CAGLIOSTRO—VOLTAIRE—THE MARQUIS DE J——.
It was the hour of noon, and C. had kindly come to fetch me to the
luncheon-room, where I found the guests all assembled, listening
greedily to the conversation of the prince, who was that morning _en
verve_, and relating with great good-nature the anecdotes which he
had promised us on the preceding evening; the first claimant to be
satisfied was, of course, by right, the youthful duchess, to whom he
had held out hopes of the history of his famous visit to the great
Cagliostro, and which I will give to the reader.
“It was just at the dawning of the new lights which had arisen on
the political horizon,” began the prince, “or rather, I should say,
perhaps, with more justice, at the first extinguishing of the old
beacons which had served to guide our ancestors for ages, that so many
new doctrinaires and charlatans of every kind came swarming in crowds
to Paris. Those were, indeed, most troublous times. Every brain seemed
reeling with political vertigo—every heart seemed to beat thick and
fast, with an ardour hitherto unknown in the annals of any country
on the face of the globe. With the warm and passionate temperaments,
enthusiasm had reached to frenzy, while, with the cold and passionless,
it smouldered, a hidden fire, ready to burst out into lurid flame upon
the first occasion of excitement.
“Among the many quacks and impostors who abounded at the time, none
was more conspicuous than the famous Cagliostro. He had arrived from
Italy under extraordinary and mysterious circumstances; his coming had
been preceded by rumours more strange, more surprising still, and his
door was besieged at once by all the rich and idle, the marvel-loving
portion of the population of Paris. Among the rest, I am ashamed to
confess that I was one of the most ardent. I was very young at the
time, and had not acquired that distrust of all pretension which years
alone can give. Many months, however, had elapsed before I could
obtain the audience I so much coveted. Thousands of persons had to pass
by right before me, and it was said that, immediately on his arrival,
his books were so filled with the names of the highest and mightiest,
that, had he been _just_, and received them each _in turn_, the
candidates at the _bottom_ of the list would have known their future by
experience long before he could by any possible means have foretold it.
“I myself knew an officer in the regiment de Flandre, who, being
quartered at Metz, and not being able to obtain from his colonel leave
of absence, threw up his commission, in order to keep his appointment
with Cagliostro on a certain day in Paris, so fearful was he of losing
the valuable information concerning the future, which the magician had
to give him.
“I cannot even now repress a smile, when I remember the awe and terror
with which I entered the presence of the conjuror. I had not dared to
go alone; M. de Boufflers had kindly consented to accompany me; and
yet my embarrassment was not wholly dissipated even with the prospect
of his company; so fearful was I of missing the object of my visit,
that I had wasted so much time in thinking of all the questions which
I meant to propound to him, as to have even written many of them upon
my _calpin_, with the intention of consulting it in case of need. It
was already dusk when we were admitted into the awful presence of the
conjuror; not quite dark without doors, yet sufficiently so within to
require the aid of tapers. The antechamber was filled with impatient
applicants, who railed at us as we passed through the door of the
chamber where the wizard was holding his incantations. The whole
scene was very like those introduced in the early Spanish dramas, and
inspired one with the most awful forebodings as to what was about to
follow.
“We found the magician in his study. He was just at the moment
engaged in dismissing two poor patients, to whom he had given advice
gratuitously. The one was a cripple figure, whose distorted and haggard
countenance formed a most fitting accessory to the scene of devilry;
the other was an old mendicant friar, afflicted with the shaking palsy,
whose restless limbs and hesitating speech made him appear as if under
the influence of some wizard spell.
“As soon as we entered, Cagliostro led his guests to a door at the
farther end of the chamber, which was veiled by a thick tapestry, and,
opening it without the slightest noise, ushered them through it into
the passage beyond, and then, closing it again with the same attention
to silence, returned to the spot where we were standing, and, placing
his finger on his lips, pointed towards a still and motionless figure
seated in one corner of the room, and which, from the obscurity that
reigned around, we had not observed on our entrance. The figure was
that of a female, covered from head to foot with a veil of black crape,
so long and ample that it disguised even the form of the fauteuil in
which she was seated.
“Cagliostro bade us take seats at a table covered with green velvet,
upon which were placed divers mysterious-looking instruments of
torture, sundry queer-shaped bottles and diabolical volumes, and
then, standing up before us, in solemn and biblical language inquired
wherefore we had sought him, and what it was that we desired to know.
Such was the effect of the sudden questioning, the mystery of the
interview, the silence and the darkness, that Boufflers, who was to
have spoken first, and who had the reputation of being a _raffiné
de premier ordre_, a _roué de la Régence_, was quite overawed by the
whole scene, and could find no words to answer the summons, but sat
stammering and hesitating, while I took the opportunity of examining
slowly and at leisure the wondrous adept.
“Cagliostro was then a man in the very flower of his age, of
exceedingly prepossessing appearance. His person, although small, was
so well and firmly knit that its proportions seemed those of a much
larger man. His countenance was remarkably keen and penetrating, being
formed of a succession of sharp angular lines, which gave him a look
of cunning that he would willingly have disguised, and with which the
solemn tone and mysterious aspect were altogether at variance. His
sharp piercing eyes I shall never forget; they absolutely seemed to
light up the obscurity of the chamber, and, as they flashed from the
one to the other of his visitors, they seemed to belong to some wild
bird of prey hesitating between two victims which to devour first.
His beard and eyebrows were black and bushy, with here and there a
streak of grey amid their jetty blackness, telling more of the hand
of woe than of the passage of time. When we entered, he had upon his
head a velvet cap, which, with gentlemanlike courtesy, he doffed when
he addressed us, and then I perceived that the summit of his crown
was already bald, although his hair curled downward upon his neck and
shoulders in a thick and silky mass. The hand which rested upon the
table, and upon which he seemed to be leaning his whole weight as he
stood in graceful and theatrical attitude, awaiting our communication,
was small and delicate as that of a lady of the court, and shone out
upon the dark green velvet as white as snow; and yet it needed not any
very profound knowledge of anatomy to enable the beholder to discern at
once that it was the hand of a man possessed of most herculean strength
and power, so vigorous were the firm knit muscles, so well strung the
tightened, cord-like nerves. I think he observed with some displeasure
the curiosity with which I gazed towards it, for he withdrew it
suddenly, and let it fall by his side.
“Boufflers still remaining mute, the conjuror turned to me, and asked
me, in a voice which had already lost much of its solemnity, and
partook of something like harshness, if I also had come unprepared
with a subject of consultation, as, if so, we had best depart at
once, and leave the field to others whose business might be of more
importance, and who were waiting with such impatience without. The
question roused all the courage which was left within me, for I began
to fear that the magician might grow wearied, and dismiss us as he
threatened, and I answered in a low voice that I wished to consult him
concerning the health of a person who was dear to me. (I had already
forgotten all the questions I had intended to propound, as well as the
_calpin_ which I had so laden with notes.)
“Cagliostro turned, and by a movement so abrupt and sudden that it
made us both start to our feet, drew the fauteuil wherein was seated
the veiled mysterious form of the female who had remained all this
time silent and motionless, across the floor, and still the figure
moved not. The feet resting on a board attached to the bottom of the
fauteuil, moved with the rest, producing an indescribable effect. At
the present day, when the mysteries of mesmerism have become common
household talk, and somnambulism has been made a general _voie de
guerison_ for every complaint under heaven, all this will appear vain
and puerile ceremony; but, at the period of which I am now speaking,
they were familiar but to the initiated few, and Boufflers and I, poor
ignorant novices, were struck with awe and wonder.
“‘What is it you seek to know?’ said Cagliostro, resuming once more
his solemn and theatrical air, and, drawing a little aside the veil of
black crape, he bent towards the ear of the female, and whispered a few
words which we could not understand.
“I was so afraid at the moment of losing, as my friend Boufflers
had already done, the memory of what I had to say, that I replied
hurriedly, never thinking of myself, nor of the thousand and one
questions which I had predetermined to ask—‘I wish to learn the cause
of the migraine of my friend the Marquise de ——’
“‘Chut,’ interrupted Cagliostro. ‘The name is of little import. What
see you?’ added he, in a loud deep tone, turning to the veiled figure.
“‘I see a fair and beauteous lady,’ replied a sweet soft voice from
beneath the veil. ‘She is attired in a dress of sea-green Padua silk,
her powdered hair is wreathed with rosebuds, and she wears long and
splendid eardrops of emerald and topaz.’
“Boufflers caught my arm, with a smile, which the excitement of the
moment had converted into a grimace, for he knew well enough the person
for whom I was so anxious, and knew, moreover, that there were certain
nights on which she wore the emerald and topaz suit, and that this
very night was one of them. The veiled form continued, in the same low
voice: ‘The lady is pressing her hand to her brow at this very instant.
Is it with pain, or is it with care? She is waiting for some one, for
now she rises and looks at the clock upon the console, and now she goes
to the small side-door to listen.’
“‘Enough, enough,’ said I, in my turn, growing impatient; ‘tell me at
once what it is that ails the lady, and what may be the remedy.’
“The figure spoke aloud no more, but whispered long in Cagliostro’s
ear, and the latter, turning to me, said, with ease and _àplomb_, ‘The
lady’s migraines are caused by overwatching and anxiety—the _cure_ is
easy, and must be applied at once—the _cause_ will be removed in time.’
“He pushed back the fauteuil into the corner whence he had drawn
it; the veiled figure by which it was occupied remained still and
motionless as death. He then opened a small door in the wainscot,
belonging to a cupboard filled with shelves, containing bottles of
all sorts and sizes, and drew from it a phial, which he filled from a
jug of that which stood upon the floor, and having performed various
‘_passes_’ and evolutions over it, he handed it to me, bidding my
companion and myself to lose no time in retiring, for others were
waiting outside.
“His dismissal of us was as abrupt as possible, scarcely, indeed,
consistent with politeness. ‘You have told your ailments and your
griefs—you bear with you the never-failing cure—now begone.’
“With these words he opened the same low door through which he had
let out the two visitors whom we had succeeded; and Boufflers and I
passed out, obeying, without a word, the gesture of the magician, which
pointed towards the passage beyond.
“Such is the history of my first interview with the great Cagliostro.
To you, who behold daily the strange and varied examples of magnetism,
my story will perhaps appear pale and puerile; but you must remember
that, at the time, the thing was new, and, notwithstanding all that
has been discovered since, none has surpassed him; even to this very
hour, the secret of Cagliostro has not been discovered. It is supposed
that ventriloquism was much employed by him in his various _tours de
force_. Perhaps it was made the agent of deception in my own case,
and the figure veiled with black crape may have been a mere puppet
set up to delude the credulous. The circumstance which would seem to
favour greatly the suspicion of imposture is, that, as Cagliostro
never employed twice the same agency, the _consultant_ could never
come _prepared_ to watch and detect the machinery of his experiments,
and in fact, being always taken by surprise, had no leisure to think
of anything else than the consultation he had come to hold. Again, how
_could_ the adept have known, by natural means, that the Marquise de
Br**, whom he had not suffered me to name, was young and beauteous—that
she possessed eardrops of emerald and topaz, which mixture of jewels
was peculiar, and that she would wear them on that very night? All
these reflections completely bewildered me, as I hastened on to the
Opera, certain that the marquise would be there, full of curiosity to
see if her dress and appearance would correspond with Cagliostro’s
description. Boufflers could not help me, nor suggest a single idea
to solve the mystery, so absorbed was he in the memory of the strange
scene he had been witnessing—so completely wonder-struck by the silence
and mystery of the whole proceeding.
“We arrived at the Opera just as the curtain was about to rise. I shall
never forget the performance, so linked is it in memory with that
night’s adventure. It was Gluck’s opera of ‘Alceste.’ Boufflers and
myself took our places in the parterre, immediately below the loge of
the marquise, which was empty, and remained so for some time; and I can
assure you that, when, in the midst of one of the most pathetic scenes
of the opera, I heard the door of the box open, and a valet-de-chambre
announce, as was the usage among the fashionables of the day, ‘Madame
la Marquise de Br**,’ we both turned sharply round. She entered,
muffled up to the chin, and evidently suffering greatly from her old
enemy the migraine, for she held a screen before her eyes to shield
them from the glare of light, and bent her head upon her hand as soon
as she had taken her seat.
“‘Look! she _has_ roses in her hair,’ exclaimed Boufflers, all aghast.
“It was true enough the roses were there; and _I_ could see even more,
for the eardrops of emerald and topaz caught the light of the girandole
in front of her box, and played before my eyes in a most tantalizing
manner.
Presently the marquise, overcome by the heat, withdrew her cloak and
muffles, and stood revealed to us in the full light, exactly as she had
been described to us so short a time before. The dress of sea-green
Padua silk, looped with roses, seemed completely to choke poor
Boufflers, as he stood gazing on her in mute amazement. So far, the
wizard had told us truth. Since his day, the same experiment has been
repeated, and in thousands of instances has succeeded. You have all, I
doubt not, some little story of the kind to tell, much more striking
and interesting than mine, but the sequel of my anecdote, I think, may
be unique, so completely did the adventure jump from the sublime to the
ridiculous at a single bound.
“At the conclusion of the piece we both repaired to the box of the
Marquise de Br**. She was suffering greatly from her migraine, and
greeted me ironically, observing that I was ‘_bien aimable et bien
galant_—that she had waited for me to escort her to the Opera, and
had been compelled to depart from home alone. After the performance,
we all adjourned to her hotel. I had completely reinstated myself in
her good graces, by the promise of a complete cure for her migraine.
The gentlemen of the company, however, all voted that a glass or two
of champagne should be tried first, before the dear marquise was put
to pain and torture by any of the diabolical remedies of the sorcerer
Cagliostro. The vote was carried, and the marquise compelled to submit
to their prescription first, which she did with the greatest grace
and good-humour, using every effort to appear gay, although evidently
suffering much pain at the very moment.
I will not attempt to record all the good things which were uttered at
the _petit souper_, nor all the _idées folles_ to which the champagne
gave birth. Boufflers was quite himself again, and had recovered all
his wonted vivacity, all his mad gaiety, and kept us in a roar of
laughter by his wicked sallies and pointed jokes concerning our visit
to Cagliostro. He counterfeited with such excessive humour the whole
scene as it had passed before his eyes, that no one could have imagined
him to be the same individual who had sat quaking in fear and awe
before the very man whose power he was now deriding in such exquisite
glee.
“Of course, the phial and the contents became soon the objects of
attack, and I was petitioned on all sides for a view of them. By the
permission of the marquise herself, I yielded to the clamour, and it
was handed round amid the commentaries of the laughing guests, until
Boufflers proposed that the remedy should at once be tried in the
presence of us all, so that, if it failed, we might at once go and give
Cagliostro the _charivari_ which he would so richly deserve; and, if
it succeeded, we might publish its virtues and the compounder’s skill
throughout the world.
“It was not till I had uncorked the phial, and was about to pour it
into a glass, that it all at once occurred to me, that, in the hurry of
our dismissal from the presence of Cagliostro, I had entirely omitted
to ascertain whether the liquid was to be taken as a medicine, or to
be applied externally. To the eye, it was nothing but pure water from
the fountain, it possessed neither smell nor colour, and the greatest
curiosity was excited to behold its marvellous effects. At length,
by the suggestion of the marquise herself, who was growing weary
of our _badinage_, it was decided that there would be less danger
in misapplying it externally than in swallowing it, should it prove
pernicious; and as I was chosen to be the operator, I poured a small
quantity of the water into the hollow of my hand, which Boufflers
guiding, so that not a drop was spilt, I placed gently as possible over
the forehead of the marquise, pressing it there, but certainly not with
violence, and, supporting the back of her head with the hand that was
free, held her, thus awaiting the result.
“The marquise closed her eyes, but uttered not a word, and there was a
moment’s silence among the clamorous group bending over her with such
eager curiosity to witness the effect of the miraculous cure, when
suddenly it was broken by a loud convulsive shriek from the marquise
herself, which was almost echoed by many of those present, so sudden
and startling did it burst from her lips. ‘Take away your hand! For
God’s sake, take away your hand!’ exclaimed she, in a voice of agony;
and, starting to her feet, she endeavoured, with all her strength, to
pull my wrist downwards. But strange to tell, not all the efforts of
the marquise, nor those I used myself, could tear away my hand from
her forehead! No words can describe the sensation of terror with which
I found myself not only deprived of the faculty of withdrawing my arm,
but drawn by some powerful attraction closer and closer still, until it
almost seemed as if the fingers were about to bury themselves in the
flesh.
“At first, as you may suppose, it was imagined by those present that
the whole event was a jest, and the piteous shrieks of the marquise,
and my own supplications for assistance, had at first been greeted
with roars of laughter; but when it was found that the affair was
serious, the company began to take alarm. It was not, however, till the
unfortunate marquise sank back in her chair, fainting and exhausted,
that the Duc d’Argenton, recovering from the consternation into
which the discovery of the extraordinary event had thrown the whole
assembly, seized my wrist in a nervous grasp, and tore it by main
force away, drawing with it large patches of skin from the forehead of
the marquise, upon which the imprint of my touch remained in bleeding
characters. My hand was torn and lacerated likewise, and the pain was
unbearable. I bound it in my handkerchief, and gave all the assistance
in my power towards the recovery of Madame de Br**, who was conveyed
to bed, still in a deep swoon. We all remained in the saloon, which
had so lately been the scene of our mad gaiety, with downcast looks
and subdued voices, waiting the report of the surgeon who had been
sent for to apply the proper remedies to the wounds of the marquise,
who was not pronounced out of danger till towards morning. We then
dispersed, with the firm determination of having the mystery cleared by
Cagliostro himself as soon as possible. Boufflers instantly repaired to
M. de Sartines, the head of the police, and he furnished us with two
officers, and with all power to make search at the magician’s house, or
take any steps which we might deem necessary.
“Cagliostro received the visit with the greatest _sang froid_, and,
without the slightest resistance, allowed the officer to prosecute his
search among the various tools and utensils which he employed in his
calling. The large jug from which he had taken the liquid contained
in the phial which he had given to me, still stood in the same place
as on the preceding day. There remained but a few drops, for his
patients had been numerous, but these the officer poured into a bottle
and conveyed to the nearest chemist, who laughed in the man’s face,
and pronounced them to be clear water. To my bitter reproaches and
angry exclamations, Cagliostro replied, with perfect calmness, that
the liquid was pure and innocent when he placed it in my hands, and
that if it had grown pernicious it must have been owing to the guilty
passions or to the evil sympathies of those who had used it. No further
explanation could be elicited, and the affair, which made a great
noise at the time, remains a mystery to this hour. As for me, I lost
an amiable and valued friend, for the Marquise de Br**, either through
fear of the ridicule which attached to the adventure, or from memory
of the pain which she had suffered, could never endure me to approach
her after that. She would not even grant me an interview in order to
express my regrets at the strange accident which had happened. She
avoided me when by chance we met in public, scarcely even returning my
salutation but by a cold and formal acknowledgment. She refused all
the efforts of our mutual friends at effecting a reconciliation, and,
wearied with my importunities (for I really felt anxious to do away
the unjust impression), she ended by returning my letters of apologies
and supplications unopened.”
The prince paused thoughtfully. The story was at an end.
“Did there remain a scar or trace of the wound which the marquise had
incurred?” said Madame de V——.
“She carried the mark of that night’s adventure to her grave,” replied
the prince; “a long, narrow scar, which all the art of the coiffeur
could not disguise. The corner of one her exquisitely traced eyebrows,
too, had been torn off, and never grew again; but she replaced it with
great effect by an _assassin_, which she wore there ever after.”
The prince paused again for a moment, and then added, while a smile
full of malicious glee, of exquisite _finesse_, passed across his
countenance, “The _girandole_ eardrops of emerald and topaz she not
only wore no more, but had the cruelty to bestow upon her maid, who
adorned herself with them at the next Opera ball, whither she was sent
by her mistress to _intriguer_ me, while the lovely marquise replaced
them at times with long pendants of snowy pearl, emblem of innocence
and simplicity, and I soon began to observe, with bitterness, that,
on these occasions, whether I proposed Opera, ball, or play, Boufflers
always had some ‘particular engagement’ which prevented him from
joining our party.”
Many were the comments upon this adventure, and many the discussions
upon the possible contents of the phial, which it would be absurd to
suppose consisted of nought but pure water. Some defended Cagliostro,
others were loud against him, when the dear Duchess de V——, fearing
that the time might be lost in dissertations on mesmerism, suddenly
exclaimed, “Dear prince, you who have seen so many great men in your
time, did you ever see Voltaire?”
“Yes, indeed, fair lady, I _did_ once behold M. de Voltaire,” (the
prince always called him so to the last day of his life,) “and my
interview with him is connected in my mind with a curious fact. The
narrative of my adventure may perhaps amuse you. It was in 1778, the
year before his death, that I had the singular good fortune to obtain
an audience of the great philosopher. He lived at the corner of the
Rue de Beaune and the quai which has since been called by his name.
He had intimated to my friend, Champfort, his great desire to become
acquainted with me, and I, who all my life had been tormented with the
wish to behold this greatest genius of the age, the master spirit of
his own time, the guide of that which was to follow, did not need a
second bidding.
“The philosopher received us with great urbanity. He had been prepared
for our visit in the morning, for he still loved dearly all kinds
of form and ceremony, and, to the very last day of his life, set a
higher price upon his title of M. _de_ Voltaire (which, by the by, was
usurped) than on the popular and honourable abbreviation of ‘Voltaire,’
_tout court_, by which he was designated long before his death. M. de
Voltaire was seated on the edge of his bed, attired in one of those
short loose dressing-gowns much worn at the time, and which displayed
his spindle legs and shrunken feet in all their unveiled ugliness.
Never have I beheld a form so withered, so diminished; every vein in
his whole frame was visible and defined, like those in an anatomical
study. The later portraits of M. de Voltaire give a very just idea of
his appearance, but they generally fail in expressing the singular
look of the eyes—an expression which I never have seen in any one
since that time—an anxious, unquiet, restless look—a hungry, thirsty,
keenly-searching glance (hunger and thirst of praise), and searching
with avidity for admiration, which, such was the Voltairian fever of
the time, he never failed to obtain, and yet, as ‘_l’appétit vient en
mangeant_,’ never wholly satisfied his craving.
“The room wherein the great man received his visitors was entirely
darkened (such was his whim), save where one single shutter, folded
back, allowed the light to stream in through a long, narrow aperture,
immediately opposite to which he himself was placed, so that he became
thus the sole object clearly visible in the apartment. And here he
sat to receive visitors, although, the sun shining at the moment, the
light was so strong that it must almost have blinded him. His niece,
Madame Denis, ‘_belle et bonne_,’ was seated at the foot of the bed
near the chimney, attired in a dimity camisole, rather soiled, and her
hair, escaping in disorder from the little cap placed on the top of her
head, was tied in a fantastical _fontange_ with a faded blue ribbon.
She was no longer young, poor _belle et bonne_, and her sedentary life
had induced a degree of corpulence which made her look older still. She
had certainly forfeited all pretensions to her first title, and there
was much in her face that to a physiognomist would have given a flat
contradiction to the second. She had evidently been engaged in writing
from M. de Voltaire’s dictation, for she had risen from the bureau,
and turned to the fire, where there was placed some cooking utensil to
which she soon directed her attention.
“But it was not long before I had forgotten the very existence of
Madame Denis, in the interest of the conversation with M. de Voltaire
himself. He spoke quickly and nervously, with a play of feature I
have never seen in any man except him. His eye kindled with a vivid
fire almost dazzling, as it danced in the ray of sunlight from the
window, and moved about from one to the other of his listeners, rapid
and quivering like the summer lightning. He had just been receiving,
that very morning, a deputation from the Théâtre Français, begging
permission to commence the performance of ‘Zaïre’ that evening with a
complimentary address to himself, which permission of course the poet
had granted with an enviable self-satisfaction, merely requesting that
the verses should be submitted to his own inspection, and subjected
to his own corrections and improvements, if any such were needed. He
was in high good humour at this mark of honour and distinction, for,
as I have said before, flattery had become of more importance to his
existence than the very food and nourishment of each day.
“When the great man had conversed for some little time with my friend,
with whom he had been intimate for many years, he turned to me, and,
after courteously expressing the pleasure which my visit gave him, he
added, ‘I had desired to see you, M. de Perigord, to communicate to
you a fact concerning your family, which happened some years ago, and
may be of importance to you hereafter. As you are the youngest of your
family, you may one day like to be its chronicler.’
“He then commenced the relation of some interesting particulars
regarding the Talleyrands and Perigords, intermixing, with a precision
of memory quite marvellous, the different branches and connexions
either by birth or marriage. All these, of course, were familiar to
me, but, as it was not natural that a narrator like M. de Voltaire
should ever tell a story without a point, all this preamble ended
in a tale of interest and wonder which completely riveted my whole
attention, and kept me in a thrill of delight, not so much by the
story itself, which, however, was full of most powerful interest, as
by the irresistible charm of the diction. I can safely affirm that
M. de Voltaire spoke with even more ease and grace than distinguish
his writings. I think he would have made a splendid orator. His words
seemed to _fly_ from his lips, so rapid, yet so neat, so distinct and
clear was every expression. His meaning was so precisely defined, that
you never had an instant’s doubt or hesitation whether you were quite
sure that you fully understood him. The language of Champfort, bold
and vigorous as it was—full of fire and passion—seemed to lack energy
and spirit as he answered M. de Voltaire. The fire of the one was like
the red beacon light, steady and strong, lurid and fierce; the other
was the treacherous spark which, flying upwards in seemingly harmless
sport, yet driven this way or that by the most trifling breeze, may
spread ruin and devastation wherever it may chance to fall.
“We remained for more than an hour with the great philosopher. _Belle
et bonne_ had completed the cooking of her chocolate, and M. de
Voltaire had taken it, without the slightest ceremony, in our presence.
Letters had arrived, to some few of which he had dictated short
replies through the medium of his niece. I had listened in rapture to
the story which I had come to hear; Champfort had already been twice
confuted in argument, and M. de Voltaire obliged once to yield, before
we arose to depart, and even then I think we were hurried away by
Madame Denis, who reminded her uncle, with a look full of meaning at
us, that it was just the hour for his siesta; which clear, unmistakable
hint, of course, we immediately took, and left him to enjoy his repose
unmolested. I looked at him long and earnestly as he shook me cordially
by the hand, and bade me a most paternal farewell. Every line of that
remarkable countenance is engraven on my memory. I see it now before
me—the small fiery eyes staring from the shrunken sockets, not unlike
those of a cameleon; the dried and withered cheek traversed in every
direction by deep cut lines; the compressed lips and puckered mouth,
round which played a perpetual, sarcastic smile, giving him altogether
the air of a merry fiend. Every feature of that face is as present
to my memory now as it was at that moment while I was gazing on it,
impressed with a kind of sorrowful conviction that I should behold it
no more.
“The event proved that I was right in my presentiment: M. de Voltaire,
soon after that, denied himself entirely to strangers, and none but
his intimate friends were admitted. These, however, were sufficiently
numerous to form a little court around him, and to do him all the
honour which he so much loved, and amid which he died, surrounded by
flatterers and sycophants until the latest hour of his life.”
“Now, if it is not an indiscretion, do tell us the story that he told
you, prince,” exclaimed the Princess de C——, as Prince Talleyrand
concluded his recital; “do tell us the tale that Voltaire could think
worthy a place in his memory: it must be a curious one. Try and recount
it in the same manner that he used when telling it to you. I am sure
you would imitate it admirably.”
The prince smiled, (he never laughed,) as he replied, “Now have I to
make a strange confession, for which I know you will never pardon
me, and which I would willingly have been spared. Indeed, had it not
happened to myself, I could scarcely have credited it. On leaving
Voltaire, Champfort and myself had separated; he had taken the
direction of the Tuileries, and I had sauntered along to the Palais
Royal, thinking all the while of the great man to whose presence I had
just been admitted, and retracing in memory every word, every gesture,
he had used during the interview. In the garden I was accosted by the
young Duc d’Aiguillon, who had just arrived from Versailles, and who
began in his usual rattling manner telling me a long story about the
ball which had taken place the evening before in the Orangerie, of
which story, mark you, I remember every word. It was about the Duchesse
de Levis, a sort of court butt just at that time, and the changing of
her shoulder-knot by some wag, which _plaisanterie_ had caused the most
laughable mistakes during the whole ball.
“When I had got rid of this wild talker, I adjourned to the hotel of
the Marquise de J——, where there was _grande reception_, followed by
_grand jeu_ and _souper_. There I remained until a late hour of the
night, alternately winning and losing considerable sums at the faro
table, until I rose winner of a hundred and twenty louis d’or from
Maurice Duvernay, of which he paid me seventy down, but having lost
immensely, wrote an order for the rest on the back of one of the Queens
of Diamonds.
“I tell you all this to show you that I can, to this very hour, account
for every minute of that day, one of the most memorable of my whole
life, from the moment of my leaving M. de Voltaire; and when I returned
home, late as was the hour, before retiring to rest, I sat down to
begin a letter to my uncle, the Cardinal de Perigord, in order to
recount to him the adventure of the morning, and above all, to tell him
the anecdote concerning our family, which M. de Voltaire had related,
and in which I knew my uncle would take a most peculiar delight, both
from the source whence it came, and the personal interest inspired
by the subject. Judge, then, of the mortification I experienced upon
finding that, in spite of all my endeavours to collect my wandering
ideas to the one point in question, I could not recollect the story
which M. de Voltaire had been at so much pains to tell me, to which
I had listened with so much attention and with such extraordinary
relish; I could not even write in my letter the immediate object of the
story—neither detail, nor hero, nor point, (which last I remembered had
diverted me beyond measure,) would present itself to my remembrance;
and, after much vexation of spirit, I was fain to leave my letter
unfinished, until I had met with Champfort, whose memory I doubted not
would be fully able to supply the deficiency of mine.
“I was determined to lose no time in assuring myself of this, and
called upon the poet the very next day. What, think you, was his answer
to my urgent entreaties that he would assist me? ‘Parbleu, _mon cher_,
I was too much occupied in thinking what I should say to M. de Voltaire
to notice what _he_ was saying to me. I heard not a word of his story,
but you must own that I completely succeeded in proving the false
quantity in the second canto of the Henriade.’
“He had not even heard the story! so there was no hope in that quarter,
and I was obliged to content myself with the trust, that at some future
day I might be fortunate enough again to meet M. de Voltaire, and
induce him to tell the tale once more. As I have already said, however,
I had not the good fortune to see him afterwards.
“Often and often, in the long years that have passed since then, have
I endeavoured to catch the purport of his tale, but in vain. The whole
scene of that interview rises at command—the welcome, the farewell, and
the various arguments of the two _beaux-esprits_—but that narrative,
which I would often give much to remember, is gone for ever! The
pre-occupation of the scene, the wonder, the delight inspired by the
philosopher’s conversation, have left a blank, which neither time
nor reflection have ever been able to fill up; and even now I cannot
remember the incident without feeling the same kind of embarrassment
which I experienced on that occasion, and often surprise myself when,
falling into reverie, chasing the phantoms of that hour through my
puzzled brain, and endeavouring, in spite of experience, to arrest
the fugitive impressions made by the story at the time, but without
success.”
The prince now paused, and leant back in his chair for a moment, with
his eyes closed, evidently lost in thought. It was well that no one
spoke, or we might have been deprived of the tale which followed, and
in which, at the age I was then, I took more interest, and remembered
with more pleasure, than any which had preceded it.
“How mysterious a thing is memory,” said he, as he bent forward once
more, and smiled upon his listeners. “The name of Champfort has brought
to my mind the story, long-forgotten, of his fellow-prisoner, a young
officer formerly in the mousquetaires. His name we all know, for he is
among us still, and, in short, he has promised that he will visit us,
before the autumn is over, here at Valençay. He was, without exception,
the handsomest youth I have ever seen; and his manners and address
being remarkable for a grace peculiarly his own, and his reputation
for high courage and chivalrous bearing having been fully established
by one or two _affaires brillantes_ in which he had been engaged, it
may naturally be supposed that his _succès_ of every kind left him
nothing to desire. But he sought no conquest, even where the enemy
held out offers of surrender; he seemed callous and indifferent to
all the advances, the allurements, of which he was the object, until,
such was the state of morals at that time, the ladies of the great
world in which he moved began to act as spies upon each other, being
fully convinced of the impossibility of his having remained so long
insensible to the arts and blandishments by which he was surrounded.
“For a long time his secret remained impenetrable; his part was so
well acted, his measures so well taken, that the scandal-mongers were
in despair, and the charitable souls, of whom there are always a
few, were beginning to hope, when the mystery was divulged in a most
extraordinary manner, and formed the town talk for many a day; and,
as the story has been told with divers variations, and has got abroad
under different versions, I will tell you the right one, which I had
from the Marquis de J——’s own lips:
“In those days there were _fermiers généraux_, and the said _fermiers
généraux_ were almost always among the oldest, ugliest, richest, and
most disagreeable men that the kingdom could produce. One of these, who
united in himself all these superlatives, had just deceived all the
cherished hopes of the ladies of the court by marrying a young girl
from his own province, of noble birth, although of slender fortune,
who was described as being of little beauty, and glad to acquire by
marriage, wealth and station, even at the sacrifice of those other
qualities in a husband which are generally sought for by young ladies.
“A year had elapsed since the return of M. de B. from Besançon, where
the marriage had taken place. No one had seen his bride; she remained
entirety at his country house—a delicious little ‘Folie,’ so it was
said, at Auteuil, close to the Bois de Boulogne. The lady had not
been presented at court, and M. de B. had never requested any of his
friends to visit her, so that she was at first supposed to be imbecile
or ugly, and was then forgotten. But the devil’s hoof, which certainly
is busy with all men’s concerns, trotted one day through the muddled
brain of the old Dowager de Marville, and suggested to her that it
would be a mighty pleasant thing to have a _feu d’artifice_ in the Bois
de Bologne, on some dark night when there would be no moon, and that
it would be quite a funny sight to behold all the skirts of the wood
festooned with coloured lamps, and adorned with flambeaux; and then she
began to torment M. de B. to throw open his ‘Folie’ to the _élite_, and
give a fête there to his friends without delay. He was a good-natured
man, but, nevertheless, he took a great deal of persuading before he
would consent to have his privacy thus broken in upon. He offered the
ladies of his acquaintance a ball at his own hôtel in Paris, with
interludes of opera-dancers. But no, the fête at the ‘Folie’—nothing
else would do, and the poor man was obliged at last to promise the
much-desired entertainment. His excuses had all a relation to his
wife; her ignorance of the world, her innocence and utter simplicity,
had all been put forward as motives for refusing, but no excuse could
be taken. Give the fête he must, and the ladies, on their part,
promised to treat the rustic bride with indulgence, and not to crush
her by too great an assumption of superiority.
“The day of the fête arrived. The most brilliant anticipations had
been formed of the entertainment to be given in such a sweet place, by
so rich a man, and they were most certainly not disappointed. Every
arrangement was of the best, and the whole place illuminated like a
dream of fairy-land; which last circumstance did not vex the ladies
so much as one would have imagined, for it helped to prove that the
opinions which had been formed of the bride of M. de B. were correct
in all points. She was very young, very timid, and very reserved
and _gauche_, like a little _pensionnaire de couvent_ as she was;
and, what was worse, like all _provinciales_, who think nothing more
beautiful than what is to be found in their own province, she never
once expressed the slightest admiration or astonishment at anything
she saw—nay, she preserved the same cold, unmoved air, even when her
husband presented to her, in due form, the vanquisher of all hearts,
the renowned Marquis de J——! Some of the ladies said that she was
pretty; some said not; some that she might become dangerous in time,
from her paleness and the languishing expression of her eyes. Others
again laughed at this opinion, and felt sure that there would never be
anything to dread from her. These last expressed surprise that she had
even made the conquest of her stupid old husband.
“Well, the company left the ‘Folie,’ enchanted with their
entertainment, and dispersed at daybreak to their respective hotels,
without so much as bestowing a thought either on Madame de B. or her
husband. The next day, however, loud was the wailing among the ladies,
for the Marquis de J—— was missing from all his accustomed haunts,
where he had been used daily to charm the eyes and captivate the hearts
of his fair admirers. Kind and anxious messages were despatched to
his quarters, and the answer given was, that the marquis was slightly
indisposed, but would appear again in a day or two. The next rumour
afloat was, that old B., the _fermier-général_, had sent back his
wife to the convent from which he had taken her the year before to
marry her; but no one felt astonishment at this—so cold, so awkward, so
shy—not even polite to the Marquis de J——! Of course, poor old B. must
feel assured he never could get on in the world with such a wife as
that.
“The marquis appeared again in a few days after the fête, but much
altered in appearance, with haggard, melancholy look, and sad, dejected
spirits. His arm was in a sling, too, which gave rise to more tender
questioning, which he sought to parry as well as he was able, by saying
that he had met with an accident at M. de B——’s Folie.
“The history of the case was this. (Oh, _jeune_ France, know you
what even the meaning of the word ‘love’ is?) After the company
had departed, M. and Madame de B—— had retired to their respective
apartments, but M. de B——, being unable to sleep, had descended into
the garden, to take a refreshing walk amid the groves, where still hung
suspended the variegated _lampions_, extinguished, drowning with their
vile odour the scent of the flowers. There was no moon, but the night
was wearing away, and the dawn was just beginning to change the pitchy
darkness to a pale tint of grey, when M. de B—— thought of retiring
towards the house. Just as he was in the act of mounting the steps
which led to the long glass windows of his own room, his attention was
attracted by the sound of footsteps on the gravel walk beneath. He
was by no means a coward, M. de B——, and his first thought was of his
wife, and of the alarm which a hue and cry raised at such an hour might
occasion her; so after calling ‘_Qui vive?_’ and receiving no answer,
he slid gently down over the balustrade of the _perron_ into the
flower-garden below, feeling quite sure of the capture of the thief,
as the little plot of ground belonging to his wife’s apartment had no
communication with the park, save by a door of which she herself always
kept the key. He ran lightly over the grass and along the gravel-walk;
he could hear retreating footsteps; as he advanced he was sure of
this, but the bushes overhung the narrow pathway in such luxuriance,
that he could not discern the form which he was pursuing. At length he
reached the bottom of the path—he distinctly heard the swinging of the
gate as it was opened cautiously—he made one frantic bound across the
flower-bed which skirted the path—the door _must_ have been opened
by some one, for it banged-to just as he approached—he heard a faint
cry on the outer side, and then all was silent as the grave. M. de B——
could proceed no farther, for the key was not in the lock, and the
door was closed, but he immediately sought the apartment of his wife,
full of alarm concerning her, and dreading lest some thief, lured by
the display of jewels which she had worn on the previous evening,
might have endeavoured to force an entry through the ill-secured
glass-windows of the chamber, which looked into the garden. To his
utter astonishment, after having with difficulty regained his own room,
and thence by the inner passages of the house arrived at the chamber
of his wife, he found her up and dressed, still decked with the same
jewels which she had worn at the fête. She evinced great alarm and
trepidation at first, on hearing his recital, but, after a moment’s
reflection, declared her belief that M. de B—— must have been under the
influence of a dream, as she had herself been standing at the window
taking the air, and had heard no sound nor beheld any shadow pass. He
asked for the key of the gate: she had mislaid it, she said, and, the
gate being so seldom used, she had not cared to search for it. So M.
de B—— was fain to content himself with this assurance until daybreak,
when he was determined to renew his search more minutely. The garden
was torn and trampled towards the direction of the gate, but that might
be by his own footsteps, for he had hurried in his pursuit after the
flying thief. The gate was closed and locked, and yet there was still
some mystery in the adventure, for, on the outer side, which opened
into the park, the ground was stained by drops of blood, which could be
traced to some little distance, and then ceased altogether. Here was
more mystery still, for the gardener, on searching amid the bushes,
found the key of the gate, which had so long been missing. M. de B——
instantly applied it to the lock, and the door yielded slowly and with
difficulty to his endeavours to push it forward, and when at length it
opened, and the obstacle was sought for, it was found to be a _human
finger_, crushed and jammed against the doorpost, which, upon a close
inspection, appeared to have been cut off close to the root by some
rude and hurried operation.
“Alas! Madame de B——, who had remained calm and passive during the
whole of this adventure, could not support this last disclosure, but
was seized with violent hysterics upon being informed of the discovery
which had taken place, and in the midst of her tears and convulsions,
the name of the Marquis de J—— was for ever on her lips. Of course
the adventure could no longer be kept secret; the coincidence of the
wound, the utterance of the name of M. de J——, determined at once the
nature of the occurrence. He himself described to me the terror of
his flight through the flower-garden, the agony of fear with which he
hurried forth lest _she_ should be discovered. It was M. de B——, who,
in pushing against the door, had jammed his finger in the lock, but
he cared not for the pain so long as _she_ was safe and secure from
all suspicion, and, disdaining to call for help, he had himself drawn
forth the little pocket-knife which he always carried, and cut off
the finger by which he was detained. He had never once thought of the
danger or disfigurement; he did it, not complaining, but rejoicing to
think that _she_ was unsuspected at least, and her reputation secure.
His only regret was at having lost the key of the gate, which he had
dropped among the bushes, when he had stopped to bandage with his
pocket-handkerchief the bleeding wound. Had _she_ not betrayed herself
in her grief for him, their secret might yet have been kept. M. de J——
left Paris soon after, and travelled for some years, and Madame de B——
was despatched back again to the convent at Besançon, from which she
had not been absent more than a twelvemonth in all. It is said that M.
de J—— remained for ever faithful to his first love. It is certain that
when he returned among us, handsome, brilliant as before, although less
gay, he never sought to inspire affection in any of the fair ladies who
were at so much pains to please him. He steadily refused all offers
of marriage which were made him, although some of the most splendid
_partis_, both maids and widows, were among the number. From the first
moment of his beholding Madame de B——, which was on her arrival with
her husband, while changing horses at the last relay towards Paris,
at the post-house, where he happened to be halting with his troop—he
had owned himself her slave; he vowed to me for years afterwards, that
no other woman should ever boast of having won a thought from him,
and that no other female hand should ever feel the pressure of his
own. His heart was with her who was suffering loneliness and captivity
for his sake, and he regarded as sacrilege the idea of a possibility
that he could break his vow of fidelity to her. At the revolution, he
was imprisoned, but released _faute de preuves_, and, meanwhile, the
convents having been broken up and dispersed, his first step was to
secure a safe retreat for Madame de B——. Together they fled to Holland,
where they remained for some years, and returned, when the storm was
over, as man and wife. They lived together in happiness, and we all can
bear witness to the grace and distinction which she shed around the
circle she frequented, and to the respect with which she inspired all
who approached her, as well as to the regret which was universally felt
when she was withdrawn from us for ever. Such is the true story of the
Marquis de J——: now tell me, Jeune France, will ye dare to condemn the
_ancien régime_, or say that you even understand the depth of devotion
and of love from which such faith as this could spring?”
* * * * *
The prince rose as he concluded his story, and the grating of
carriage-wheels on the gravel walk without the windows, announced the
hour for the promenade. I took my seat in one of the landaus by the
side of C., who had promised to show me the lions of the place, but
it was some time before I could command my attention to the beauties
of the scene, for the story of the prince had brought back the memory
of my last _soirée_ in Paris, where I had beheld a withered old man
playing with avidity at _bouillotte_, and I remembered to have been
startled and disgusted when he took up his cards in a _three-fingered_
grasp. And now I remembered, too, that his partner had addressed him by
the name of De J——.