The Mesmerist's Victim. Alexandre Dumas
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who was chasing the roebuck—perceived all of a sudden, fifty paces off the road, in a shady grove, a broken down carriage. With its shattered wheels pointing to the sky, its horses were browsing on the moss and beech bark.
Countess Dubarry’s magnificent team, a royal gift, had out-stripped all the others and were first to reach the scene of the breakdown.
“Dear me, an accident,” said the lady, tranquilly.
“Just so, and pretty bad smash-up,” replied Richelieu, with the same coolness, for sensitiveness is unknown at court.
“Is that somebody killed on the grass?” she went on.
“It makes a bow, so I guess it lives.”
And at a venture Richelieu raised his own three-cocked hat.
“Hold! it strikes me it is the Cardinal Prince Louis de Rohan. What the deuce is he doing there?”
“Better go and see. Champagne, drive up to the upset carriage.”
The countess’s coachman quitted the road and drove to the grove. The cardinal was a handsome gentleman of thirty years of age, of gracious manners and elegant. He was waiting for help to come, with the utmost unconcern.
“A thousand respects to your ladyship,” he said. “My brute of a coachman whom I hired from England, for my punishment, has spilled me in taking a short cut through the woods to join the hunt, and smashed my best carriage.”
“Think yourself lucky—a French Jehu would have smashed the passenger! be comforted.”
“Oh, I am philosophic, countess; but it is death to have to wait.”
“Who ever heard of a Rohan waiting?”
“The present representative of the family is compelled to do it; but Prince Soubise will happen along soon to give me a lift.”
“Suppose he goes another way?
“You must step into my carriage; if you were to refuse, I should give it up to you, and with a footman to carry my train, walk in the woods like a tree nymph.”
The cardinal smiled, and seeing that longer resistance might be badly interpreted by the lady, he took the place at the back which the old duke gave up to him. The prince wanted to dispute for the lesser place but the marshal was inflexible.
The countess’s team soon regained the lost time.
“May I ask your Eminence if you are fond of the chase again,” began the lady, “for this is the first time I have seen you out with the hounds.”
“I have been out before; but this time I come to Versailles to see the King on pressing business; and I went after him as he was in the woods, but thanks to my confounded driver, I shall lose the royal audience as well as an apartment in Paris.”
“The cardinal is pretty blunt—he means a love appointment,” remarked Richelieu.
“Oh, no, it is with a man—but he is not an ordinary man—he is a magician and works miracles.”
“The very one we are seeking, the duke and I,” said Jeanne Dubarry. “I am glad we have a churchman here to ask him if he believes in miracles?”
“Madam, I have seen things done by this wizard which may not be miraculous though they are almost incredible.”
“The prince has the reputation of dealing with spirits.”
“What has your Eminence seen?”
“I have pledged myself to secresy.”
“This is growing dark. At least you can name the wizard?”
“Yes, the Count of Fenix—— ”
“That won’t do—all good magicians have names ending in the round O.”
“The cap fits—his other name is Joseph Balsamo.”
The countess clasped her hands while looking at Richelieu, who wore a puzzled look.
“And was the devil very black? did he come up in green fire and stir a saucepan with a horrid stench?”
“Why, no! my magician has excellent manners; he is quite a gentleman and entertains one capitally.”
“Would you not like him to tell your fortune, countess?” inquired the duke, well knowing that Lady Dubarry had asserted that when she was a poor girl on the Paris streets, a man had prophesied she would be a queen. This man she maintained was Balsamo. “Where does he dwell?”
“Saint Claude Street, I remember, in the Swamp.”
The countess repeated the clew so emphatically that the marshal, always afraid his secrets would leak out, especially when he was conspiring to obtain the government, interrupted the lady by these words:
“Hist, there is the King!”
“In the walnut copse, yes. Let us stay here while the prince goes to him. You will have him all to yourself.”
“Your kindness overwhelms me,” said the prelate who gallantly kissed the lady’s hand.
“But the King will be worried at not seeing you.”
“I want to tease him!”
The duke alighted with the countess, as light as a schoolgirl, and the carriage rolled swiftly away to set down the cardinal on the knoll where the King was looking all about him to see his darling.
But she, drawing the duke into the covert, said:
“Heaven sent the cardinal to put us on the track of that magician who told my fortune so true.”
“I met one—at Vienna, where I was run through the body by a jealous husband. I was all but dead when my magician came up and cured my wound with three drops of an elixir, and brought me to life with three more imbibed.”
“Mine was a young man—— ”
“Mine old as Mathusaleh, and adorned with a sounding Greek name, Althotas.”
The carriage was coming back.
“I should like to go, if only to vex the King who will not dismiss Choiseul in your favor; but I shall be laughed at.”
“In good company, then, for I will go with you.”
At full speed the horses drew the carriage to Paris, containing the young and the old plotter.
CHAPTER X.
A SEANCE OF MESMERISM.
IT was six P. M.
Saint Claude Street was in the outskirts on the main road to the Bastile Prison. The house of the Count Felix, alias Baron Balsamo, was a strong building, like a castle; and besides a room used for a chemical laboratory, another study, where the sage Althotas, to whom the duke alluded, concocted his elixir of long life, and the reception rooms, an inner house, to which secret passages led, was secluded from ordinary visitors.
In a richly furnished parlor of this secret annex, the mysterious man who, with masonic signs and words, had collected his followers on Louis XV. Place, and saved Andrea upon Gilbert’s appeal—he was seated by a lovely Italian woman who seemed rebellious to his entreaties. She had no voice but to reproach and her hand was raised to repulse though it was plain that he adored her and perhaps for that reason.
Lorenza Feliciani was his wife, but she railed at him for keeping her a prisoner, and a slave, and envied the fate of wild birds.
It was clear that this frail and irritable creature took a large place in his bosom if not in