of cold gray ashes; a mortar stood upon the hob of another furnace
with the pestle in it; a book, held open by a glass rod across the
pages, lay near by, as though for reference.
In the centre of the room stood a square pillar or table of stone,
and upon it were two bottles containing a clear, limpid liquid, in
appearance like distilled water. Each was stoppered with glass, and
sealed besides with a great mass of blood-red wax. Upon each of the
bottles was pasted a square parchment label. One was marked in red
pigment, thus--[Symb 39]. The other was marked thus--[Symb 39] in
black. Oliver knew that these were the bottles for which he had been
sent.
He hesitated a moment; then, reaching forth his hand, he took first one
and then the other, and thrust them into his pocket.
He had reached the ending of his task.
Then of a sudden it was as though a wave of renewed life swept over him.
He thought nothing of the greater dangers that must still await him
above, at the mouth of the trap, though he had there read death in the
master's eyes. He was unreasonably, unthinkingly elated; it was as
though he had reached the ending of a long nightmare journey, and as
though his face was turned towards the light again. It was with firmer
and less fearful steps that he retraced his way through the dining-room
and the room beyond, where lay that silent, grisly sleeper, and so came
to the door-way with the blood-red line drawn around it.
Then he stopped and looked up.
At the square mouth of the shaft he saw the two faces still peering
down at him, the face of Gaspard and the face of the master side by
side.
Again, and for the third time, the master asked him the question, "Have
you found the bottles of water?"
"Yes," said Oliver, "I have found them."
"Then give them to me," said the other, in a ringing voice, and he
reached his arm down towards Oliver where he still stood in the
door-way, around which was drawn the blood-red line.
In the reaction from the prostration of fear which had been upon Oliver
for all this time, in the new elation which possessed him, it was as
though he had come up from out of the dark waters which had overwhelmed
him, and stood again upon the firm ground of courage.
"Yes," said he, "very good, my dear American uncle, but wait a little;
what then is to come of me if I give you these two bottles of water?"
The other drew back his hand. "Did I not promise," said he, "to make
you rich for as long as you lived?"
"Yes," said Oliver, "you did, but I do not believe you. Suppose that I
give you these two bottles, how do I then know that you will not bang
down that trap upon me, and lock me in here to die alone in a day or
two?"
"Then come up here," said the other, "if you are afraid."
"Yes," said Oliver; "but last night I saw something--" He stopped
short, for the recollection of it stuck in his throat. "Suppose you
should hand me over to Gaspard and his black bag;" and he shuddered
with a sudden creep at the thought of it.
The master's face grew as black as thunder, and his eyes shone blue in
the light of the lantern. "Peste!" he cried, stamping his foot upon the
stone pavement. "Do you chaffer with me? Will you give me the water, or
will you not?"
"No," cried Oliver; "not until you promise to let me go safe back home."
"You will not give the bottles to me?"
"No!"
There was a pause for a moment, but only for a moment. Then there was
a snarl like the snarl of a wild beast--"Gaspard!" cried the master.
As he cried he leaped forward and down, two steps at a time, with the
servant at his heels.
Oliver ran back into the room, yelling, stumbled over the corner of a
rug, dropped the lantern, and fell flat upon the floor, where he lay,
with his face buried in his hands, screaming with terror. In his ears
rang a confused noise of snarls and cries and oaths and scuffling feet,
but no hand was laid upon him. Moment after moment passed. Oliver
raised his face from his hands, and looked fearfully over his shoulder.
At the open door-way stood Gaspard and his master, with white faces and
gleaming teeth, dancing and hopping up and down, tossing their hooked,
claw-like hands in the air, foaming with rage, snarling and gnashing
like wolves. The lantern which Oliver had dropped still burned with a
sickly, flickering gleam, for the candle had not gone out, and it was
partly by the light of it that he beheld them.
Then, like a flash of lightning, he saw it all: _they could not cross
that red line drawn across the door-way_.
Oliver's courage came back to him with a bound. He sat up and looked
at them struggling and striving to get at him, and kept back as by an
unseen wall of adamant. Instinctively he reached out and raised the
overturned lantern, for the light was on the verge of flickering out.
"Promise me that I shall reach home safe and sound," said he, "and you
shall yet have the two bottles."
[Illustration: "AT THE OPEN DOOR-WAY STOOD GASPARD AND HIS MASTER."]
The master did not seem to hear him. Oliver repeated the words. Then
suddenly the other ceased from the violence of his gestures and
exclamations, shook himself, and stood erect, pulled down his lace
cuffs, and wiped his face with his cambric handkerchief. Then he fixed
upon Oliver a basilisk glance, and smiled a dreadful smile.
"Gaspard," said he, "let us go."
He turned and walked up the stone steps again, closely followed by his
servant, and poor Oliver sat staring stonily after them.
Above, the master gave an order. Oliver heard a grating, grinding
noise. There was a crash that echoed clamorously through the stillness,
a clanking rattle, a grating screech, a click, and then the silence of
death.
Gaspard had shut and locked the trap-door above.
Oliver sat dazed and bewildered by the suddenness of what had happened.
Presently he turned his head mechanically and looked around, and his
eyes fell upon the silent occupant of the bed.
Then he leaped to his feet, and up the steep flight of stone steps like
a madman. He dashed his fist against the cold iron lid above his head.
"Open," he shouted--"open and let me out. Let me out and you shall have
everything. Here are the bottles of water. Do you not want them?"
He stopped short and listened, crouching upon the upper step, close
against the iron lid above him. He fancied he heard a faint sound of
footsteps.
"Let me out!" he screamed again.
Nothing but dead, solemn silence.
Oliver ran down the steps again, the accursed glass bottles clicking
together in his pocket. In the narrow vestibule below he stood for a
moment, gazing down upon the floor in the utter abandonment of blank
despair. At last he looked up, and then crawled fearfully forward into
the room beyond, lit by the faint glow of the lantern. He sat him down
upon the floor, and burst out crying. By-and-by a blind rage filled
his heart against the cruelty of his fate and against the man who had
brought it all upon him. He sprang to his feet, and began striding up
and down the room, muttering to himself and shaking his head. Presently
he stopped, raised his clinched fists in the air and shook them. Then
he broke into a laugh. "Very well," said he; "but you have not got the
bottles of water!" and he felt his pockets; they were still there.
Then, as he stood there feeling the bottles in his pocket, the last
misfortune of all happened to him. There was a flare, a sputter, and
then--utter darkness.
_The light in the lantern had gone out._
SCENE FIFTH.--_The same._
Oliver stood for a while utterly stupefied by this new blow that had
fallen upon him; then, with his hands stretched out in the darkness and
feeling before him with his feet, he moved blindly forward. At last
he found the lantern where it stood upon the floor, and kneeling down
he raised the lid and felt within. Even if he had found a candle, it
would have been of no use to him, for he could not have lighted it,
but nothing was there but the hot, melted grease in which the wick had
expired.
Oliver sat down upon the floor and hid his face upon his knees. How
long he sat there he never could tell; it might have been seconds, it
might have been minutes, it might have been an hour; for, like one in a
broken sleep, there was to him no measurement of time.
Suddenly a thought flashed upon him, like light in the darkness: he
remembered the chimney in the room beyond. Why should he not escape
in that way? At the thought a great torrent of hope swept upon him;
his heart swelled as though it would burst. He rose to his feet, and
feeling blindly in the blackness, came first to the table, and then to
the tapestried wall beyond. Inch by inch, and foot by foot he felt his
way along it, now stumbling over a cushioned couch in the darkness, and
now over the edge of one of the rugs. So at last he came to the corner
of the room. Thence with out-stretched fingers he felt his way along
over the silent folds of the hangings until he met the emptiness of the
door-way.
In the same manner he crept along the wall of the room beyond,
overturning in his passage a light table laden with plates and glasses,
that fell with a deafening crash and tinkle of broken glass. Oliver
paused for a moment in the bewilderment of the sudden noise, and then
began his slow onward way again.
Thus crawling slowly along, and guiding himself by the walls, he came
out through the passage-way beyond the dining apartment, and so into
the laboratory. Here he had no difficulty in finding the chimney, for
the moonlight shed a faint, ghostly light down the broad flue above,
glimmering in a pale flickering sheen upon the bottles and glass
retorts that stood around.
[Illustration: "CREEPING CAUTIOUSLY FORWARD, OLIVER CAME TO THE
CHIMNEY-PIECE."]
Creeping cautiously forward, Oliver came to the chimney-place, climbed
upon one of the furnaces, and peered upward. Not twenty feet above he
could see the silvery moonlit sky. Then his heart sank within him like
a plummet of lead. For just over his head were grated bars of iron,
thick and ponderous, that, crossing the chimney from side to side,
were built into the solid brick and stone masonry of the flue. Oliver
clambered down out of the furnace again, and sat him down upon the
edge of it. There for a time he perched, staring despairingly into the
darkness beyond. "What shall I do next?" he muttered to himself--"what
shall I do next?"
It could serve no use for him to stay where he was, among the crucibles
and retorts; he might as well go into one of the other rooms. There, at
least, would be a comfortable place to rest himself, and he began to
feel heavily and stupidly sleepy.
Foot by foot and step by step he felt his way back again into the
farthest room. He gave no thought to that other occupant, hushed in the
silent sleep of death; but flinging himself down upon the first couch
that he found, gathered the musty, mildewed cushions under his head,
closed his eyes, and sunk heavily into the depths of a dark, dreamless
sleep.
How long Oliver Munier lay in the blankness of this heavy sleep he
could never know. It must have been for a great while, as he afterwards
discovered. His waking was sudden and sharp, and even before he was
fairly awake he knew that he heard a sound.
He opened his eyes wide and listened. There was a soft rustling, a
velvety footfall, and the sound of quick, short breathing, in the
silent darkness, like that of a little child. Finally he heard a
suppressed sneeze.
He sat up upon the couch, and at the noise of his movements the other
sound ceased, only for the quick breathing.
"Who is there?" whispered Oliver through the darkness.
For a moment or two the silence was unbroken; then came a dull,
monotonous, musical sound, somewhat like the humming of a hive of bees,
but rougher and more rattling. Oliver, listening with all his soul,
heard the same rustling footsteps as before, and now they were coming
straight towards him. There was a moment's pause, and then something
leaped upon the couch beside him.
Oliver sat as though turned to stone.
He felt a faint breath upon his hand as it rested upon the cushion at
his side, and then something pressed against his wrist and his arm. It
was soft, warm, furry. It was a cat.
In the gush of relief at this honest, homely animal companionship
Oliver broke down from his tension of nervous strain to laughing
and crying at once. Reaching out his hand, he began to stroke the
creature, whereupon it bowed its back and rubbed against him in dumb
response.
A sudden light flashed upon him. The cat was alive; it was good honest
flesh and blood; there was nothing ghostly or demoniacal about it;
where it had entered it would have to go forth again, and where it so
passed to and fro there must be some means of ingress and egress. Why
should he not avail himself of its aid to find his way out into the
daylight again?
In a few moments he had torn the mouldy silken covers of one of the
cushions into small strips, had twisted these strips into a cord, and
had then tied the cord around the cat's neck. Wherever the creature
went now he would follow as a blind man follows his dog. He began to
whistle in the excess of his relief at the new light of hope which had
dawned upon him. The sound awoke shrill echoes in the black vaulted
spaces, and he stopped abruptly. "Very well," said he, half aloud. "But
nevertheless, my American uncle, here is a new way out of our troubles."
By force of habit he thrust his hands into his pocket; the two bottles
of water were still there.
* * * * *
It seemed to Oliver an age before this miraculously sent conductor,
this feline saving angel, made ready to take its departure. It was
hours; but there was nothing for him to do but to wait patiently
for the creature to choose its own time for leaving, for should he
undertake to urge it, it might grow frightened and break away from him,
and so lose him the clew of escape. Yes, there was nothing to do but to
wait patiently until his guide chose to bestir itself.
Oliver was ravenously hungry, but once or twice, in spite of the
gnawing of his stomach, he fell into a doze in the dead, monotonous
silence of the place. Nevertheless, through all his napping, he held
tight to the silken cord. It was from such a doze as this that he
was awakened by feeling a twitching at the silken string, which he
had wrapped around his hand for the sake of precaution. The cat was
stirring.
Oliver loosened the cord so as to give the animal as much freedom as
possible, and then rose to his feet. The cat, disturbed by his moving,
leaped lightly to the floor. It gave a faint mew, and rubbed once or
twice against his legs. Oliver waited with a beating heart. At last the
cat started straight across the floor, and Oliver, holding the string,
followed after it. The next minute he ran against the corner of the
table, stumbled over the chair that stood beside it, overturning the
mildewed lute, which fell with a hollow, musical crash.
The cat had gone under the table, and Oliver had perforce to go down
upon his hands and knees and follow. When he arose again he was
bewildered, and knew not where he was; he had lost his bearings in the
blank darkness around him.
The cat had become alarmed, and was now struggling at the string that
held it, and Oliver was afraid that it would snap the cord and get
away from him. He followed more rapidly, and the next moment pitched
headlong across the couch in the corner. The silent occupant rattled
dryly, and Oliver heard something fall with a crash upon the floor,
roll for a space, and then vibrate into silence. "Oh, _mon Dieu_!" he
cried, and crossed himself. He knew very well what it was that had
fallen. But the cat was now struggling furiously, and there was no time
to lose in qualms. He scrambled to his feet, still holding tight to
the silken cord. There was no trouble now in following the lead of the
animal. The next moment his head struck with terrible force against the
hard stone wall; he saw forty thousand swimming stars, and for a moment
was stunned and bewildered with the force of the blow.
When his wits came back to him the cat was gone, but he still held the
end of the silken cord in his hand. He stooped, and felt the direction
which the cord took. It ran between two of the lighter silken hangings
upon the wall. He parted them and felt within, and his hand encountered
empty nothingness. He felt above, below, and on each side, and his
touch met the smooth, cold stones of the wall. The open space was about
two feet high and three feet wide. It was thence the cat had gone.
Oliver's only chance was to follow after; accordingly he dropped upon
his knees and felt within. For a foot or more the bottom of the space
ran upon a line of the floor, then it dropped suddenly and sheerly as
the wall of a house. How far it was to the bottom Oliver had no means
of knowing. He reached down at arm's-length, but could not touch it.
He crawled out of the hole again, and then reversing himself, went in
feet foremost. He dropped his legs over the edge of the open space, but
still he felt nothing. Upon either side he could touch the sides of the
passage with his toes; below, they touched nothing. He dropped himself
lower, but still felt nothing. Lower still, and still felt nothing. He
let himself go to his arm's-length, and hung there flat against the
wall, and felt about with his feet, but still they touched nothing.
How far was it to the bottom of that black passage? If he let go
his hold, would he be dashed to pieces below? A great wave of fright
swept over him, and he struggled vehemently to raise himself up to the
edge of the hole again whence he had descended, but he was helpless,
powerless. In his frantic struggles his feet clashed against the sides
of the passage-way, but he could nowhere gain purchase to raise himself
so much as a foot.
His struggles grew fainter and fainter, and at last he hung helplessly
clinging to the edge of the hole above him with cramped and nervous
fingers. A red light seemed to dance before his eyes, and he felt his
strength crumbling away from him like undermined earth. He breathed a
short prayer, loosed his hold--and fell about six inches to the bottom
of the shaft beneath.
He crouched there for a while, weak and trembling in the reaction from
his terror. At last he heaved a great sigh and wiped the beads of sweat
from his forehead with his sleeve. Then, rousing himself and feeling
about him, he found that the passage-way continued at right angles with
the bottom of the shaft. It seemed to Oliver that he could distinguish
a faint gray light in the gloom with which he was enveloped. Nor was he
mistaken, for, crawling slowly and painfully forward, he found that the
light grew brighter and brighter.
Presently the passage took an upward turn, and by-and-by became so
steep that Oliver could hardly struggle forward. At last it again
became level and easy to traverse; and still the light grew brighter
and brighter.
Suddenly the passage-way became horizontal again, and Oliver stopped
in his forward scrambling, and, sitting helplessly down, began crying;
for there in front of him, a few yards distant, the gray light of the
fading evening shone in at a square window-like hole, and into it swept
the sweet fresh open air, fragrant as violets after the close, dank
smell of the rooms he had left.
It was through this passage-way that the silent rooms behind must
have been supplied with pure air. At last Oliver roused himself, and
scrambled forward and through the hole. He found that he had come
through a blank wall and upon a little brick ledge or shelf that ran
along it.
Not far away sat the cat by means of whose aid he had come forth thus
to freedom--the end of the silken cord was still around its neck. It
was a black and white mangy-looking creature, but Oliver could have
kissed it in his joy. He reached out his hand towards it and called
to it, but instead of answering it leaped from the brick ledge to the
pavement beneath, and the next moment had disappeared into a blind
alley across the narrow court upon which Oliver had come through the
hole in the wall.
Oliver sat for a moment or two upon the brick ledge, looking about
him. Across the way was a high windowless wall of a house, and below
that, at a considerable distance, a low building with a double row
of windows extending along the length of it. Close to him was a
narrow door-way--the only other opening in the wall through which he
had just come. The ledge upon which he sat ended abruptly at that
door-way. Above him, and at the end of the alley-way, was another blind
windowless wall. All this Oliver observed as he sat upon the ledge,
swinging his heels. Then he turned and dropped lightly to the pavement
beneath. Something chinked in his pocket as he did so; it was the two
bottles of water.
"Thank Heaven!" said Oliver, heaving a sigh. "I am safe at last."
There was a sharp click of the latch of the door near to where he
stood, and then it opened. "Good-day, monsieur," said a familiar voice.
"Your uncle waits supper for you." It was Gaspard, the servant, who
stood in the door-way, bowing and grimacing respectfully as he held it
open.
Oliver staggered back against the wall behind him, and there leaned,
sick and dizzy. Presently he groaned, sick at heart, and looked up
and down the length of the narrow street, but not another soul was
in sight; there was nothing for him to do but to enter the door that
Gaspard held open for him.
"Straight ahead, monsieur," said Gaspard, bowing as Oliver passed
him. "I will show you to your uncle, who is waiting for you." He
closed the door as he spoke, and, as Oliver stood aside, he passed him
with another respectful bow, and led the way down the long, gloomy
passage-way, lit only by a narrow window at the farther end.
SCENE SIXTH.--_The master's house._
At the end of the passage-way Gaspard opened another door, and then,
motioning with his hand, bowed respectfully for the third time.
Oliver passed through the door-way, and it was as though he had stepped
from the threshhold of one world into another. Never in his life had he
seen anything like that world. He turned his head this way and that,
looking about him in dumb bewilderment. In confused perception he saw
white and gold panels, twinkling lights, tapestried furniture,
inlaid cabinets glittering with glass and china, painted screens
whereon shepherds and shepherdesses piped and danced, and white-wigged
ladies and gentlemen bowed and postured. A black satin mask, a painted
fan, and a slender glove lay upon the blue damask upholstery of a white
and gold sofa that stood against the wall--the mask, the fan, and the
glove of a fine lady. But all these things Oliver saw only in the
moment of passing, for Gaspard led the way directly up the long room
with a step silent as that of a cat. A heavy green silk curtain hung in
the door-way. Gaspard drew it aside, and Oliver, still as in a dream,
passed through and found himself in a small room crowded with rare
books, porcelains, crystals, and what not.
[Illustration: "'GOOD-DAY, MONSIEUR,' SAID A FAMILIAR VOICE."]
But he had no sight for them; for in front of a glowing fire, protected
by a square screen exquisitely painted, and reclining in the midst of
cushions on a tapestried sofa, clad in a loose, richly-embroidered,
quilted dressing-robe, his white hand holding a book, between the
leaves of which his finger was thrust, his smiling face turned towards
Oliver--sat the master.
As Oliver entered past the bowing Gaspard, he tossed the book aside
upon the table, and sprang to his feet.
"Ah, Oliver, my dear child!" he cried. "Is it then thou again? Embrace
me!" and he took the limp Oliver into his arms. "Where hast thou been?"
And he drew back and looked into Oliver's face.
"I do not know," croaked Oliver, helplessly.
"Ah! Thou hast been gone a long time. Thou art hungry?"
"I was," said Oliver, wretchedly; "but I am not hungry now."
"Nay," said the other; "thou must be hungry. See! Another little
supper;" and he motioned with his hand.
Oliver had not noticed it before, but there was a table spread with a
white damask cloth, and with chairs placed for two.
"Let Gaspard show you to your apartment, where you may wash and refresh
yourself, and by that time the little supper will be ready."
Oliver wondered what all this meant. He could scarcely believe that the
smooth-spoken master and the quiet and well-trained serving-man were
the same two as those white-faced demons who had grinned and gnashed at
him across the blood-red line drawn around the door-way yonder, and yet
he could not doubt it.
* * * * *
The supper was over, and the master, with his fingers locked around his
glass, leaned across the table towards Oliver, who, after all, had
made a good meal of it.
[Illustration: "THE QUESTION WAS SO SUDDEN AND SO STARTLING THAT OLIVER
SANK BACK IN HIS SEAT."]
"And those bottles of water," said he. "Did we then bring them with us
from that place down yonder?" He jerked his head over his shoulder.
The question was so sudden and so startling that Oliver sank back in
his seat, with all the strength gone out of his back--and he was just
beginning to feel more easy. He could not speak a word in answer, but
he nodded his head.
"Then give them to me," said the other, sharply. And Oliver saw the
delicate pointed fingers hook in spite of themselves.
But Oliver was no longer the Oliver that had sat on the bench in front
of the inn at Flourens that little while ago; he had passed through
much of late, he had gained wisdom, shrewdness, cunning. Instead of
helplessly handing the two phials over to the other, as he might have
done a few hours before, he suddenly pushed back his chair, and rose
to his feet. Not far from him was a window that looked out upon the
street; he stepped quickly to it, and flung it open. "Look!" he cried,
in a ringing voice. "I know you now--you and your servant. You are
devils! You are stronger than I, but I have some power." He drew forth
the two bottles from his pocket. "See!" said he, "here is what you
have set your soul upon, and for which you desired to kill me. Without
you promise me all that I ask, I will fling them both out upon the
pavement beneath. And what then? They will be broken, and the water
will run down into the gutter and be gone."
There was a moment of dead silence, during which Oliver stood by the
open window with the two phials in his hand, and the master sat looking
smilingly at him. After a while the smile broke into a laugh.
"Come, Oliver," said he, "you have learned much since I first saw you
at Flourens. You are grand in your heroics. What, then, would you have
of me, that you thus threaten?"
Oliver thought for a moment. "I would have you let me go from here safe
and sound," said he.
"Very good," said the other. "And what else?"
"That you promise I shall suffer no harm either from you or your
servant Gaspard."
"Very good. And what else?"
"That you tell me the secret of that dreadful place where I have been."
"Very good. And what else?"
"That you show me the virtue of this water."
"Very good. And what else?"
"That you let me have half the gain that is to be had from it."
"Very good. And what else?"
Oliver thought for a moment or two. "Why this!" said he; "that you
tell me why you sought me out at Flourens, and how you knew that I had
escaped from that pit into which you had locked me."
"Very good. And what else?"
Oliver thought for another little while. "Nothing else," said he at
last.
Once more the other laughed. "If I refuse," said he, "you throw those
bottles out of the window?"
Oliver nodded.
"And you know what would then happen?"
Oliver nodded again.
"And if I promise," said he, "what then?"
"I will give to you those bottles that you seek," said Oliver.
"But what shall I promise by? My honor?"
Oliver shook his head.
The other laughed. "Do you not trust that?" said he. "No? By what,
then, shall I promise?"
A sudden flash of recollection passed through Oliver's mind, a sudden
inspiration came to him. "Promise by this," he cried, in a ringing
voice--
[Symb 61]
and he drew the figure which he had seen depicted upon the red line
around the door-way at the bottom of the stone steps--the line that had
kept back Gaspard and his master like a wall of adamant. The other's
face grew as black as thunder. There was a sharp click--he had crushed
the glass in his hand to fragments. A drop of blood fell from his palm
upon the table-cloth, but he did not seem to notice it.
"Promise by that?" said he, a little hoarsely.
"Yes," said Oliver; "by that sign."
The other swallowed as though a hard lump were in his throat. "Very
well," said he; "I promise."
Oliver saw that the promise would be kept. He closed the window near to
which he stood. When he turned around, the other's face was smooth and
smiling again.
"And now sit down," said he, "and let us finish our little supper, then
I will tell you the story of those rooms yonder, and of the dead lady
whom you found there."
THE STORY OF THE MYSTERIOUS CHAMBERS.
A MONOLOGUE BY THE MASTER.
I.
The master drew his chair a little more around towards the fire, and
drawing a gold toothpick from his waistcoat pocket, settled himself
comfortably. "Did you ever hear," said he, "of a certain Spaniard, a
very learned man, a great philosopher, and a renowned alchemist, named
Raymond Lulli?"
"No," said Oliver; "I never heard tell of him."
"Or of Arnold de Villeneuve, the great French doctor, also a renowned
alchemist?"
"No," said Oliver, "nor of him either."
"Well, that is not surprising; your attention has not been called
to such matters, and they died more than four hundred years ago.
Nevertheless, the history of the room you saw down yonder relates to
them, and I am about to tell you the story of it as well as I know it.
"It was luck or chance or fate, or whatever you call it, that first
turned Raymond Lulli's attention to alchemy. At the time he was
studying Arabic in the mountains of Aranda, at the shrine of St. James
de Castello.
"When his mistress, the beautiful Ambrosia de Compastello died, Raymond
Lulli took it into his head to follow a droll fashion sometimes
practised in those musty old days. He made a vow--perhaps rather
hastily--to devote the rest of his life to religion; to spend it in
converting Mussulmans to what was called the true faith. So, to prepare
himself, he began studying Arabic in the mountains of Aranda.
"One day the Father Superior sent to him a great chest of Arabian books
which had just been received at the convent. Among them was a curious
little volume, square and bulky, which was not written in Arabic,
but in characters of a kind which Raymond had never seen before, and
which somewhat resembled Hebrew. Upon the first page of the book was
a picture, and upon the last page was another. The first represented
a flower with a blue stalk, red and white blossoms, and leaves of
pure gold, which stood upon a mountain-top, and was bent by a gust
of wind which blew from a blood-red cloud. Around the flower was a
circle of open eyes. Above this circle was a naked hand holding a
sword transversely by the blade. Below was a heart transfixed by what
appeared to be a long pointed nail or spike. The picture upon the
last page of the book represented a king with a golden sword in the
act of killing a naked child, and a beautiful winged figure catching
the blood in a crystal vase. At the head of the first page of the text
of the book were three rubricated Arabic words. Below the last page of
the text were three Hebrew words, also in rubrics. All six words had
a meaning, but it is not necessary to tell you what they were or what
they were intended to signify.
"Now it chanced one day that Raymond was reading a volume written by
one Abou Ben Hassan, surnamed Al Sofi, or the Wise. The manuscript
had been sent to him by the Father Superior in the same case with the
curious little volume of which I have first spoken. This work of the
learned Ben Hassan was written upon the subject of hermetic philosophy.
In it was one passage upon which Raymond Lulli happened, and which
altered the whole course of his life. The author was descanting upon
the learning and wisdom of Hermes Trismegistus, of whom, Oliver, it is
altogether likely that you never heard. The passage itself ran somewhat
thus (I have often read it myself): 'Since that time, so the words ran,
hath never a man lived so wise as Hermes Trismegistus, saving only the
great Geber (so called by the Christians, but whom the learned among
the faithful knew better as Abou Moussah Djafar), who was, indeed,
the ripest apple from the flowery tree of learning. He it was who
wrote that great thesis, which, did it now exist (for it is, alas!
lost to the world), and did there live a being possessed with deep and
sufficient knowledge to read the same, would more enrich him who could
interpret it, both with knowledge and with wealth, than any one who
hath ever lived since the days of King Solomon. It would, moreover,
teach him a knowledge of that by means of which he might prolong his
life to a thousand years, if he so chose to prolong it. For the great
Geber had collected with infinite pains and ripest study the wisdom
hidden in the tombs and mountains of farther Egypt, and had in his work
explicated those two mysterious arcana which the wisdom of ages hath
striven in vain to penetrate, to wit, the secret of life and the secret
of wealth. Yea, not even the great Hermes Trismegistus himself was able
to solve those two questions, which are, indeed, the fruition of all
learning--the attainment of unfailing life and of infinite wealth.
"'But even were that volume, in which lieth hidden those tremendous
secrets, to fall into the hands of man at this day, who at present now
liveth could read or interpret it, or could understand a single one
of those mysterious sentences of his wherein lieth hidden the secrets
of life and wealth? For hath not the great Geber himself said, "He who
would understand must first climb the mountain of difficulty, and pluck
from the blue stem the red and white blossoms?" Hath not he also said,
"He must, last of all, drink the blood of the infant from the crystal
cup of the king and the seraphim?" And who liveth now that could
understand these words, much less accomplish that task which he hath
set as a bar across the path-way of knowledge--to pluck that flower and
to drink that blood?'
"Such, my dear Oliver, are, as near as I can recollect, the very words
of the learned Abou Ben Hassan. Conceive, if you can, their effect
upon Raymond Lulli. It was as though a thunder-bolt had fallen at his
feet, and as though he beheld a great truth by the flash of light that
accompanied it. That volume of the wise Geber, that repository of the
two great secrets of the world, had fallen into his, Raymond Lulli's,
hands as though blown there by the wind of fate.
"Now, at that time the most learned man in Europe, perhaps the most
learned in the world, was Arnold de Villeneuve. He was the most skilful
physician and the greatest scholar of his day, and was in the very
height and prime of his powers. Raymond Lulli determined to apply to
him for a solution of the mysteries of the little volume, and thereupon
set out at once for Paris to accomplish his purpose.
"Accordingly, one morning, as Arnold sat in his cabinet engrossed in
his studies, there came a rap upon the door. It was the servant, who
announced a stranger below. The doctor bade the servant show him in. It
was Raymond Lulli, dusty and travel-stained.
"As soon as the servant had quitted the room, he came close to the
table at which Arnold sat, and addressed him in the grandiloquent way
of the day, somewhat in this fashion: 'I have come a long and weary
way, I have taken a bitter and toilsome journey to seek you, and to
beseech of you to give me one little measure from your great storehouse
of wisdom and learning.' So saying, he thrust his hand into his bosom
and brought forth the little volume, wrapped carefully in the folds of
a linen cloth. He opened it, and held it before the eyes of Arnold de
Villeneuve. 'Tell me, master,' said he, 'in what language and with what
characters is this little volume written?'
"Arnold laughed. 'It is written in ancient Chaldee, my son,' said he.
'And have you, then, sought me out to answer you such a question as
that? There are many other scholars in Europe who could have told you
as much.'
"'No, master,' said Raymond; 'it was not alone for that that I sought
you, for, as you say, there are others that could have told me as
much; but who save you could unfold to me the meaning of this?' And he
opened the book at the first picture representing the flower upon the
mountain-top. 'And who but you, the great Arnold de Villeneuve, could
teach me how to climb the mountain of knowledge and pluck the flower of
wisdom? Will you teach me that, master?'
"Arnold de Villeneuve said nothing at all, but his face had grown all
at once very white. By-and-by he drew a deep breath. 'I will try to
teach you the secrets of that book,' said he, after a while; 'but it
will be a long and weary task, for I have first to learn very much
myself.'
II.
"That morning at dinner-for they used in those days, Oliver, to dine at
ten or eleven o'clock in the morning--Raymond Lulli saw for the first
time Agnes de Villeneuve, who was then reputed the most beautiful woman
in Paris. It was no wonder that, fresh from the ennui of the solitude
of the mountains of Aranda, he should have fallen passionately in love
with her. Neither was it strange that Agnes should love him. For this
propinquity, Oliver, is a droll affair. It will cause a woman to fall
in love with a ghoul, not to speak of one so tall and handsome as
Raymond Lulli. So she loved him as passionately as he loved her. It was
as natural as for steel and loadstone to come together.
"In the days and weeks that followed, Arnold de Villeneuve saw nothing
of what was passing between the two. In his eyes Raymond Lulli was but
a fellow-student. It did not occur to him that passion might find place
even in the bosom of such an ardent follower of alchemy as this new
scholar of his. He beheld only the philosopher and student; he forgot
the man. For months the two labored and toiled like slaves, striving
to discover those two secrets contained in the great Geber's book, and
hidden beneath the strange formulas, the obscure words, and the mystic
pictures. One day they seemed upon the very edge of success, the next
day they failed, and had to begin again from the very beginning. The
laboratory in which they conducted their great work was one in which
Arnold de Villeneuve had already carried forward and completed some
of his most secret, delicate, and successful operations. Within the
wall of the garden back of his house he had had a hollow passage-way
constructed, which ran for some little distance to the deep cellar-like
vault that had, perhaps, at one time been the dungeon of some ancient
fortress. Beneath this vault or dungeon were three rooms, opening one
into another, that had in a far distant period been hewn out of the
solid rock. They were the rooms from which you, Oliver, escaped only a
little while ago. Two of those rooms were sumptuously and luxuriously
furnished; the furthermost was the laboratory where the two great
problems were solved--the problem of life and the problem of wealth.
Such was the workshop in which the two labored together, occasionally
for days at a time; the one sometimes sleeping while the other
compounded new formulas or watched the progress of slow emulsions.
[Illustration: "SUCH WAS THE WORKSHOP IN WHICH THE TWO LABORED
TOGETHER."]
"It was, as Arnold de Villeneuve had predicted, a long and toilsome
labor which they had undertaken; it was, as the great Geber had said, a
tremendous task to climb the steep mountain of knowledge and to pluck
the mystic flower of wisdom from the top. But at last the summit was
reached. Suddenly, one morning, unexpected success fell upon them like
a flash of lightning; for this, like many other successes, happened
through an accident-the overturning of a phial (the contents of which
it had taken months to prepare) into a mortar in which Raymond was
mixing a powder. It all happened in a moment-the accidental brushing
of a sleeve-but that one moment was sufficient; the secret of life was
discovered. From the secret of life to the secret of wealth was but a
step; the one hung upon the other. The very next day they discovered
that which shall make us-you, Oliver, and me, whom you may henceforth
call 'master'-the richest men in France. Did you know that the diamond
and the charcoal are the one and the same thing?"
"No," said Oliver, "I did not; the one is black and the other is white."
Oliver's companion laughed. "There is less difference between black
and white, Oliver, and between the charcoal and the diamond, than
most people think. Later you will learn that for yourself; just now
you must take my word for it. But to resume our narrative. The next
morning Raymond and his master, as I have said, produced from the first
formula a second, by means of one drop of which they created in a
closed crucible, in which five pounds of charcoal had been volatilized,
a half-score of diamond crystals of various sizes, and one fine
blue-white crystal of nearly eight carats in size. Oliver," cried the
speaker, rising in his enthusiasm, and striding up and down the room,
"that was, to my belief, the greatest discovery that the world ever
saw! Other philosophers have approached the solution of the problem
of life, and have prolonged their existence ten, twenty, yes, fifty
years; still other philosophers have transmuted the baser metals into
gold; but who ever heard of transmuting black charcoal into brilliant
diamonds?" He stopped abruptly and turned towards the lad, and Oliver
saw the eyes which looked into his blaze with excitement, like the
diamonds of which he spoke. "Do you wonder," he cried, "that Raymond
Lulli and his master acted like madmen when they opened that retort,
and found those sparkling crystals twinkling like stars upon the rough
surface of the metal? Ha!"
III.
"But, as I said, it was a long time before those experiments were
concluded--before the great problems of life and wealth were
solved. Nine months had passed since Raymond had come, dusty and
travel-stained, like a beggar to the master's door, asking for crumbs
of knowledge. It was the consummation of their life's success. The
very next morning after that consummation came ruin. A blow, sharp and
terrible, fell upon the house.
"It was late, and the master had not yet made his appearance. Raymond
Lulli, passing along the hall-way with a book under his arm, met Agnes
at a door-way.
"'My father,' said she, 'has not yet come down from his room.'
"'I will call him, Agnes,' said Raymond, and then she noticed that his
face was as pale as ashes.
"'Are you ill, Raymond?' she asked.
"'No--yes, I am ill,' he shuddered. 'I will go and call your father.'
And he turned away.
"Agnes stood watching him as he, with slow, heavy steps, climbed the
steep stairs that led to the master's room above. She watched him as he
reached the door and knocked; and then, after a pause, knocked again,
and then again; she watched him as he laid his hand hesitatingly upon
the latch, and then raised it, and pushed open the door.
"The next moment the heavy book slipped from under his arm, and fell
with a crash to the floor. 'Agnes!' he cried, 'your father!' And then
his voice rang through the house: 'Jean! Franquois! Joseph! The master,
help!--the master!'
[Illustration: "THEY SAW ARNOLD DE VILLENEUVE, THE GREAT MASTER, UPON
THE FLOOR."]
"There was a shriek; it was Agnes; there was a confusion of voices and
of running feet, and when the people of the house crowded into and
around the door-way, they saw Arnold de Villeneuve, the great master,
lying upon the floor, his eyes closed, and his head resting upon his
daughter's lap, as she kneeled beside him. His face was white and
drawn, and every now and then he shook with a hiccough. It was not a
pleasant sight, Oliver, and there was no need to ask the question--the
awful gray veil of death rested upon the great doctor's face.
"At a little distance from the father and the daughter stood Raymond
Lulli, with a face almost as ashen white as that of the dying man. He
turned to the frightened servants.
"'Why do you stand there like fools?' he cried. 'Come, lift the master
upon his bed.'
"They approached at Raymond's bidding, and, raising the dying
physician, laid him back upon the bed, from which he had apparently
just risen when the stroke of death fell upon him.
"Minute after minute passed in dead silence, broken only now and then
by a suppressed sob from one of the servants who stood around. Agnes
sat upon the bedside, silently holding her dying father's hand in hers.
Half an hour went by--an hour--the end was very near. Then suddenly
Arnold opened his eyes; they were sightless to this world; they were
gazing straight into the shadow of eternity that hung like a curtain
before him. His lips moved, and at last a struggling sound passed them.
"'Agnes!' said he, in a thick, guttural voice. "'Agnes!'
"'Here I am, father,' said she, and she leaned forward, bringing her
face before his eyes; a gleam of intelligence flickered faintly in
them. He beckoned stiffly, and Agnes drew still nearer. The dying man
raised his hand and touched her face; he felt blindly for a moment,
passing his cold, leaden fingers over her brows, and at last, as though
finding her eyes, pressed his palm upon them. He held his hand there
for a few seconds, and then let it fall heavily beside him, and those
who looked saw Agnes's eyes were now closed. For a moment or two there
was a pause of dead silence.
"It was Arnold's voice, thick, guttural, inarticulate, that broke the
hush: 'Look!'
"Agnes opened her eyes.
"Arnold raised his hand, and with his forefinger began feebly drawing
strange figures in the air; at first stiffly, then gradually more
freely as he gathered his dying powers into one last effort.
"At first Agnes gazed at the slow-moving hand intently, wonderingly.
Raymond sat near by, with his chin resting upon his palm and his eyes
fixed upon the floor, brooding darkly. By-and-by those who watched saw
the color fade slowly out of her cheeks; they saw her face grow pinched
and her eyes dilate. At last she reached out her hand and laid it upon
her father's, holding it fast in spite of his stiff and feeble efforts
to release it.
"'Stop, father!' she cried. 'Oh, God! Stop, I can bear no more.'
"'Look,' said Arnold, thickly.
"He had released his hand, and now again began drawing figures in the
air. All were looking at him wonderingly, excepting Raymond Lulli,
who never once raised his eyes, fixed broodingly upon the floor. At
last the motions ceased, and the hand fell heavily upon the bed beside
the dying man. Agnes sat silent, looking into his face with a face as
white. At last she spoke, in an unsteady, constrained voice.
"'Father,' said she, 'is there nothing else? Must I do that?'
"No answer.
"'Father,' said she again, 'must I do that?'
"Agnes waited for a little while, then again said:
"'Father, must I do that? Is there nothing else? Must I do that?'
"'Yes.'
"There was another space of breathless silence, and then one of the
women began to cry; the others joined in with her. Arnold de Villeneuve
was dead.
"Agnes arose from the side of the bed where she sat, and, without
saying a word, walked slowly and stiffly out of the room.
"That same afternoon her waiting-woman came to Raymond Lulli, and told
him that her mistress wished to speak with him. He followed the woman
up the long flight of steps to the door of Agnes's chamber. He knocked,
and heard a faint voice within bid him enter. Agnes was standing in
the centre of the room, clad in a dark rich dress, heavily embroidered
with seed-pearls. Her dark hair was gathered loosely behind by a golden
serpent which held the locks together. There were no signs of tears
upon her pale face, but her eyes were encircled by dark rings.
"Raymond stood for a moment looking at her. 'Agnes!' he cried, and then
came forward into the room, and took her into his arms. She neither
yielded nor resisted, but stood passive and motionless. There was
something about her that struck a chill through him; he drew back, and
looked into her face. 'Agnes,' he said, 'what is it? Are you ill? Do
you not love me?'
"There was a moment's pause. 'Yes,' said Agnes, 'I love you.'
"Again Raymond took her in his arms, but still there was no response.
"Suddenly she laid her hand upon his breast, and drew a little back.
'Tell me,' said she--'tell me, Raymond, is there in this house a little
crystal globe in a silver box?'
"Raymond hesitated. 'Yes,' said he.
"Agnes's lips moved as though she said something to herself. Then she
spoke again: 'And tell me one thing more, did not you and my father
discover a clear liquor by means of which you could become richer than
any one in France or in the world?'
"'Yes,' said Raymond. Again he saw Agnes's lips move.
"'And tell me,' said she; 'have you not a book written in strange
characters, and illuminated with two strange pictures?'
"'Yes,' said Raymond.
"Again, for the third time, Agnes moved her lips, and this time Raymond
heard the words which she whispered to herself: 'Then it is true.'
"'What is true, Agnes?' said he.
"She did not seem to hear his question. 'Tell me this, Raymond,' said
she, 'did not you and my father work together in a dark vaulted place
under the ground?'
"'Yes,' said Raymond.
"Agnes paused for an instant. 'Then take me there, Raymond,' said she.
"For a moment or two Raymond could not speak for surprise. 'What?' he
cried. 'Take you there? Take you there now, at this time?'
"'Yes, now.'
"'Agnes, I do not understand.'
"'It is of no importance that you should understand,' said she; 'only
I have something to show you there that you have not yet seen, and of
which you know nothing.'
"You know the path they took, Oliver; you yourself walked along it at
my heels the other day. Agnes and Raymond traversed that same passage,
descended the same stair that you descended, entered the vault that
you entered. There Raymond Lulli unlocked the padlock and raised the
trap-door as you saw Gaspard unlock the one and raise the other. He
took the same lantern from the shelf within as Gaspard took it, and lit
the candle as Gaspard lit it, then descending the stairs, they entered
the first of the three rooms below.
"Raymond lit the lamp that you found hanging there from the ceiling,
and Agnes stood for a moment looking around her. The tapestries and
hangings and all that you saw were fresh and beautiful then.
"They entered the room beyond where were the remains of the supper that
Raymond and his master had eaten the night before; the chairs by the
table pushed carelessly back as they had left them, and as you, Oliver,
found them.
"Thence they passed through the narrow passage, and entered the
laboratory beyond, where Agnes saw the two sealed phials standing upon
the stone table as you saw them.
"Agnes pointed with her finger towards them. 'And that,' said
she--'that, then, is the precious liquor of wealth that you and my
father discovered?'
"'Yes,' said Raymond.
"'And it can transmute charcoal to diamonds?'
"Raymond hesitated. 'Yes,' said he.
"Agnes turned suddenly upon him. 'And tell me, Raymond,' she said,
'have you not that little crystal globe in the silver casket?' Raymond
instinctively raised his hand to his breast. 'I see you have,' said
she, smiling. 'It contains the secret of life?'
"Raymond nodded his head.
"There was a pause; then Raymond said, in a hoarse voice, 'Why do you
question me thus, Agnes? Do you not love me?'
"Agnes looked upon him with the same strange smile that her lips had
worn ever since she had begun questioning him. 'Poor Raymond,' said
she, 'do you, then, doubt my love? But tell me, have you not with you
that book of knowledge, of which I spoke to you, containing the strange
pictures?'
"'Yes.'
"'Let me see it;' and she held out her hand.
"Raymond hesitated. Agnes fixed her beautiful eyes upon him. 'Do you
not love me, then?' said she.
"Raymond thrust his hand into his bosom, and drew from the pocket of an
inner vest the little volume.
"Agnes took it, and look curiously at it. 'Raymond,' said she, 'will
you give me this book for my own, to do as I choose with it?'
"Raymond made no answer.
"'You will not? Do you, then, love it more than me?' She stood holding
the book, waiting for his reply.
"'I give it to you, Agnes,' said he at last.
"'And it is now mine to do with as I choose?'
"'It is yours.'
"'Give me the lantern.'
"Raymond reached it to her wonderingly. She took it, raised the slide,
opened the book, and held the parchment leaves over the flame within.
Raymond gave a sharp cry, 'Agnes!' He would have snatched it from her,
but she laid her hand upon his arm.
"'Stop!' said she. 'Have you not all that man can desire in this world
without this book? You have given it to me; it is mine, and I shall
do as I choose with it. You cannot love it with all your heart and me
also. Which do you choose?'
"She had held the book to the flames while talking, her eyes fixed
intently upon it as the parchment leaves blackened and curled and
wrinkled. Raymond groaned and turned away. The oppressive odor of the
burning skin filled the air, and when Agnes cast the remains of the
volume into the pit beneath the grate of the furnace, the wisdom of the
great Geber, the learning that had taken him a lifetime to accumulate,
was nothing but a blackened mass of stinking cinders.
"'Come,' said Agnes, 'let us leave this dark and dismal place, and
go back yonder into the other room.' She led the way into the first
apartment, and there sat down upon the couch, motioning Raymond to a
seat beside her. 'Are you happy, Raymond?' said she.
"'Yes,' he whispered. He would have taken her into his arms, but she
held up her hand.
"'Wait,' said she. 'Have you, then, all that you desire?'
"'Yes,' he said, in a trembling voice; 'with your love.'
"'Poor Raymond!'
"There was a little space of silence. And then at last she turned to
him with that same strange smile upon her face. 'Do you know what my
father did when he moved his hands as he did when you saw him?' said
she.
"'No,' said Raymond.
"'He drew strange pictures before my eyes, Raymond, and I saw them as
plainly as I see you now. Would you like me to tell you what they were?'
"Raymond nodded his head.
[Illustration: "SHE HELD THE BOOK IN THE FLAMES WHILE TALKING, HER EYES
FIXED INTENTLY UPON IT."]
"'Then I shall tell you. I saw you and my father in this place
together, and you had completed the last of your great experiments,
and had sealed those two phials as I saw them yonder. I saw you and
my father quit this place filled with joy that the last touch of your
work was done. After that came the dark blank of night and of sleep.
The next picture he drew was of the morning--of this morning when he
died--and I saw him sleeping upon his bed. The door opened, and I
saw you come softly in and forward to his bedside, and stand looking
down at him as he slept. Above his face you drew strange characters
with your finger; they were spells that he himself had taught you.
After that I saw you, Raymond, draw a bunch of keys from beneath his
pillow. Then I saw you go to the great iron-bound chest that stood
in the corner. From within you took a little silver box; you did not
open the lid, but I saw that within it was a crystal globe about as
large as a dove's egg. I saw you relock the chest and replace the keys
beneath my father's pillow.' Agnes was looking into Raymond's face as
she spoke, and her lips still wore that same faint smile. 'What next I
saw, Raymond, was this,' said she. 'You took from your pouch a little
wooden box filled with a bright green powder; then from the same pouch
you drew a long slender needle. Upon the point of the needle you took
a little of the green powder. (All this my father drew with his dying
hand in the air, Raymond.) I saw you stoop over him and thrust that
long shining needle deep into his shoulder. Then you turned and left
the room; but as you left it, I saw your face as I see it now, and it
was as white as ashes, as it is now, and the sweat stood in beads upon
your forehead, as it stands there now. What did it mean, Raymond?' Her
lips never lost that strange, odd smile.
"'God, I do not know!' cried Raymond, hoarsely.
"'It meant that you murdered my father, Raymond--that you murdered the
man who taught you all that you now know--that you murdered the man who
in nine months made of you, a raw student, the most learned alchemist,
but one, in Europe.'
"There was a long pause of dead silence. 'Agnes,' cried Raymond, in
that same hoarse, dry voice, 'Agnes--I love you!'
"The smile never left her lips. 'Very good,' said she; 'but stay, I
have not yet done. All that my father had showed me so far was past and
gone; now he showed me what was to come. I saw us both pass through
that long, dark, narrow way; I saw the dark, vaulted cellar above us; I
saw us descend and stand together in the farther room yonder and look
upon those phials; I saw myself burning that accursed book by the light
of the candle in the lantern; I saw us seated together upon this couch
as we are now. What next do you think I saw, Raymond?'
"'I do not know.'
"'I saw this!'
[Illustration: "HE LEANED OVER AND LOOKED INTO HER FACE."]
"There was a movement as quick as lightning, a flash, a blow, a deep
sigh. Agnes sat for a moment with the smile still resting upon her
white lips, and something bright glistening upon her bosom. It was the
handle of a dagger, and she had stabbed herself. Then she lay slowly
down upon the pillow beside her.
"For one moment Raymond sat as motionless as stone; then he started up
with a shrill cry. He leaned over and looked into her face; that smile
was still upon her white lips.
"'Agnes!' he cried; then again, 'Agnes!' But the smiling lips never
answered; she was dead.
"Raymond slowly turned, and walked heavily and stupidly out of
the place, closing the door behind him. At the head of the shaft
he mechanically opened the slide of the lantern, and blew out the
half-burned candle, and then set the lantern upon the shelf within, as
he had been used to do. He closed the trap, and lowered the bar, and
snapped the padlock in the staple; then, again, with the same slow,
heavy tread, he left the vaulted room, ascended the stone steps, and
threaded the passage-way. He did not go back into the master's house,
but passed out at the arched gate-way where we, Oliver, entered. Before
he went out into the street beyond he laid his hand upon his breast to
make sure the silver box containing the talisman was there; it was all
that he had saved from his ruin."
IV.
"From that time Raymond Lulli led a wandering, irregular, eventful
life. Under the spur of his remorse he went first to Rome and then to
Tunis, where, until his life was threatened on account of his efforts
to convert the Mussulmans, he devoted himself partly to the fulfilment
of his original vow, partly to the further study of alchemy. After that
he lived for a while in Milan; after that he went to England, where,
as I have heard, he transmuted lead and quicksilver into gold to the
amount of six millions rose nobles; after that he returned again to
Rome; and after that for a second time to Africa, where he took up his
abode at Bona.
"Now there was at that time at Bona a famous and learned professor,
who had devoted himself more particularly to the study of demonology.
It is hardly likely that you have ever heard his name; it was Yusef
Ben Djani. I know of nobody since his time who approached him in his
knowledge of the science unless, perhaps, it was the great Cornelius
Agrippa.
"This learned scholar held that the power of man's will was such that,
under certain circumstances, it could be so far impressed upon those
diffused forces of life about us as to materialize or concentrate
them, and so render them cognizant to the human understanding, or,
in other words, visible. Now, Oliver, it is very well known that one
man may so impress his will upon another as to render that other will
entirely subservient to his own. Under such conditions, the one so
impressed sees, feels, smells, tastes, and senses only as the superior
will orders; he moves, speaks, and exists as the other commands. If
that power, Yusef Ben Djani argued, could impress material men in this
world, why could it not impress men in the world immediately beyond?
Is not a man, he reasoned, the same man after quitting this world as
when he lived in the body? Why, then, is he not as subject to that
psychological power there as here, and why, then, could he not be
influenced there as well as here? Such an influence Yusef Ben Djani did
exert, and succeeded. He materialized those quiescent forces of life,
and brought them into such communion with himself that he was able to
compel them to that certain exudation of life in quiescence which we in
this world call matter. Do you understand me, Oliver?"
Oliver shook his head. "No," said he, "I do not." He had tried to
follow the other so far as he was able, but he had long gotten beyond
the power of comprehension; the words fell upon his ears one after the
other like blows, until his head hummed like a beehive.
The other laughed. "Very well," said he. "It is of no importance that
you should comprehend Yusef Ben Djani's theory. But this at least you
can understand: he materialized evil spirits.
"Now there was a certain young Venetian student named Nicholas Jovus,
who almost from his childhood had possessed a wonderful psychological
power upon others. By psychological power I mean the power of
superinducing his own will upon the will of another; in other words, to
make such another do absolutely as he chose.
"The fame of Yusef Ben Djani was at its height, and Nicholas Jovus,
then about four-and-twenty years of age, determined to visit the great
master at Bona. The philosopher saw in the young student the material
for an even greater than himself. He persuaded him to stay in Bona,
and to study the science of demonology under him. It was while there
that, with the assistance of his master, Nicholas Jovus superinduced
his own will upon the surface of a mirror to such an extent that within
it he could at any time see that which he willed to see. It was by
means of this mirror that he one time beheld Raymond Lulli, of whom he
had often heard, and, circumstances being then peculiarly propitious,
beheld at the same time not only Raymond Lulli himself, but the secret
of the talisman that he carried in his bosom. And not only did he
discover the existence of the talisman, but (Raymond's mind being at
that moment concentrated upon the past) he discovered the story of the
philosopher's life as I have told it to you, and thus first gained
knowledge of those dark chambers below the vault. Yes, Nicholas Jovus
saw all this in the mirror just as I have described it to you, Oliver;
it was the first and only time, but he never forgot it.
"Now soon after Raymond Lulli had reached Rome, after having left
Paris, he was taken with a violent fever, from which he wakened, his
physicians told him, only to die. But the physicians were mistaken. The
next morning when they visited him he was sitting at the table eating a
boiled capon, as well a man as you or I. I need to hardly tell you he
had used the talisman of life.
"Yet it was only with great hesitation, and in the last extremity,
that Lulli thus rehabilitated himself with a new body, for by so
doing he cut himself off forever from all chance of entering those
secret chambers again and recovering the phials, which he now bitterly
regretted having left behind him in the first throes of his grief and
remorse. For Arnold de Villeneuve, for protection against evil powers,
had drawn around the door of those underground chambers a circle upon
which he had marked a sign that Raymond Lulli could not pass without
leaving his newly-acquired body behind him.
"From the time that Raymond Lulli had used the talisman of life to
the time that Nicholas Jovus saw him in the mirror, thirty years had
elapsed, and yet he appeared as young as upon the day when the Roman
physicians had told him that he was to die.
"Nicholas Jovus determined to gain that talisman for his own.
"Now the young Venetian student had a curious, odd servant, very much
attached to him, and not so wicked as one might have thought under the
circumstances. Early one morning, before the town was awake, Nicholas
Jovus, followed by this servant, left the house of his master and
hurried down to the sea-shore. He had looked in his glass and saw that
Raymond Lulli was walking there. He met the alchemist not far from
where a long quay ran out into the water.
"Since the time when he had first seen Raymond Lulli in the glass,
Nicholas Jovus had made the acquaintance of the master in his own
proper person. Accordingly, Raymond stopped and chatted awhile with
the young student. While the two stood talking together that odd
servant of whom I spoke stepped around behind the philosopher. He made
a silent motion of inquiry, Nicholas Jovus nodded in reply, and the
next moment all was over. The serving-man had--had drawn a bag over the
philosopher's head.
"Nicholas Jovus thrust his hand into the philosopher's bosom, and,
after feeling for a moment, found the talisman, which was enclosed in
a bag hung around his neck. He did not take time to unfasten the cord
from which it hung, but, giving it a jerk, broke the string with a snap.
"As he did so, Raymond Lulli, who had been lying silent in the
encircling arms of that strange servant, gave a sharp, a loud, and a
bitter cry.
"What followed was as unlooked-for to Nicholas Jovus as it would
have been to you had you been there, Oliver. That quaint servant of
his--what think you he did? He laid Raymond Lulli upon the sand of the
sea-shore, and stripped the false body off of him as you might strip
off a man's coat. The young student did not know how it was done, but
done it was, and as deftly and as cunningly as a fisherman might draw
the skin from an eel. Then, as Nicholas Jovus stood aghast watching
him, he shouldered what appeared to be the empty skin of Raymond Lulli,
turned, and running some distance out along the quay, flung his burden
with a splash into the water. It sunk like a stone. The Raymond Lulli
that was left behind was an old man of seventy-five years of age,
bruised, bleeding, dying. My faith, Oliver! It was a long time before
Nicholas Jovus could bear the presence of that odd servant of his
without a shudder.
"That is all concerning the story of Raymond Lulli and those rooms that
you were in not long ago."
THE END OF THE MASTER'S MONOLOGUE.
* * * * *
He finished speaking, and Oliver sat gazing at him open-mouthed. He
was bewildered--he was stunned. It began to dawn upon his stupefied
wits that he was in the very presence of and face to face with a
dreadful, grotesque miracle. "And you," said he, in a low voice, and
then stopped short, for the question stuck in his throat.
[Illustration: "AND STRIPPED THE FALSE BODY OFF OF HIM AS YOU MIGHT
STRIP OFF A MAN'S COAT."]
The other smiled. "And I?" said he. "What is it, then, that you would
ask?"
"Are--are you--are you--Nicholas Jovus?"
The other laughed. "What a droll question!" said he. "That thing
happened four hundred years ago."
Oliver's skin began to creep; but then he was growing used to that
feeling. The two sat watching one another for a little while in
silence, the one with dull bewilderment of wonder, the other smiling
oddly. Presently the smile broke into a laugh. "You are very droll,
Oliver," said he; "you would believe anything that I told you. I
have seen and done many strange things in my days, but as for being
four hundred years old--Bah! my child, why all this that I have been
telling you is only a story, a legend, a tradition, handed down from
one to another of us who dabble in alchemy; for I confess to being one
of such. No doubt it has grown absurdly as it has been transmitted
from man to man. Nevertheless, there are in that story some strange
matters--one might almost call them coincidences--that appear to
fit in with things that you have seen, and which might, with an
irrational mind such as yours, strengthen absurd speculations." He
sat watching Oliver smilingly for a while. "That mirror of Nicholas
Jovus's," said he, suddenly--"what would you say if I had it in my own
possession? Nay, what would you say if it were in this very room?"
Oliver looked sharply around, and again the other laughed. "You need
not be alarmed," said he; "it is very harmless. But come, I will be
perfectly frank; it _is_ in this room, and I will show it to you. It is
my intention that we shall thoroughly understand one another, and we
must arrive at such understanding now. So understanding one another,
we can best be of benefit to each other. But first of all, since we
are in the way of being frank, I will begin by making a confession. I
confess to you, my dear child--yes, I confess frankly that the ugly
suspicions that you have entertained about me have not been entirely
without ground. I confess that I had not intended that you should
have left that place down yonder, from which you so miraculously
escaped. Perhaps this confession may at first shock you, but I am sure,
when I explain matters, you will understand that I was not entirely
unjustified in seeking to destroy you. I have, I think I may say, very
considerable skill in foretelling events by the stars--not foretelling
them perfectly, of course, for the science of astrology is not yet
perfected, but looking into futurity in a general way. Nevertheless,
imperfect as the science of astrology is, my reading of fate was clear
enough to teach me who and what you were, and, in a general way, where
you were to be found. That reading told me that, unless some heroic
remedy were devised, the time drew near when you would be my ruin--"
he stopped suddenly, his gaze fixed itself absently above Oliver's
head, and Oliver saw his face grow pale and haggard, as if it saw some
dreadful vision; he drew in his breath between his shut teeth--"and my
death," said he, in a low voice, completing his speech, and shuddering
as he spoke the words. Then he passed his hand over his face, and when
he drew it away again his expression was as smiling and as debonair
as ever. "But we will not speak of such unpleasant things," said he.
"I have only mentioned them so far that you might see that I was not
altogether inexcusable in seeking to rid myself of you. In conclusion,
I will say that about the time that I located with some accuracy the
particular spot where you were living, I also discovered that for
which I had been seeking for many years--the underground cell in which
was Arnold de Villeneuve's laboratory. This house is built upon the
ground whereon his stood. It is a wretched tumble-down affair, mean
and squalid, yet I have fitted it up for my home; for, as you have
discovered, it connects almost directly with that underground vault
where the student and the master discovered their great secret.
"Unfortunately, for certain reasons that I need not mention, I could
not pass that circle and the sign upon the wall around the door-way.
So, not being able to pass it myself, it was a great temptation for me
to send you to get those bottles for me, and then, in your destruction,
to seal my own security. It was a great temptation, I say, and I
yielded to it. What I did was unpleasant to you, perhaps, but that now
is all passed and gone. Let it be forgotten, and hereafter we shall, I
know, be great friends. That attempt has taught me a lesson. I tried,
in spite of fate, to destroy you, and failed; now I will try kindness,
and see if that will eliminate you from my life. I have it in my power
to make you the richest man in the world--next to myself; and what is
more, I will do so, and then we shall separate forever. As for me, I
shall live in Paris, for there is no other place in the world for a
man of parts like myself. You, upon your part, may live wherever you
choose--except in Paris. You shall quit Paris _forever_. Do you
understand?--_forever_! Should you be so unfortunate as to ever return
here, should you be so unhappy as ever to emerge from your obscurity
and cross my path, I will annihilate you. But before I annihilate you
I will make you suffer the torments of hell, and wish that you had not
been born. Do you understand?"
[Illustration: "HE SAW WITHIN AN OVAL MIRROR SET IN A HEAVY FRAME OF
COPPER."]
Oliver nodded his head.
"Very well, then, my child, we comprehend one another. Now I will show
you Nicholas Jovus's mirror, which I told you was in my possession. It
is a unique curiosity in its way."
He rose, and crossing the room to what appeared to be the door of a
closet or cabinet, opened it, and showed within a hollow space, partly
hidden by a curtain of some heavy black material. Oliver had followed
him, and as the master drew back the curtain, he saw within an oval
mirror, set in a heavy frame of copper.
"Now, Oliver," said the master, "what is it that you would wish to see?"
The thought of the perils from which he had escaped and the perils
which still lay before him was uppermost in Oliver's mind. "I should
like," said he, "to see that which will bring me the most danger in my
life."
The master laughed. "It is a wise wish, my child," said he; "look and
see."
He stood aside, and Oliver came forward and gazed into the glass. At
first he saw nothing but his own face reflected clear and sharp as in
an ordinary mirror; then suddenly, as he gazed, the bright surface
of the glass clouded over as though with a breath blown upon it, and
his own face faded away from his view. The next moment it cleared
again, and he saw before him the face and form of a young lady, the
most beautiful he had ever seen. He had only just time to observe
that she sat in the window recess of what appeared to be a large and
richly appointed room, and that she was reading a letter. Then all was
gone--the master had dropped the curtain across the glass.
Oliver put his fingers to his forehead and looked about him, dazed and
bewildered, for he felt as though he were going crazy in the presence
of all the grotesque wonders through which he was passing.
The master also seemed disturbed. He frowned; he bit his lips; he
looked at Oliver from under his brows. "Who is the young lady?" said he
at last.
"I do not know," said Oliver, faintly. "I never saw her before."
"Here is a new complication," said the master. "One woman is more
dangerous than a score of men." He brooded for a moment or two, and
then his face cleared again. "No matter," said he; "we will not go to
meet our difficulties, but will wait till they come to us. All the
same, Oliver, take warning by one who knows that whereof he speaks.
Avoid the women as you would a pitfall: they have been the ruin of many
a better man. Remember that which I have told you of Raymond Lulli. He
might perhaps have been living to-day, the richest and happiest man in
the world, had he not been so stupid as to love Agnes de Villeneuve."
Oliver made no reply, but even while the other was uttering his warning
he had determined in his own mind to seize the very first opportunity
of looking again, and at his leisure, into the mirror, and to see again
that danger which appeared in so alluring a form.